Chapter 4 : The Thorn Beneath the Veil
The next morning dawned not with warmth, but with the chill of unfamiliarity. Elena stood by the tall windows of the Knight penthouse, her hands clasped around a porcelain cup of untouched coffee. The city of Los Angeles sprawled beneath her in its glimmering deception—light and gloss hiding the decay. Much like her marriage.
She hadn't slept. Couldn't. Not after the fire in Adrian's eyes last night. Not after the weight of his voice, the way it clutched at her throat with the soft cruelty of silk turning into a noose.
Elena wore a pale blue satin slip that fell just above her knees. It should've made her feel feminine, delicate. But this morning, it only emphasized her fragility. She felt like a ghost gliding through his world.
"You didn't eat," a voice said behind her.
Elena turned slowly. Adrian was standing in the doorway, shirtless, a towel slung over his shoulder, fresh from his swim. Even now, with the golden light falling on his sculpted frame, he looked less like a man and more like a statue carved in vengeance. Cold. Inevitable.
"I wasn't hungry," she replied, her voice steady, though her hands trembled slightly.
He didn't press. Just walked to the table, poured himself black coffee, and took a seat, eyes flicking to the stack of untouched croissants, berries, and toast that Rosa had prepared.
"You've barely spoken to me since last night," Elena said.
"Because I have nothing sweet to say."
There it was again. The warning. The storm swelling behind his perfectly calm face.
She walked toward him, placing her cup down. "Then say it. Even if it cuts. Just don't go quiet. Silence is worse than knives."
Adrian sipped his coffee, then met her eyes. "You want me to cut you with the truth, Elena? You might just bleed for a very long time."
A fragile silence settled. Elena sat across from him, her voice lower now. "What did I do to deserve this version of you?"
He leaned back, crossing one ankle over the other, eyes unreadable. "You married me. That was your first mistake."
Her breath caught. "That's unfair."
"Is it?" he asked sharply, his voice still soft, but laced with venom. "Do you even know what fairness looks like in this world, Elena? In my world?"
She didn't reply. Because the answer wasn't simple. Their marriage wasn't simple. Nothing about Adrian Knight ever was.
He rose to his feet and walked over to her side. For a moment, Elena thought he was going to touch her, maybe even apologize. But instead, he bent slightly, and whispered, "You've stepped into a war zone. But you came dressed for a fairy tale."
---
Hours passed. Elena spent them in the art gallery wing of the house. Canvases—mostly modern, some absurd—lined the walls. But her gaze lingered on one piece in particular. A surrealist portrait of a woman whose face was split in two—half agony, half ecstasy. It reminded her of how she felt around Adrian. Drawn and destroyed at once.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Rosa: Mr. Knight has called for you. Please meet him at the Helix Tower ballroom by 8 p.m. sharp. Black gown.
She blinked. The Helix Tower?
Adrian hadn't mentioned any event.
With a slow breath, she walked toward her room. The walk-in closet looked like something from a royal fantasy—rows of designer gowns, silk robes, heels arranged like trophies. But everything felt like a costume. Like she was being dressed for a play she didn't understand the script of.
She chose a black velvet gown with a plunging neckline and backless cut. It clung to her like Adrian's gaze—bold, haunting, unforgettable. Her dark hair was pinned up in soft curls, her lips painted a muted rose.
As the car drove through the gleaming city, Elena stared out at the horizon. The world looked normal, beautiful even. But inside her, there was a war of knowing. That tonight wasn't about charity or glamour. It was about power. About Adrian.
About his revenge.
---
The ballroom of the Helix Tower was carved in obsidian and gold. A hall of mirrors, chandeliers that looked like frozen starlight, and men who smiled with diamond-cut lies. Adrian stood at the center of it all, dressed in a classic black tux, tailored to the inch. His hair slicked back, jaw tense, glass of whiskey untouched in his hand.
When he saw her, something flickered in his eyes. Not warmth. Not pride.
Possession.
She walked toward him, the world blurring around her. All she saw was him.
"You clean up well," he said, offering his arm.
She took it. "So do you."
He leaned close. "Tonight, I want you to smile. Say little. Observe everything."
She frowned. "Why? What's happening tonight?"
He didn't answer. Just led her into the lion's den.
---
The night unfolded with music, laughter, lies.
Adrian moved like a phantom of control, shaking hands, exchanging glances, owning every room he entered. Elena felt like a fragile ribbon trailing behind a storm.
Then, she saw him.
A man with silver hair, a scar above his brow, and eyes that seemed to light up at her.
"Elena," he said, stepping forward. "I didn't expect to see you here."
She blinked. "Do I... know you?"
Adrian's grip on her waist tightened.
The man laughed. "Of course not. But I know you. I knew your father."
Elena froze. The world tilted slightly.
"You knew my father?"
Adrian's voice cut through. "Mr. Villeneuve is mistaken. Elena's father passed away long before you ever stepped into LA, didn't he, darling?"
Elena's lips parted. But the lie sat there. Heavy. Coiled like a snake.
Villeneuve raised a brow. "Right. My apologies."
As he walked away, Adrian pulled her aside.
"Don't talk to him again," he said.
"Adrian, what did he mean? He knew my father? I thought—"
"Enough," he snapped. "Tonight is not about the past. It's about loyalty."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Loyalty to what? You?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he brushed a hand across her lower back and whispered, "Smile, Elena. People are watching."
---
The night ended on the rooftop.
Adrian lit a cigar, standing on the edge of the tower, the city glittering below him like broken glass.
Elena stood behind him, arms folded.
"You lied to me," she said.
"About what?"
"My father. That man... he knew something."
Adrian turned slowly. "Your father wasn't a saint. You don't want to dig up his secrets."
"Maybe I do. Because right now, the only monster I see clearly... is you."
For a second, his mask slipped. Just a flicker. Pain. Fury. Regret.
Then, it was gone.
He took a step toward her. "Careful, Elena. You're walking on a floor of secrets. And if you keep dancing, you might fall straight into the fire."
"Then burn with me."
A beat.
He exhaled smoke. "Maybe I will."
---
The car ride home was silent. Tense. The space between them thick with questions neither dared to ask.
As they entered the penthouse, Elena stopped at the door.
"Adrian. What exactly is this marriage to you?"
He paused. Then turned slowly.
"A sentence," he said. "One you haven't even begun to serve."
Her breath hitched. "What did I do? Why do you hate me this much?"
He walked to her. Bent close. So close she could feel the pain in his words.
"Because your name is written over every scar I carry. And you don't even remember why."
He walked away, leaving her there.
Heart thundering. Tears caught in her throat.
What did he mean?
What scar?
What memory?
---
Cliffhanger:
That night, Elena couldn't sleep. Not because of the silence.
But because she found an old envelope under her pillow.
With one name scrawled in bleeding ink:
"William Whitmore."
Her father.
And beneath it, a note in Adrian's handwriting:
**"You wanted the truth? Start here."
---
Reader Questions:
1. What secret from Elena's past do you think Adrian is hiding?
2. Is Adrian truly seeking revenge—or is he trying to protect her from something darker?
3. Who is Mr. Villeneuve, and what does he know about Elena's father?