LINES BEGIN TO BLUR
618 Words
Elena avoided the piano room after that night, and she tried to ignore the way Victoria’s presence lingered like smoke in her mind. But it wasn’t easy not when the papers splashed her name across their glossy covers.
Blackthorn’s Bride: Beauty or Bargain?
From Nobody to Mrs. Billionaire: Who Is Elena?
Adrian’s Ice Queen, Will She Last?
The headlines burned her eyes as she sat at the breakfast table, trying to force down toast. The staff pretended not to notice her trembling hands.
Adrian entered, crisp as always in a dark suit, his phone pressed to his ear. He didn’t acknowledge her at first, only ended his call with a clipped, “See that it’s handled.”
Then his gaze fell to the papers.
Without a word, he swept them off the table in one sharp motion.
Elena startled. “Adrian—”
“You’ll ignore them.” His tone brooked no argument. “They feed on weakness.”
Her throat tightened. “It’s not weakness to feel.”
His jaw clenched. For a moment, she thought he might snap back. Instead, he leaned closer, his eyes hard. “Feelings are exactly what they want to exploit. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
Before she could reply, the butler appeared. “Mr. Blackthorn, your car is ready.”
Adrian straightened, his mask sliding firmly back into place. “Be ready by seven. We’re attending the gala at the Waldorf tonight.”
Elena blinked. “Another event?”
He didn’t answer, just walked out the door, leaving her pulse racing and her mind whirling.
The Waldorf was even grander than the last gala. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, champagne glasses clinked, and the room buzzed with power.
Elena felt small again, lost among diamonds and designer gowns. But Adrian’s hand at the small of her back kept her moving.
They hadn’t spoken much in the car. The silence had been heavy, yet strangely charged.
As they entered the main hall, whispers followed. She caught snippets gold-digger, unworthy, poor little wife.
Her chest tightened. She tried to keep her chin high, but the sting was sharp.
Then it happened.
One of the board members’ wives, a woman with too much perfume and too little kindness, let her laugh carry. “Adrian, darling, surely this isn’t your wife. She looks more like your assistant.”
Laughter rippled. Heat flamed across Elena’s face.
Before she could retreat, Adrian’s arm snaked firmly around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. His voice was low, dangerous.
“You mistake her for less because you can’t comprehend what more looks like,” he said coldly. “Elena is my wife. And if any of you question her place again, you question mine.”
The room went silent.
Elena’s heart hammered as she looked up at him. His grip was strong, protective, almost possessive. His eyes met hers for the briefest moment, and something unspoken passed between them something raw, something real.
The laughter died. The whispers shifted. People moved on quickly, unwilling to provoke Adrian Blackthorn’s wrath.
But Elena couldn’t move on so easily.
Because for the first time, his touch didn’t feel like a performance.
It felt like a claim.
That night, when they returned to the mansion, Adrian poured himself a drink, his tie loosened, his expression unreadable.
“You didn’t have to defend me,” she whispered.
He took a long sip of whiskey, then set the glass down with a soft clink. “Yes. I did.”
Her chest tightened. The air between them crackled with something neither wanted to name.
And for the first time, Elena wondered if the lines Adrian had drawn so firmly between them… were beginning to blur.
- Writer
