Chapter Eight
793 Words
I woke up alone.
The butter-soft sheets were cold on his side of the bed. Not that it was his side—we hadn't slept together. Not like that. He'd walked me to my door, brushed a kiss across my knuckles, and said goodnight like nothing had happened.
Like the river didn't exist.
Like the kiss didn't happen.
I sat up and looked at the empty space beside me. A single white rose lay on the pillow. No note. No explanation.
Just a rose.
---
The kitchen smelled like coffee.
Adrian stood at the counter in a gray t-shirt and sweatpants. Barefoot. Hair messy. He was making eggs—actual eggs, in a pan, like a normal person—and the sight was so absurd I almost laughed.
"You cook?" I asked.
"I have many hidden talents."
"Do they all involve breaking contracts?"
He looked up at that. His eyes found mine. Held them. "I didn't break anything. The contract says brief kissing. It doesn't specify location."
"The river wasn't a publicity event."
"The river wasn't a publicity event," he agreed. "Which means it wasn't in the contract at all. Which means we're in uncharted territory."
He slid the eggs onto a plate. Added toast. Added fruit. Pushed it across the island toward me.
"Eat," he said.
"I'm not hungry."
"Liar."
He was using that word a lot. Liar. Like he could see right through me. Like every wall I built was made of glass.
I took a bite of toast.
He smiled. Small. Real.
And my stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.
---
Ms. Vane arrived at nine.
She took one look at me—still in my pajamas, still barefoot, still flushed from a breakfast that felt too much like a date—and raised an eyebrow.
"The papers are ready," she said to Adrian. "The interview with Financial Weekly is at eleven. And Liam's lawyer called."
Adrian's expression went blank. "What did he want?"
"A settlement. One million dollars and Liam walks away clean."
"No."
"I told him you'd say that." Ms. Vane glanced at me again. "You might want to put on something less... comfortable. The photographer arrives at ten."
She left.
I stared at Adrian. "Photographer?"
"Engagement announcement. We need proof. A picture for the society pages."
"You could have warned me."
"I'm warning you now."
I grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the bedroom. Halfway there, I stopped.
"The rose," I said without turning around. "Was that part of the act too?"
Silence.
Then, so quiet I almost missed it: "No."
I kept walking.
---
The dress was white.
Of course it was. White silk, simple lines, no diamonds this time. Just the ring. Just me. Just Adrian in a navy suit, standing too close, smiling like he meant it.
"Chin up," the photographer said. "Closer. Tighter. There—perfect."
The camera clicked. Adrian's hand rested on my waist. His thumb traced small circles through the silk.
"You're tense," he murmured.
"You're touching me."
"That's the point."
The photographer lowered the camera. "Got it. Give us five minutes, I need to change the lens."
He stepped out. The room went quiet.
Adrian didn't move his hand.
"We need to talk about Liam," he said.
"Can we not?"
"No. He texted you last night."
I pulled back. "How do you know?"
"Because he texted me too." Adrian pulled out his phone and handed it to me.
Liam: Pretty fake fiancée you've got there. Does she know about Isabel?
My blood went cold. "Who's Isabel?"
Adrian took the phone back. His jaw was tight. His eyes were darker than I'd ever seen them.
"My ex-fiancée," he said. "The real one. She broke off the engagement three months ago. Liam thinks he can use her to hurt me."
"Can he?"
Adrian didn't answer.
The photographer came back. The camera clicked again. And I smiled like my heart wasn't trying to climb out of my chest.
---
That night, I Googled Isabel.
Her name was Isabel Rossi. She was beautiful. Rich. Italian. Her father owned half of Milan. Her i********: showed a woman who wore diamonds like they were buttons and smiled like she'd never been sad a day in her life.
The engagement announcement was still up.
Adrian Wolfe and Isabel Rossi are pleased to announce...
I closed my laptop.
The white rose was still on my pillow. I picked it up. Smelled it. Set it down.
Then I walked to Adrian's room and knocked.
He opened the door. Shirtless. Sleepy. Confused.
"What's wrong?"
"Tell me about Isabel," I said. "Tell me everything. And don't lie."
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he stepped aside and let me in.
- Writer
