Chapter Nine
941 Words
His bedroom was nothing like I expected.
No marble. No glass. Just warm wood, soft lighting, and books. Shelves and shelves of books, stacked to the ceiling, some of them worn and cracked and clearly read more than once.
"This is where you actually live," I said.
Adrian closed the door behind me. "The rest of the penthouse is for show. This is mine."
I ran my fingers along a bookshelf. Old paperbacks. Business biographies mixed with classic literature mixed with a dog-eared copy of a romance novel I recognized.
"You read romance?"
"My mother left it behind when she moved out. I kept it for sentimental reasons."
"Sentimental. You?"
"Don't sound so surprised."
I turned to face him. He was standing by the window, shirtless, silhouetted against the city lights. His chest was lean. Muscular but not gym-obsessed. A small scar above his ribs, pale and old.
"How did you get that?" I asked, pointing.
"Childhood. My father had a temper and a heavy hand."
My chest tightened. "Adrian..."
"I'm not telling you for sympathy." His voice was quiet. Flat. "I'm telling you so you understand. Liam isn't just angry about the money. He watched my father hurt me for years and did nothing. He feels guilty. And guilt makes people dangerous."
I crossed the room. Stopped in front of him. Close enough to touch.
"I'm not afraid of Liam," I said.
"You should be."
"I'm not afraid of you either."
His jaw tightened. "That's your mistake."
"Maybe." I reached up and touched his face. Just my palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes like it hurt. "But it's my mistake to make."
---
He told me everything.
Isabel. The engagement. The way she left—not with a conversation, but with a note on the kitchen counter and a flight to Milan.
"Adrian—I can't. Don't follow me."
"She never explained," he said. We were sitting on his bed now. Not touching. Just close. "I spent months wondering what I did wrong. Then I stopped wondering and started building walls."
"And Liam?"
"Liam was there. Comforting her. Or so he said." Adrian's voice turned bitter. "I think they planned it together. She leaves. He steps in as the supportive cousin. Then they both try to take pieces of me."
"You have proof?"
"Enough to suspect. Not enough to prove."
"Is that why you hired me? To make her jealous?"
He turned to look at me. His eyes were dark. Unreadable.
"I hired you because you were kind to a homeless man in a coffee shop six months ago and I couldn't forget it."
The room went quiet.
"What?" I whispered.
"The coffee shop on Bleaker Street. You bought him a sandwich and sat with him for twenty minutes. You didn't know anyone was watching. But I was there. Across the room. Drinking terrible espresso and wondering who you were."
"You followed me?"
"I found you. There's a difference." He ran a hand through his hair. "I ran a background check. Your name. Your address. Your mother. I told myself it was for security. Due diligence. But really, I just wanted to know everything about you."
"That's not romantic, Adrian. That's stalking."
"I know." He didn't look away. "I know it's not romantic. I know I'm not a good man. I've done things I'm not proud of. But I've never—" His voice broke. Just a little. "I've never felt this way about anyone. And I don't know what to do with it."
I should have left.
I should have walked out of that bedroom, packed my bag, and gone back to Bleaker Street.
Instead, I kissed him.
Not soft this time. Not questioning. Hard and desperate and real. His hands found my waist. My fingers tangled in his hair. He made a sound—low, almost pained—and pulled me closer.
"Ivy," he said against my mouth.
"Don't talk."
"We shouldn't—"
"I don't care what we shouldn't."
He kissed me again. Slower this time. Like he was memorizing me.
---
We didn't sleep together.
Not that night.
But we lay in his bed, tangled together, his chest against my back, his arm wrapped around my waist. The city glittered outside the window. Somewhere below, cars honked and sirens wailed and life went on.
But up here, in the quiet, nothing else existed.
"Tell me something true," I whispered.
"You first."
"I'm terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of how much I don't want to leave."
He pulled me tighter. Pressed a kiss to the back of my neck.
"Then don't," he said.
"The contract—"
"Damn the contract."
I turned in his arms. Faced him. His expression was open in a way I'd never seen. No mask. No armor. Just a man who was as scared as I was.
"Six weeks," I said.
"Forty-two days."
"And then what?"
He touched my face. Traced my jaw. My lips. My chin.
"And then we figure it out. Together."
I wanted to believe him.
I wanted to believe that a man like Adrian Wolfe—cold, calculating, billionaire Adrian Wolfe—could mean something as simple as together.
But I'd been broke long enough to know that nothing simple ever lasted.
---
I fell asleep in his arms.
And in the morning, when I woke up alone again, there was no rose on the pillow.
Just a note.
"Breakfast is ready. Come find me. — A"
I smiled.
And for one perfect moment, I forgot about Liam, and Isabel, and the contract, and the forty-two days.
I just got out of bed and went to find him.
---
- Writer
