CHAPTER 3:THE PENTHOUSE
1491 Words
The rain didn’t stop when the car doors closed.
Elana Voss slid into the backseat, soaked to the bone. Adrian Cross slid in after her and the heat in the car instantly spiked. Not from the heater. From him.
He didn’t look at her.
Rain dripped from his dark hair down the sharp line of his jaw. His black suit was ruined. Sleeves still rolled to his elbows. The scar through his left eyebrow stood out white against his skin.
The privacy glass went up. Sealing them in.
Forty minutes of silence.
Elana stared at her hands. At the sapphire ring on her finger. It was too big. It kept sliding.
Adrian noticed. His eyes cut to it, then away.
“You’ll have your own room,” he said finally. Voice rough, like he hadn’t used it in hours. “Guest wing. Bathroom. Closet. That’s all you need to know tonight.”
“Clause two,” Elana whispered. “No sharing a bed.”
His jaw ticked. “I’m aware of the terms, Mrs. Cross.”
Mrs. Cross.
The words hit her in the chest. She was married. To a stranger. To a man who looked at her like she was the problem.
The car pulled up to a building that touched the clouds. Glass and steel and money. A private elevator took them to the 42nd floor.
The doors opened and Elana forgot how to breathe.
The penthouse was all windows. The entire city spread out below, wet and glowing. Marble floors so polished she could see her reflection. White furniture. Cold. Perfect. And completely empty.
No photos. No clutter. No signs that anyone actually lived here.
It smelled like Adrian. Rain and cedar and expensive cologne.
“This is your wing,” Adrian said, gesturing down a long hallway to the left. “Bedroom. Closet. Don’t go into the east wing.”
Elana followed him, her wet shoes squeaking. The guest bedroom was bigger than her entire apartment. King bed with white duvet. A bathroom with a tub big enough to drown in. And a walk-in closet already full.
Dresses. Shoes. Coats. All with tags. All in her size.
“You bought these?” Elana asked.
“My assistant did,” Adrian corrected. “For the gala tomorrow. Be ready by 6 PM.”
“You could’ve warned me.”
“I did. In the contract. Public appearances.” He turned. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Cross?”
The way he said her name made her skin prickle.
“No,” Elana said. “No problem.”
“Good.” He paused in the doorway. “Dinner is at 8. Downstairs. Don’t be late.”
He left. The door clicked shut.
Elana locked it behind him anyway.
At 7:58 she came down. The black dress fit like it was poured on her. It was simple. Elegant. And it made her feel naked in a way that had nothing to do with skin.
Adrian was already at the dining table. Also in black. Shirt open at the collar. Tie gone. The city lights reflected in his ice-blue eyes.
He looked up when she entered.
For one second his expression slipped. Something raw. Something hungry. Something that looked a lot like regret.
Then his face went blank again.
“Sit,” he said.
The table was massive. Meant for twelve. They sat at opposite ends.
A housekeeper brought out steak and wine. Neither of them touched the wine.
“You’re shaking,” Adrian said.
“I’m cold.”
“It’s 74 degrees in here.”
“Then I’m nervous.”
Adrian set his fork down. “About what?”
“About the man I just married.”
“You didn’t marry me,” he said. “You married a contract. There’s a difference.”
Elana laughed. It came out bitter. “Right. My mistake.”
Silence again. The kind that pressed on her lungs.
“You paint,” Adrian said out of nowhere.
Elana froze. “What?”
“Price’s file mentioned it. You sold at a gallery in the arts district. Before your mother got sick.” He cut his steak like he was cutting something else. “Said you were good.”
“I was.” Elana pushed her food around. “I don’t have time anymore. Hospitals don’t take payment in oil paintings.”
Something flickered in Adrian’s eyes. Pity? No. He didn’t do pity.
“You have paint under your nails,” he said. “Blue. From today.”
Elana hid her hands under the table. “Are you always this observant?”
“Only when I’m being scammed.”
The words landed like a slap.
Elana stood. “I didn’t scam you. I was desperate.”
“I know.” Adrian didn’t stand. “Sit down and finish eating, Elana.”
She sat. Because he said her name like that. Low. Like he’d said it before.
Dinner ended. He walked her to her door.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “The gala. Smile. Take my arm. Don’t talk to the press. Don’t talk to anyone unless I introduce you.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’re violating clause one.” His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back up. “No feelings. That includes defiance.”
Elana nodded. “Got it.”
“Goodnight, Mrs. Cross.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Cross.”
She closed the door and leaned against it. Her heart was racing for no reason.
At 1:47 AM she woke up to a sound.
Not the city. Not the rain.
Something from the east wing.
Glass breaking.
Elana sat up. Clause three. No questions about the past.
Another sound. A curse. Low and furious.
Adrian.
She threw off the covers. The marble floor was ice under her feet. The hall was dark except for a thin line of light under the east wing doors.
She shouldn’t.
She did.
The doors weren’t locked.
The room inside was nothing like the rest of the penthouse.
Warm lighting. Books everywhere. An easel in the corner. And on every wall
Paintings.
Of a woman.
Blonde hair. Laughing. In a garden. On a boat. In this very penthouse, wearing the sapphire ring.
Adrian stood in the middle of it all. Shirtless. Back to her. Muscles drawn tight like he was holding himself together with willpower alone.
There was a shattered glass at his feet. And blood on his knuckles.
In front of him, on the wall, was the biggest painting. The woman in a white dress. Smiling at the camera. At him.
Adrian’s fist had gone straight through her face.
“Get out,” he said. He didn’t turn around.
Elana’s throat closed. “Adrian”
“I said get out, Elana.”
She didn’t move. Couldn’t. “Who is she?”
His shoulders went rigid. “Clause three.”
“I don’t care about the clause right now.” Her voice shook. “Who is she?”
For a long moment, nothing. Only the sound of his breathing.
Then he turned.
His face was wrecked. Not angry. Not cold. Broken.
“That,” he said, nodding to the painting, “was my wife.”
The air left Elana’s lungs.
“Lily,” Adrian said. The name sounded like a prayer and a curse. “She died 18 months ago. Car accident.”
Elana looked at the ring on her own hand. The sapphire. Identical.
“It was hers,” Adrian said quietly. “I had it resized for you.”
Elana’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh god. I’m wearing her”
“Don’t.” Adrian cut her off. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t touch me. Don’t ask anything else.”
He stepped closer. She could see the blood on his hand now. From the canvas. From him.
“You want to know why I made you sign that contract?” he said. Voice low, dangerous. “Because looking at you is like looking at a ghost. Same eyes. Same stubborn chin. Same way of standing like you’re ready to fight the world.”
Elana took a step back. “I’m not her.”
“I know,” Adrian said. “That’s the problem.”
The tension in the room snapped.
He reached out. His bloody hand hovered next to her face, like he was going to touch her. Like he wanted to.
Then he dropped it.
“Go to bed, Elana,” he whispered. “Before I do something we both regret.”
Elana turned and ran.
Back to her room. She locked the door. Pressed her back to it, heart hammering.
She was wearing a dead woman’s ring.
She was married to a grieving widower.
And she just saw the one thing he told her never to see.
From down the hall, she heard it.
The sound of glass breaking again.
And Adrian’s voice, barely audible: “Lily?”
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