His Ruthless Obsession

Cold Breakfast

The ride up to Adrian’s penthouse feels like an execution. Each floor that ticks by, my chest just gets tighter. What if he’s awake? What if he looks at me and knows? What if he can smell Damian on me?

Jesus Christ. Can he smell him on me?

I try to sniff myself, probably look insane, but all I catch is sandalwood and s*x and the kind of sweat that doesn’t wash off your skin with just one shower. My thighs ache and my lips still feel swollen and I hate myself for remembering. For wanting to remember.

Stop it, Elena. Just stop.

The elevator dings and spits me out into a space that’s supposed to be home but never feels like it. Everything’s glass and marble and white walls that could be in a goddamn gallery. Pretty. Expensive. Cold as hell. Like Adrian picked the décor to match himself.

I slip out of my heels as quiet as I can, praying he’s already at the office. If I’m lucky I can shower, change, and erase the whole night before he even notices. Pretend I was in bed at ten like a good little wife.

The grandfather clock—hideous monster his mother insisted we take, bongs eight. s**t. He’s definitely awake.

I cross the icebox of a living room and there he is: at the breakfast bar, perfect f*****g suit, perfect hair, perfect everything. Even eating toast he looks like a stock photo of “rich man at breakfast.”

“Morning,” I say, trying to sound breezy, casual, not like a woman who let his biggest rival bend her over the counter six hours ago.

“Mmm.” Doesn’t look up from his phone.

That’s it. No questions, no “where were you,” not even fake concern. Just that sound he makes when I’m background noise.

My chest goes tight with anger. Or sadness. Or both.

I move on autopilot, his coffee. Two shots, no sugar, exactly the right temperature. Always the same. My hands shake pouring it and I pray to God he doesn’t notice. The smell rises up and smacks me right back into Damian’s kitchen this morning. Him cracking eggs, asking how I like them, actually listening.

When was the last time Adrian asked me what I liked?

“You’re up early.” His voice cuts sharp through my thoughts.

I almost choke. He noticed. He’s testing me.

“Couldn’t sleep. You know how I get before charity stuff.” The lie rolls out too smooth, and that scares me, when did lying to my husband become easy?

“Cancel lunch today. Something came up.”

Something. Not someone. Adrian’s always so careful.

“The Harrisons? Adrian, we’ve had that,”

“I said cancel it.” That tone. That clipped, iron tone that shuts doors in my throat.

I put the cup down too hard. It rattles against the saucer. For the first time he actually looks up, eyes narrowed.

“Problem?”

So many I could scream. That he hasn’t touched me in months. That he talks to me like staff. That I can smell another woman on him sometimes and he thinks I don’t notice. But what burns most is that last night I remembered what it felt like to be wanted.

“No problem.” I turn away, make myself a coffee I don’t even want.

“I’ll be late tonight. Dinner with investors.”

“Which ones?” The question slips out too fast.

His fingers pause, just for a second. Then back to typing. “New money. Tech people. You wouldn’t know them.”

Liar. He’s been having a lot of dinners with people I “wouldn’t know.”

“Oh,” he adds almost casually, “Sophia’s joining us for the Morrison gala next week.”

The name is a slap. Sophia Hayes. Blonde, twenty-five, glossy as a magazine page. Daddy’s money tied into Adrian’s company. Been circling him for months like a cat around cream.

“Why?”

“Her father wants her to network. Learn the business. It’s just business, Elena.”

The way he says her name though. Sophia. Sweet in his mouth. Like he likes tasting it.

“Of course it is,” I mutter, sipping my bitter coffee like it’s poison.

His phone buzzes. I disappear from his world again.

Mine buzzes too and my stomach drops, it could be Damian. My pulse goes stupid. But it’s Maya: Girl call me NOW. I saw that look on your face last night. Spill.

Despite everything, I almost laugh. Maya’s the only one who still talks to me like I’m Elena, not Mrs. Moretti. She saw Damian at the bar. She saw me crumble. She knows.

“Who’s that?” Adrian glances up, distracted.

“Maya. Work thing.” Another lie, smooth as glass.

“Mm.” He’s already back to his phone.

I drink my coffee in silence, staring at my husband who doesn’t see me, doesn’t touch me, doesn’t ask about me. He used to parade me like a prize; now I’m just a piece of furniture that needs dusting once in a while.

Damian, last night, looked at me like I was a whole damn fire.

Adrian stands, checks his Rolex. “Busy day.”

“Have fun with your investors.” I can’t help the acid in my voice.

For one second he hesitates, maybe he’ll kiss me, maybe he’ll notice me. Instead he pockets his phone. “Don’t wait up.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

My phone buzzes again. Damian this time. One night wasn’t enough. I want more.

My whole body goes hot. I delete it quick, heart pounding, but it’s too late. The words are burned into me.

He wants more. And God help me, so do I.

Maya calls before I can spiral.

“Elena f*****g Moretti, what did you do?”

“Maya,”

“Don’t bullshit me. You left with Damian Blackwood and you looked like two people about to eat each other alive. Spill.”

My cheeks burn. “I can’t,”

“Oh my God. You did. You actually did.” She squeals. “How was it? Don’t give me some boring ‘it was nice’ crap. Tell me.”

The memory slams into me so hard I have to grip the counter. His mouth on mine, his hands mapping me like he owned the rights. My knees going weak.

“It was…” I swallow. “It was like remembering I’m alive.”

Maya groans. “That’s what I’m talking about. So when’s round two?”

“There isn’t one.”

“Elena,”

“I’m married. Last night was a mistake.”

“A mistake that just made your voice sound ten years younger.”

I close my eyes. “I have to go.”

“One hour. Brunch. Don’t you dare ghost me.” She hangs up.

I should wear something simple. Safe. But I end up in the black dress that shows my collarbone, the one that makes me look less like Adrian’s ghost-wife. Tell myself it’s for Maya. It’s not.

I check my phone too much. Hoping. Afraid of what I’m hoping for.

By the time I leave, the air in the penthouse feels less like abandonment and more like freedom.

For the first time in years, I’m not just Mrs. Adrian Moretti. I’m Elena.

And God, I don’t know if that’s salvation or the start of my undoing.

The elevator drops me into sunlight and I step out feeling like I’m walking straight into trouble.

And for once, the trouble feels worth it.