The rain had started sometime after midnight, soft at first, then steady, drumming against the tall windows of the Blake estate like a whispered warning. Ayla sat on the cushioned bench in her room, knees drawn close, watching droplets race each other down the glass. Sleep wouldn't come. Not tonight.
Every sound in the house—the hum of the air vents, the distant creak of a hallway floorboard—set her nerves on edge. And her thoughts, as always, circled back to Adrian.
For all his control and sharp edges, there were moments—fleeting, almost accidental—when she felt something different in him. Something vulnerable. But it was always gone as quickly as it appeared, shuttered behind the cold steel of his gaze.
She told herself it didn't matter. This was a deal. A marriage of necessity, not emotion. And yet, every time he stood close enough for her to feel the heat of his presence, every time his voice dropped just slightly softer when he said her name… she felt the walls she had built start to crack.
---
A knock at her door broke through her thoughts. Three soft raps. Measured. Deliberate.
She hesitated, heart skipping. "Who is it?"
"It's me," came Adrian's voice, low and even.
For a moment, she considered not answering. Pretending to be asleep. But something in his tone—something that sounded almost… human—made her rise and cross the room. She opened the door slowly.
Adrian stood there, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled, his usual armor of perfection softened by the late hour. His gaze flicked briefly over her, lingering just long enough to make her pulse race.
"I need to speak with you," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "May I come in?"
She stepped aside, allowing him in. The room suddenly felt smaller with him inside, the air heavier, charged.
---
He didn't sit. Instead, he moved toward the window, hands in his pockets, staring at the rain. "Tonight's dinner… you heard something you shouldn't have, didn't you?"
Her stomach tightened. "I don't know what you mean."
His eyes cut to hers, sharp, unyielding. "Don't lie to me, Ayla. I can see it in your face. Someone spoke to you. Or you overheard something."
She swallowed. For a heartbeat, she thought about telling him everything—the voices she heard, the warning messages. But then she remembered the text: Trust no one. Not even him.
Instead, she said carefully, "All I heard was enough to know that your world is more dangerous than you let on."
He studied her for a long, heavy moment. "My world has always been dangerous. That's why I told you to stay out of it."
"And yet," she countered, her voice steadier now, "you dragged me right into the middle of it."
For the first time, something flickered in his expression—not anger, not coldness, but something closer to guilt. He stepped closer, closing the space between them until she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.
"You think I wanted this for you?" His voice was low, intense. "You think I enjoy putting you in the line of fire? You're here because I didn't have a choice. And now…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening.
She should have stepped back. Should have kept her distance. But instead, she found herself whispering, "And now what, Adrian?"
---
His hand lifted, almost hesitantly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered, just for a breath, against her skin. The contact sent a spark down her spine, her breath catching despite herself.
"Ayla," he said softly, almost like a confession, "you make this harder than it should be."
Her chest tightened. "And you make it impossible to know if I can trust you."
For a moment, neither of them moved. The rain outside, the soft hum of the estate—all of it faded until there was only the charged silence between them. His eyes searched hers, dark and unreadable, yet burning with something unspoken.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned closer. Not quite a kiss, not yet, but close enough that she could feel his breath warm against her lips. "Maybe," he murmured, "trust isn't what we need right now."
Her heart hammered so loudly she thought he could hear it. She should push him away. She knew it. And yet, she didn't.
---
The moment broke when her phone, sitting on the nightstand, buzzed sharply. The sound made both of them freeze.
Ayla stepped back, grabbing the phone. Another message, from the same unknown number:
"He's lying to you. And tomorrow night, he'll prove it."
Her fingers trembled as she read the words. When she looked up, Adrian was watching her, his expression unreadable once again, the moment they shared retreating behind his familiar walls.
"Who keeps texting you?" he asked, his tone cool, but there was a glint of something—possessiveness, maybe even jealousy—in his eyes.
She hesitated, slipping the phone into her pocket. "No one important."
Adrian's jaw tightened, but he didn't press. Instead, he turned toward the door, his voice flat once more. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow… everything changes."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Ayla standing in the quiet room, her pulse still racing—not just from the warning, but from the way his nearness had set her nerves alight.