The First Night
1577 Words
Dinner was takeout. From some restaurant with a name I couldn’t pronounce if my life depended on it. Adrian had it served on these ridiculous china plates, heavy, expensive, the kind of stuff you’re afraid to breathe on. I kept thinking the plates probably cost more than my old rent. The whole scene felt… off. Too fancy for noodles in sauce.
We sat at his massive glass table. Big enough for twelve people, but with just the two of us sitting there, it somehow felt like the opposite of big. Intimate in a way I wasn’t ready for.
The windows made it worse. The city stretched out beneath us, lights everywhere, all glitter and glow. It should’ve been romantic, but I couldn’t stop focusing on my fork and the way the pasta slipped around it. I was twirling it like it was some delicate task just to avoid looking at him too much.
“Tell me about Harvard,” I finally said.
His eyes flicked up from his wine. He had that look, the one that makes you feel like you just stepped into his crosshairs. “What about it?”
“Your reunion’s coming up. I should probably know what I’m walking into.”
He leaned back, the glass dangling in his hand like he’d been born with it. Studying me. Silent for too long. His silences always felt… intentional.
“Harvard Business School. Class of 2018. Graduated summa c*m laude.” His tone was flat, like he was rattling off a stat nobody cared about. “Not that it’ll matter to anyone who shows up.”
“So what does matter?”
“Power. Money. Influence.” The corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. More like he was laughing at some private joke. “And the ability to crush your enemies so completely they never recover.”
My stomach tightened. Appetite gone. “Is that what you do? Crush people?”
“I protect what’s mine.”
“And I’m part of that now?”
He set the glass down, leaned just close enough that the light hit his eyes. Gray, sharp, almost metallic. “You’re my wife, Isla. That makes you mine to protect.”
I should’ve hated it, the way he said it, like I was property. But instead I felt something I didn’t want to admit. Warmth. Safety. Possession twisted into comfort. I shoved that thought down fast.
“Fine,” I said, trying to change the subject before I did something dumb. “Tell me our story. The fake one. People are going to ask, and we need to be consistent.”
Immediately he switched into business mode. Focused. Crisp. “We met at a charity auction. Three months ago. You were there with friends, I was there on business. You were bidding on a painting,”
“What painting?”
“Abstract. Expensive. Something you’d like.”
“A woman like me, huh?”
“Educated. Cultured. Strong opinions. Good taste.” His face didn’t even flicker. “I outbid you. Then I gave you the painting.”
I barked out a laugh. “Romantic.”
“Effective.” He sipped his wine like that ended the conversation. “It gave me a reason to see you again. Coffee the next day. Dinner after that. Calls when I traveled. By then, I knew what I wanted.”
“And you fell for me because of my… sparkling personality?”
His eyes didn’t move. “I fell in love with your intelligence. Your strength. The way you argue even when you’re wrong. The way you looked at me like you already knew the parts of me I try to hide.”
Something shifted. The words were supposed to be fake, but they landed too close to real. I felt it in my chest. He looked like he felt it too.
“And the quick marriage?” I asked, softer now.
“When I want something, I don’t waste time. You said yes. I wasn’t going to let you rethink it.”
“And my dad’s case?”
“A complication. But it’s ours. You believe in him. I believe in you. That’s enough.”
I nodded. It was good. Tight. Believable. But fiction all the same. Safer that way.
After dinner he disappeared for “business calls.” I killed time wandering around the penthouse, trying to make it less like a museum. I shoved a couple of my books into his shelves, tossed my grandmother’s old throw across the couch, put a photo of my parents by the lamp. Little things. Barely there, but enough to make me breathe easier.
By ten, I was out of distractions. Time for bed.
Our bed.
I changed into the least scandalous thing I owned, navy silk shorts and a camisole, but somehow it felt worse than a dress that barely covered anything. I stared at myself in the mirror and gave myself a pep talk: Logistics. Sleep. Nothing else.
When I came out, he was already there. On his side, laptop open, bare chest catching the glow. Black pajama pants, scars across his skin like punctuation in a story I wasn’t allowed to read.
“I’ll be working another hour,” he said without looking up. “The light won’t bother you?”
“Nope.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
I crawled into my side of the bed, leaving as much distance as humanly possible between us. Roommates, I told myself. Just roommates.
Except roommates don’t look like Adrian Cross.
I lay there listening. The keys clicking. The fabric shifting. His steady breathing. Somehow he felt closer than he was.
Eventually he shut the laptop, turned off the light. The city’s glow spilled across the room, silver and blue.
“Isla?” he said into the dark.
“Yeah?”
“You okay with this? Really?”
That one threw me. He didn’t sound like himself. Not ruthless. Not cold. He sounded almost… unsure.
“Are you?” I asked back.
“I’ve never shared a bed with someone I wasn’t sleeping with.”
“Welcome to the club.”
He laughed, low, warm, and it did something dangerous to my stomach. “This is going to be an interesting year.”
“That’s one word for it.”
The quiet after that felt different. Not sharp. Almost comfortable.
“Isla?”
“Mhm?”
“Thank you. For agreeing to this. I know it’s not what you pictured.”
“It’s not what you pictured either,” I said quietly. “But maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
He shifted closer. Not touching, but closer. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe we both needed this. Something to throw us off balance. Something new. Maybe it gives us something we didn’t know we were missing.”
“And what’s that?”
“Adventure.” My throat tightened. “When’s the last time you did something that scared you?”
Pause. Longer than I expected.
“Tonight,” he said. “Sharing a bed with you.”
I froze. “Why?”
“Because you’re not what I expected. Not what I planned for. And I don’t like surprises.”
I rolled to face where I thought he was. “What did you expect?”
“Someone easier. Someone I could keep separate. Not someone who makes me wonder what it would be like if this was real.”
The air between us went heavy. Too heavy.
“Adrian?”
“Yeah?”
“This doesn’t have to be complicated. We both know what this is.”
“Do we?” His voice was so quiet I almost thought I imagined it.
I didn’t answer.
“Get some sleep,” he said finally. “You’ll need it. Eleanor’s going to test you tomorrow.”
“She’s that bad?”
“She’s worse. Family reputation is everything. If you don’t impress her—”
“If I don’t?”
“She’ll make both our lives hell.”
“Perfect. No pressure.”
A pause. Then softer: “You’ll surprise her. You already surprised me.”
His breathing slowed not long after. I stayed awake. Thinking. Because in one night he’d given me more honesty than I ever expected to get from him.
Around two, I finally drifted off. Just before sleep grabbed me, I realized he’d shifted again. Closer. Warmth at my back. Not touching. Just near.
I should’ve pulled away. I didn’t. For the first time in months, I felt safe.
When I woke, he was gone. Sheets cold. A note on his pillow, sharp handwriting:
Gone to the office early. Elena will be here at 9 to clean. Make yourself at home. Coffee’s ready at 7. Car at 6 PM for shopping. —A
P.S. You talk in your sleep.
My face went hot. What the hell had I said?
Before I could spiral, my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Looking forward to meeting you tonight. Wear something that shows you understand the importance of first impressions. —E
Eleanor Cross. In my life before coffee. Great.
I got dressed, caught myself staring at my reflection longer than usual. My eyes were tired, but there was something steadier there too. Stronger.
Maybe strong enough to handle Eleanor. Maybe strong enough to pull off being Mrs. Adrian Cross.
Even if it’s only for a year.
- Writer
