Dr. Hayes arrived at exactly three o'clock, his medical bag pristine as always, his smile professionally kind. He sat across from me in the sunroom, his familiar presence somehow making everything worse.
"How are you sleeping, Calla?" His pen hovered over a leather-bound notebook, ready to document my descent into whatever Adrian wanted him to find.
"Fine," I lied, not mentioning the nightmares, the way I jolted awake expecting to find Alaric beside me only to see empty sheets that smelled of Adrian's cologne.
"Any episodes of dizziness? Nausea? Confusion?"
I hesitated. Yesterday's fainting spell had been real, but was it stress, grief, or something else entirely? "Sometimes I feel… disconnected. Like I'm watching someone else's life."
Dr. Hayes nodded sagely, making notes. "Perfectly normal for someone adjusting to such significant life changes. Your mind is protecting itself."
"By making me feel like a stranger in my own body?"
"The mind has curious ways of coping." He closed the notebook and reached into his bag. "I'm going to prescribe something mild to help with sleep and anxiety. Just temporary, until you're more settled."
The pills rattled in their amber bottle like tiny promises of oblivion. "What are they?"
"A light anxiolytic. Very safe, very effective. Take one before bed, one in the morning if you feel overwhelmed." His smile was paternal, reassuring. "Mr. Thorne mentioned you've been having trouble with nightmares."
Of course Adrian had mentioned the nightmares. Probably described them in detail, my restless murmuring, the way I sometimes called Alaric's name in my sleep.
After Dr. Hayes left, I sat staring at the pill bottle. The label was neatly typed: *Calla Thorne - For anxiety and sleep disturbances. Take as directed.*
Calla Thorne. Not Calla West anymore. That woman was disappearing piece by piece, being replaced by someone more suitable, more compliant, more manageable.
I set the bottle aside and went to find Adrian.
He was in his study, surrounded by mahogany and leather and the scent of expensive whiskey. His desk was precisely organized—every pen in its holder, every paper squared and neat. Control made manifest in wood and brass.
"Feeling better after your appointment?" He looked up from his laptop, silver eyes assessing. He'd loosened his tie, opened the top button of his shirt, and the casual intimacy of seeing him slightly undone sent an unwelcome flutter through my stomach.
"Dr. Hayes gave me pills." I held up the bottle. "For anxiety."
"Excellent. I was concerned about your stress levels." Adrian stood and moved toward me, his approach measured and predatory. "You've seemed so tense lately."
He was close enough now that I could smell his cologne, see the fine lines around his eyes. Close enough that when he reached out to touch my face, I had to force myself not to lean into the contact.
"You don't need to take care of me," I said, though my voice lacked conviction.
"Don't I?" His thumb traced my cheekbone with maddening gentleness. "You're my wife, Calla. Taking care of you is my privilege."
The word *privilege* made something dark twist in my chest. His touch was warm, skilled, sending sparks along nerve endings that had been dormant since Alaric's death. I should have stepped away, but my body seemed to have forgotten how to obey my rational mind.
"I miss him," I whispered, the confession torn from somewhere deep and wounded.
Adrian's hand stilled against my face. "I know."
"Do you? Miss him, I mean."
Something flickered in his expression—too quick to identify. "Every day."
But there was something wrong with the way he said it, something that didn't quite ring true. It sounded like lines from a play, words chosen for their effect rather than their honesty.
"Tell me about the accident," I said suddenly. "You never talk about it. What happened that night?"
Adrian's hand fell away from my face, and he stepped back, creating distance that felt deliberate. "You know what happened. The police report was thorough."
"I know the facts. Rain, curved road, tree. But you were his twin. You must have felt something when he—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
"I felt like half of me had been ripped away." The words came out flat, emotionless. "I felt like I'd lost everything that mattered."
It should have been touching, this glimpse of his grief. Instead, it felt rehearsed, like he'd practiced this conversation in mirrors until he could deliver it convincingly.
"Why did you want to marry me?" The question escaped before I could stop it. "Really. Not the official reasons about contracts or taking care of Alaric's responsibilities. Why me?"
Adrian moved back to his desk, his movements controlled and precise. When he turned to face me again, his expression was unreadable. "Because you were his."
The honesty of it hit me like a physical blow. Not because he loved me, not because he saw something special in me as an individual, but because I was a possession that had belonged to his brother.
"That's not love," I said quietly.
"Isn't it?" He tilted his head, studying me like a puzzle to be solved. "I love everything about you that he loved. Your laugh, your stubborn independence, the way you bite your lip when you're thinking. I love your grief, your loyalty, your desperate need to be worthy of someone's devotion."
Each word was a scalpel, cutting too close to truths I didn't want to examine. Because there was something seductive about his attention, about being the focus of such intense, unwavering interest. After months of feeling like a ghost, Adrian saw me. Wanted me. Claimed me.
It was wrong, but it wasn't entirely unwelcome.
"You're not him," I said, though the protest felt weaker than it should have.
"No." Adrian's smile had sharp edges. "I'm not gentle like Alaric was. I don't believe in letting the people I love make their own mistakes. I'm not content to worship from a distance or pretend that devotion doesn't require possession."
He moved toward me again, and this time I didn't step away. Couldn't, perhaps. His presence had a gravity that pulled at something deep in my chest, something that had been starving for attention.
"I'm not a good man, Calla," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that raised goosebumps along my arms. "But I'm the man who's here. I'm the one who watches you sleep, who notices when you're not eating, who knows exactly how you take your coffee."
His hands found my waist, pulling me closer until there was barely space between us. "I'm the one who wants you so desperately it feels like drowning."
The confession sent fire through my veins, awakening parts of me that had been dormant since Alaric's death. I could feel the heat of Adrian's body, could see the way his pupils dilated as he looked at me. When his hands slid up to cup my face, I didn't pull away.
"This is wrong," I breathed.
"Is it?" His thumb traced my lower lip, and I couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped. "You're my wife. I'm your husband. What's wrong about wanting you?"
Everything, I thought. The manipulation, the control, the way he'd isolated me from everyone I cared about. The cameras, the locked doors, the pills that were supposed to make me more manageable.
But when he leaned down and brushed his lips against mine, soft as a whisper, all of those rational thoughts scattered like smoke.
The kiss was nothing like their wedding—no claiming, no possession, just a gentle exploration that made my knees weak. When I responded, pressing closer despite every instinct that screamed warnings, his control seemed to fracture slightly. His hands tangled in my hair, his mouth becoming more demanding, and suddenly I was kissing him back with a hunger that terrified me.
This wasn't love. This wasn't even a healthy attraction. This was something darker, more complicated—a twisted grief response, the desperate need to feel something besides the endless ache of loss.
But knowledge didn't make it less powerful.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Adrian's eyes held a triumph that made my stomach clench with dread.
"Take the pills," he said softly, his forehead resting against mine. "They'll help with the nightmares."
I nodded, too shaken to argue, too confused by my own responses to trust my judgment. As I left his study, a pill bottle clutched in my trembling hand, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror.
The woman staring back at me had swollen lips and dilated pupils, looking like someone who'd been thoroughly kissed and wanted more. She looked like someone falling under a spell, losing herself piece by piece to something that wore the face of love but tasted like poison.
That night, I took one of Dr. Hayes's pills and fell into dreamless sleep for the first time in months.
When I woke, I couldn't remember if the contentment I felt was real or chemically induced.
And I wasn't sure I cared.