CHAPTER TEN
1269 Words
Adrian didn’t answer me right away.
He stood there in the open space just outside the building, morning light catching on the sharp lines of his suit, his expression caught somewhere between restraint and something dangerously close to regret. For once, the words didn’t come easily to him.
And that silence—God, it did more damage than any insult ever could.
I laughed, but it came out brittle, wrong. “Wow,” I said, shaking my head. “You don’t even have to say it.”
“Elena—” he started.
“No,” I cut in, my chest tightening. “Don’t. Just… don’t.”
I took a step back, needing distance, air, something that wasn’t his calm presence pressing in on me. My hands curled into fists at my sides as heat rushed up my neck and into my face.
“If you think I’m ugly,” I said, my voice rising despite my efforts to keep it steady, “then you shouldn’t be with me.”
His eyes widened slightly. “That’s not—”
“What’s the point of this act anyway?” I demanded, the words spilling out now, sharp and fast, fueled by humiliation that hadn’t fully settled until this moment. “This fake fiancée, fake future, fake everything. So many women would die to play this role, Adrian. Women who look the part. Women who wouldn’t embarrass you by walking into your precious building dressed like this.”
I gestured down at myself, suddenly painfully aware of every seam, every simple line of fabric.
He took a step toward me. “Elena, listen to me.”
“No,” I snapped again. “You listened just fine back there. You heard exactly what they said. And now you’re standing here acting like I imagined it.”
“I never said—”
“You didn’t have to!” I said, my voice cracking despite myself. “Your silence said enough.”
His jaw tightened. I could see him choosing his words carefully, like he was navigating a minefield. “This isn’t about you being ugly,” he said slowly. “Or cheap. Or not enough.”
“Then what is it about?” I shot back.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It’s about perception.”
That word hit me like a slap.
“Perception,” I repeated flatly.
“Yes,” he said. “My father. The board. The press. They’re all watching. Every detail matters. You have to play the part to make this believable.”
I stared at him, disbelief washing over me in waves. “Play the part,” I echoed. “So that’s what I am now? A role?”
“Elena—”
“No, let me finish,” I said, my voice shaking with something dangerously close to tears. “Because I need you to understand something.”
I stepped closer to him now, pointing a finger at his chest. “I am not a doll you get to dress up to satisfy your father’s expectations. I am not a prop in your corporate power struggle.”
His eyes darkened. “I never said you were.”
“You didn’t have to,” I said bitterly. “You want to take me shopping because I don’t look right. Because I don’t fit into your world unless I’m polished and refined and wrapped in designer labels.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” I insisted. “It’s exactly what this is.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again. For the first time since I’d met him, Adrian Wolfe looked genuinely unsure.
“I’m not trying to change you,” he said finally, his voice lower now, more earnest. “I’m trying to protect you.”
I scoffed. “By turning me into someone else?”
“No,” he said sharply. “By making sure they don’t tear you apart.”
I laughed again, but this time it hurt. “They already have,” I said quietly. “And guess what? I survived.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“And who decides that?” I shot back. “You?”
Silence stretched between us again, thick and suffocating.
“I might not be rich,” I said, the words tumbling out now, fueled by years of swallowed pride and quiet resilience. “I might not come from your world. I don’t have generational wealth or private jets or closets full of gowns I’ll only wear once. But I’m content with who I am.”
I tapped my chest lightly. “This? This is me. I worked for everything I have. Every stitch, every opportunity, every inch of respect I earned on my own.”
His expression softened, but it was too late.
“I don’t need to be ‘fixed,’” I continued. “I don’t need refinement. I don’t need someone telling me how to look or act to be worthy of standing beside them.”
“That’s not what I think,” he said quickly.
“Then why does it feel like it?” I demanded.
He hesitated.
And that hesitation—that fraction of a second where he didn’t immediately deny it—was all the confirmation I needed.
I shook my head, backing away. “I knew this was a mistake.”
“Elena,” he said, reaching out.
I stepped back again, out of his reach. “Don’t.”
His hand fell to his side.
“I agreed to this arrangement because I thought we were on equal ground,” I said, my voice quieter now, exhausted. “I thought you saw me. Not the headlines. Not the optics. Me.”
“I do see you,” he said.
“Then you’re not looking hard enough,” I replied.
I turned away from him, my chest aching, my eyes burning. I didn’t want him to see me cry. I refused to give him that.
“Elena, wait,” he called after me.
I didn’t stop.
“I’m not walking away from the deal,” I said over my shoulder. “I’m walking away from this conversation before I say something I can’t take back.”
He followed me for a few steps. “We need to talk about this.”
“No,” I said firmly. “You need to think about what you’re actually asking of me.”
I reached the curb, my heart pounding, my mind racing. The city moved around us—cars passing, people walking, life continuing as if my world hadn’t just cracked open again.
“I won’t become someone else to make your life easier,” I said finally, turning back to face him one last time. “If that’s what you need, then you picked the wrong woman.”
His face was unreadable now, guarded in a way that felt new and unsettling.
“I’m done for today,” I said. “I’ll see you at work. We’ll talk about the arrangement then.”
And before he could respond—before he could apologize or explain or say something that might weaken my resolve—I walked away.
I didn’t look back.
Not when I reached the corner.
Not when my phone buzzed in my bag.
Not when my chest tightened with the urge to turn around and let him pull me back into that calm, dangerous orbit of his.
I kept walking.
Because if I stopped, I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough to leave at all.
- Writer
