Chapter 7
1683 คำ
ISABELLA
When I opened my eyes again, the room was dark. For a moment, I didn’t recognize it — the high ceilings, the soft lighting, the unfamiliar shadows stretching across polished floors. Then the truth settled like a weight on my chest. The penthouse.
My things were here — my clothes, my books, even the framed photograph of Sophia and me from years ago — all neatly arranged as if I’d chosen this place myself. I hadn’t. Adrian had arranged it. And my father had approved it. A decision made about me, without me.
I turned my head toward the clock on the nightstand. Six in the evening. I’d slept for hours. No wonder my stomach twisted with hunger. I pushed myself upright, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The penthouse was quiet — too quiet. I wondered if Adrian was still here. Or Enzo. The thought made my pulse spike for two very different reasons.
A soft knock sounded at my door. “Miss Isabella?” a woman’s voice called gently. Mara. Adrian’s idea of a maid — which was laughable, considering she moved like someone who could break a man’s wrist without wrinkling her apron. She’d been assigned to me the moment I arrived, introduced with a polite smile and eyes that missed nothing.
“I’m awake,” I said. The door cracked open. Mara’s silhouette appeared, neat and composed. “Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Did you cook?” I asked.
A tiny smile touched her lips. “No, miss.” She didn’t elaborate. Of course she didn’t. She must have ordered a take out.
“Is… anyone else here?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Mr. Salvatore is in the kitchen,” she said. “He insisted.”
My heart stuttered. Adrian. Cooking. That didn’t make sense. Adrian Salvatore didn’t cook. He commanded. He ordered. He controlled. The idea of him standing over a stove felt like a glitch in reality.
“Enzo?” I asked.
“Gone,” Mara said. “For now.”
For now. I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat. “Thank you.”
“If you need anything,” she said, “I’m just down the hall.” I believed her. In a different life, she would’ve been a bodyguard, not a maid. In this life, she was both.
I slipped out of bed, smoothed my hair, and padded barefoot down the hallway. The penthouse was dim, lit only by the soft glow spilling from the kitchen. I turned the corner—and stopped.
Adrian stood at the stove wearing a black apron over his shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, stirring something in a pan that smelled like garlic and butter and herbs. The table behind him was already set for two — candles lit, plates arranged, silverware aligned with military precision. He looked… domestic. Which was absurd. And dangerous.
He didn’t turn when he spoke. “You’re awake.”
My breath caught. “You’re still here.”
“I wasn’t going to leave you alone after earlier.”
“I told you I wanted space.”
“You got space,” he said, stirring the pan. “You also got a panic episode in the hallway.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” he said quietly. “And you were alone.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m fine now.”
He finally turned. His eyes swept over me — not possessive, not hungry, but assessing. Making sure I was steady. Making sure I was real.
“You should eat,” he said. “You haven’t had anything since breakfast.”
“I didn’t ask you to cook.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I stared at him, at the apron, at the table set for two, at the absurdity of the most dangerous man in New York sautéing something like he wasn’t capable of burning the world down.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
His jaw flexed. “Because you’re mine to take care of.”
I bristled. “I’m not yours.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t push. He just held my gaze, steady and unguarded in a way that made my chest tighten.
“Sit,” he said softly. “Please.”
The word please from Adrian Salvatore felt like a tectonic shift. I hesitated. Then, slowly, I moved toward the table. Because hunger was one thing. But curiosity? Curiosity was a far more dangerous appetite.
**
Adrian watched me like he was memorizing the way I breathed. I sat because hunger won, but the moment I did, I regretted it. He plated the food with quiet precision, then set the dish in front of me. “Eat.”
I lifted a brow. “You’re bossy.”
“You respond to bossy.”
“I respond to irritation.”
His mouth curved — not a smile, but the ghost of one. “Same thing.”
I stabbed a piece of pasta just to avoid looking at him. The flavors hit my tongue — garlic, lemon, butter — and I hated how good it was.
“You cooked this?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“You can cook?”
“I can do many things you don’t know about.”
Heat crawled up my spine. I looked away quickly.
He noticed.
Of course, he noticed.
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me eat like it was the most important thing happening in the world. “You always used to hum when you liked something.”
“I don’t hum.”
“You do,” he said softly. “You did. You still do.”
My fork paused mid‑air.
He remembered that?
I swallowed hard. “Stop watching me.”
“I haven’t seen you in ten years,” he said. “I’m catching up.”
The honesty in his voice hit me like a bruise.
I pushed my plate away. “I’m done.”
“You ate three bites.”
“That’s enough.”
He walked toward me — slow, deliberate, like approaching a skittish animal. “Isabella.”
“Don’t.”
He stopped beside my chair, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His hand hovered near my shoulder — not touching, just waiting.
I hated that my body leaned toward him before my mind could stop it.
He noticed that too.
“Come here,” he murmured.
“No.”
He exhaled, a quiet sound of frustration and something else — longing, maybe. “I’m trying to make this easier.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“Because you’re fighting me.”
“I’m not fighting you,” I said. “I’m surviving you.”
That made him go still.
Completely still.
Then, slowly, he crouched beside my chair, bringing us eye‑level. His voice dropped to something low and rough. “I don’t want you to survive me. I want you to trust me.”
“I can’t.”
“Not yet,” he said. “But you will.”
I opened my mouth to argue — but he reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
My breath caught.
His fingers grazed my jaw, slow, reverent, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he touched too hard.
“Adrian…” I whispered.
He swallowed. “I miss you.”
“You don’t know me anymore.”
“I know enough.” His thumb traced the corner of my mouth. “I know you’re hungry. I know you’re tired. I know you’re scared. And I know you want to pretend you don’t feel anything when I’m this close.”
I jerked back, heart pounding. “I don’t—”
He rose to his full height, towering over me, and pulled the chair back from the table with one hand. “Come here.”
“I said no.”
He didn’t touch me.
He didn’t force me.
He just sat down in the chair I’d been using — broad shoulders filling the space — and patted his thigh once, slow, deliberate.
“Sit.”
My pulse stuttered.
“Absolutely not.”
His voice softened. “Isabella.”
I hated the way my name sounded in his mouth — like a promise, like a memory, like a claim.
“I’m not sitting on your lap.”
“You used to.”
“That was ten years ago.”
“And I’ve missed it for ten years.”
My breath hitched.
He leaned back, giving me space, giving me choice — which somehow made it worse. “I won’t touch you unless you ask,” he said. “But I want you close. Just for a moment.”
I stood frozen, every nerve in my body screaming at me to move — toward him or away from him, I didn’t know.
He waited.
Patient.
Steady.
Unmoving.
And that patience — that quiet, devastating patience — was what broke me.
I stepped forward.
His eyes darkened, but he didn’t move.
I hesitated.
Then, slowly, carefully, I lowered myself onto his lap.
His breath left him in a quiet, shattered exhale.
His hands stayed at his sides.
He kept his promise.
But his body was warm beneath me, solid, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
“Isabella,” he whispered, voice rough. “Look at me.”
I did.
And the world tilted.
He didn’t kiss me.
He didn’t pull me closer.
He just looked at me like he’d been starving for a decade and finally found water.
My heart hammered.
His hand lifted — slow, hesitant — and brushed my cheek with the back of his fingers.
I shivered.
He swallowed hard. “Tell me to stop.”
I couldn’t.
I didn’t.
I didn’t say anything at all.
And that silence — that dangerous, trembling silence — was its own kind of answer.
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