Morning Came Fast
1366 Words
Morning came fast.
I fell asleep at the window. Right where I sat into the night. Knees to my chest. Back to glass. Too scared to move. Too scared to ruin it.
The foundation from 2PM yesterday had twelve hours. It was 7AM now.
Seventeen hours.
It should’ve cracked. Should’ve flaked off in my sleep. Should’ve betrayed me.
Michael woke first.
I didn’t hear him move. Just felt it — arms sliding under my knees, behind my back. Lifting.
My body jerked. My eyes flew open the second I hit warmth.
The bed.
He’d put me on the bed.
“Good morning, babe.”
His voice was different. No edge. No ice. Just… morning.
He was sitting on the edge of the mattress. Black silk pajamas rumpled from sleep. Hair a mess. For a second he didn’t look like Michael Darian, CEO. He looked like a man who woke up next to his wife.
His hand found my foot. Thumb pressing into the arch. Gentle. A massage.
“You didn’t bathe.” He said it soft. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
I didn’t flinch. Because he was right. I hadn’t. Not last night. I’d hidden. Then passed out at the window. In yesterday’s mask.
“And you shouldn’t sleep with makeup on.”
Not cruel. Not a command. An observation. Like he’d read it in a magazine.
My stomach dropped. Because he was right about that too.
I turned my head fast. Stared at the ceiling. At the chandelier. Anywhere but him.
The mask was seventeen hours old. It had to be breaking. I could feel it — tight, itchy, ready to crumble. If he looked too close —
“I’ll take a quick shower,” I said. Too fast. Too high.
I bolted off the bed. Feet hit cold marble and I was moving. Bathroom door clicked shut behind me.
No slamming. No panic. Controlled.
I leaned against the door and breathed. Then looked in the mirror.
God.
Cracks. Flaking at the hairline. Patchy on my cheek. The birthmark was bleeding through in dull red shadows. Seventeen hours. Of course it failed.
I stripped the slip. Stepped into the shower. Water hot. This time I let it hit my face.
I watched the lie swirl down the drain. Beige and brown. The stain underneath brightening as the coverage died. For one second, I was just me. Bare. Exposed.
Then I shut the water off.
Because Michael Darian was outside. And I couldn’t face him like this. Not yet.
I toweled off and sat at the vanity. Clean skin. Red stain. No hiding.
So I started over.
Primer. Color corrector — green for the red. Foundation. Layer one. Layer two. Layer three. Concealer. Powder. Pressed, not swiped. Setting spray.
Forty minutes. Hands steady because panic would ruin the blend.
It held.
Fresh mask. Twelve hours starting now. 8AM.
I went to the Louis Vuitton box. Unzipped it. Past the wedding dress. Past the lingerie I wouldn’t wear. Found the floral gown. Soft. Yellow. Buttons up the front. Innocent.
Something a wife would wear for breakfast with her husband.
I dressed. Brushed my hair. Checked the light. The birthmark was buried. Again.
I was Ariana again. The version he paid for.
I unlocked the door and stepped out.
Michael was by the window. Back to me. Phone in his hand. He’d changed into charcoal slacks, white button-down. Sleeves rolled. CEO again.
He turned when he heard me.
His eyes did a slow pass. Silk mules, cream. Low heel. Floral gown. Face made up, calm. Hair down.
No tears. No flaking. No monster.
Just his wife.
He ended the call without saying goodbye. Slid the phone into his pocket.
“You look…” He paused. Like the word was foreign. “Pretty.”
My throat closed. Not from fear. From something else.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He stepped toward me. Stopped a foot away. Studied my face like he had last night. But this time there was no smirk. No cataloging.
Just quiet.
“Hungry?” he asked.
I nodded. Didn’t trust my voice.
He held out his hand. Not to grab. Not to cage.
Just offered.
Palm up. Waiting.
Twelve hours left. Fresh count.
I stared at his hand.
And took it.
He led me downstairs. Hand in mine. Not tight. Not claiming. Just… there.
The penthouse was quiet. Staff invisible. The dining table was set for two. White roses. Steam rising from silver lids. Coffee. Fresh fruit. No carbs, I noticed. Like he’d already memorized what I didn’t eat.
“Sit,” he said. Pulled out my chair.
I did. Floral gown pooling around me. Marble cold through my mules.
He sat across from me. Not at the head. Across. Like we were equals.
We ate in silence. Forks quiet. His eyes didn’t leave me long. But when they did land, they stayed.
Not cataloging anymore. Just… looking.
The clock in my head: 8:43AM. Eleven hours, seventeen minutes left.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“I’m always quiet.”
“Liar.” No heat. Almost a smile. “You yelled at me last night.”
I choked on water. He handed me a napkin. Fingertips brushed mine.
After breakfast, he stood. “Walk with me.”
Not a question. But he still held his hand out. Waited for me to take it.
I did.
He led me through glass doors onto the terrace.
And I stopped.
A garden. On the 60th floor. Real grass. White roses climbing trellises. A stone bench under a willow. Strings of lights, off now in the morning sun. It smelled like earth and sugar.
“This is…” I couldn’t finish.
“My mother’s,” he said. Quiet. “She built it. Before she died. Said every house should have something that grows.”
He let go of my hand. Stepped to the edge. City sprawled below us. Loud. Cruel. Up here, it was silent.
“I don’t bring people here.” His back was to me. Voice different. Not CEO. Not husband. Just Michael. “Not business. Not…” He exhaled. “Not anyone.”
The wind moved through the willow. Petals fell. One landed in my hair.
He turned.
And I saw it.
The look from last night at the window. But stripped bare. No ice. No smirk. No power.
Just a man.
“Ariana.”
My name in his mouth wasn’t a contract anymore.
“I didn’t plan this.” He stepped closer. “The wedding. You. I thought I could control it. Make it clean. Business.”
He laughed. Once. Bitter.
“But then you wouldn’t look at me. Then you flinched. Then you ran.” His jaw worked. “And I realized I didn’t want you to stop running because you were scared of me. I wanted you to stop because you chose to stay.”
The itch at my hairline was gone. I couldn’t feel anything.
He was a foot away now. Eyes on mine. Not my cheek. Not my mask. My eyes.
“I don’t know what this is,” he said. “I don’t have a word for it that isn’t…” He swallowed. “Weak.”
Another step.
“But I think I’m in love with you.”
The world tilted.
White roses. Blue sky. Michael Darian, who owned half the city, looking at me like I was the only thing in it.
His hand came up. Slow. Giving me time to move. To run.
He tucked the petal from my hair. Fingertips grazing my temple. Right where the c***k would be. Where the stain lived.
His touch was careful. Like I was glass.
“I know that scares you,” he whispered. “I scare you. But I’m not going to hurt you, Ariana. Not ever.”
Liar.
He would. The second he saw. The second the twelve hours ran out and the monster bled through.
His thumb stayed at my temple. Warm. Real.
“Say something,” he said. Voice raw. “Please.”
The wind picked up. The willow whispered. Eleven hours left.
And all I could think was: Should I tell him?
- Writer
