THE ARDEN SECRET

CHAPTER THREE

After the gala, everything changed and nothing changed at the same time.

In front of Mom and Alexander, we were perfect strangers. Adrian would sit at the opposite end of the dining table, answering his father’s questions about stock prices and acquisitions with that cool, clipped voice I was starting to know too well.

He never looked at me. Not once. I told myself it was a relief.

But when no one was watching, his eyes followed me everywhere.

I would feel it first—a prickle at the back of my neck—then turn and catch him staring. In the hallway, he’d pass so close that his fingers would graze the small of my back, a touch so light I could almost convince myself I imagined it. Almost. It always left a trail of heat that lasted for hours.

At dinner, his knee would find mine under the table and stay there, warm and steady, while he talked about mergers and hostile takeovers like the world wasn’t tilting underneath us.

I started living for those secret moments. They were the only times I felt truly alive in this cold, echoing mansion.

One rainy afternoon, I got out of school early because of a canceled lecture. The house was quiet. Mom was at some charity luncheon and Alexander at the office so I wandered toward the east wing, drawn by the faint rhythmic thuds coming from the private gym.

The door was cracked open. I should have walked away. Instead, I pushed it wider and stepped inside.

Adrian was shirtless, hitting a heavy punching bag with controlled fury. Each punch landed with a sharp thud that echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Sweat traced paths down his back, over muscles that shifted and flexed with every movement. His dark hair was damp, sticking to his forehead. For the first time since I’d met him, he looked… exhausted. Human. Vulnerable.

He caught sight of me in the mirrored wall and froze mid-swing. His chest rose and fell quickly. Gray eyes locked on mine through the reflection.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was rough, like he’d been shouting even though he hadn’t made a sound.

“I got out early,” I said, trying to keep my tone casual even as my heart pounded. “I didn’t know anyone was home.”

He grabbed a towel from the bench and wiped his face, but he didn’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be here, Ariel.”

I stepped closer, unable to stop myself. “Why not? Because I’m your stepsister?”

He let out a low, bitter laugh that sent shivers down my spine. “Because I’m no good for you. Not like this.”

I was near enough now to see the thin white scar just above his left collarbone. Near enough to reach out and touch it if I wanted to. I didn’t. But I wanted to.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” I whispered.

His jaw tightened. I heard the click of his teeth. For a long moment he didn’t answer. Then he turned to face me fully, towel forgotten in his hand.

“Feeling it doesn’t make it right,” he said quietly. “It makes it worse.”

He brushed past me to leave, his bare shoulder grazing mine. The contact was brief, but the air between us crackled like static before a storm. I stood there long after the door closed behind him, breathing in the scent of sweat and cedar he’d left behind.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The mansion was too quiet, the silence pressing in from all sides. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every stolen glance, every accidental touch.

Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.

Slow. Deliberate. Stopping right outside my door.

My breath caught. I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest even though I was wearing an oversized T-shirt.

He was pacing. Back and forth. Once. Twice. Then nothing.

I waited, heart racing. Part of me wanted to call out his name. Part of me wanted to pretend I was asleep. Part of me wanted to fling the door open and pull him inside.

I heard the soft rattle of the doorknob turning.

He was coming in.

But the door never opened. After an endless minute, the footsteps retreated. I heard him walk away, each step heavier than the last.

I fell back against the pillows, body burning with frustration and something deeper, something that scared me. I imagined what would have happened if he’d crossed that line. His hands on me. His mouth. The way he’d say my name like it hurt him.

I barely slept.

The next morning, I dragged myself to the breakfast table. Mom was humming as she buttered toast. Alexander was already gone. Adrian sat in his usual spot, dark circles under his eyes, hair still a little messy from sleep..or lack of it.

He glanced up when I entered. Our eyes met for a split second—too quick, too intense—and he looked away fast, focusing on his coffee like it held the secrets of the universe.

I poured myself a cup, hands shaking slightly. When I turned back, he was watching me again.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay light.

He hesitated, fingers tightening around his mug.

“No.” His gaze flicked to mine again.

"You?”

The word hung between us, loaded with everything we weren’t saying.

I shook my head slowly. “Not a wink.”

"You lot now share collective insomnia?", mum pried

"Is that even a thing mum" I smiled slightly, trying to act like my mind wasn't going crazy.

For a moment, the kitchen faded away. It was just us, trapped in the memory of last night’s almost. His eyes darkened, and I saw it. The same restless heat that had kept me awake.

Mom chatted about her luncheon, oblivious. I barely heard her.

When I reached for the coffee pot to refill my cup, Adrian’s hand was already there. His fingers closed gently over mine on the handle.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice so low only I could hear. “It’s hot.”

His thumb traced slow circles on the inside of my wrist. Once. Twice, sending sparks straight through me. My breath hitched. I looked up at him, and for the first time, he didn’t look away.

Then, as suddenly as it started, he released me and stood.

“I have an early meeting,” he said to no one in particular, already walking toward the door.

I watched him go, pulse racing, skin still tingling where he’d touched me.

I was falling deeper every day. And I was starting to think he was falling too.

Later that afternoon, I was in the library trying to study when my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

One line. No name.

"Meet me in the east garden. 8 tonight."

My heart stopped.

It had to be him.

But as I stared at the message, another text came through—almost immediately, like he’d regretted the first.

"Ignore that. Forget I sent anything.

Stay away from me, Ariel. Please."

I gripped the phone tighter, a slow smile spreading across my face even as fear twisted in my stomach.

He could fight it all he wanted.

But I wasn’t staying away.