SOFIA
The morning light cuts through the blinds with surgical precision, illuminating the growing fatigue etched into my face. Another sleepless night, another round of headlines about Adrian Vale and his so-called "mystery wife." My phone vibrates incessantly on the nightstand, notifications blinking like tiny alarms of impending chaos.
I sit up, clutching the blanket for a moment longer, unwilling to face the day—or him—until I've steeled myself. But it's inevitable. Every meeting, every call, every public appearance reminds me that Adrian Vale exists, and in the fragile ecosystem of our contract, I am as visible to him as I am to the world.
I dress carefully, deliberately. Dark trousers, cream blouse, blazer. Nothing daring. Nothing attention-grabbing. Just me… the "safe" me, the one he cannot touch. At least, that's what I tell myself.
The ride to Vale Enterprises is quiet, punctuated only by the hum of the engine. I stare out the window, counting the buildings as if keeping track will somehow prepare me for what's coming. But nothing can.
---
When I arrive, the receptionist greets me with a polite nod, and the elevator hums upward like a pulse counting down to confrontation. The doors open, and there he is—Adrian Vale—leaning casually against the window, the city sprawled behind him, his presence as imposing as ever.
"Ms. Richards," he says, voice low, neutral, yet with an undercurrent I can't place. "You're early."
"Yes," I reply, masking my nerves with a straight spine and measured voice. "I like to be prepared."
He studies me for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he gestures toward the desk. "Sit. We need to talk."
I obey, heart tight in my chest.
---
The first part of the conversation is routine—project updates, charity logistics, and press releases. Everything is measured, safe, professional. And yet, the tension between us hums beneath the surface, quiet but insistent.
Then he leans back, fingertips steepled, eyes narrowing slightly. "You know," he begins, voice softer than usual, "this charade we're maintaining… it's… complicated. Even for me."
My head snaps up. Adrian Vale, cold, controlled, untouchable Adrian Vale, admitting complication? I swallow hard.
"I don't understand," I say carefully. "Complicated how?"
He exhales slowly, a sound that seems to carry more than just air. "Emotions. Boundaries. Appearances. The press. People… they see everything. And yet they see nothing."
I realize then that he's talking about more than the charity or the contract. He's talking about us. And for the first time, I see a crack in his armor—a glimpse of the man behind the billionaire façade.
"I… I don't know what you want me to say," I whisper.
He doesn't answer immediately. He simply studies me, eyes dark and unreadable. Then, almost imperceptibly, his jaw tightens. "I don't like it," he mutters finally. "Not this… not this feeling I can't control when you're near."
My chest tightens. The words are a confession. A warning. A declaration wrapped in frustration.
"I…" I begin, then stop. I don't know what to say. How do you respond to a man who never reveals his vulnerabilities, who never allows anyone inside his carefully curated world?
---
Later that day, a colleague approaches me about an upcoming meeting. As we talk, I notice Adrian across the room, speaking with a visiting investor. His attention isn't on the business entirely—he glances at me occasionally, subtle but undeniable. I feel a twist in my stomach, a mixture of pride, irritation, and something else I refuse to name.
Then I see her—Bianca.
She's across the room, laughter spilling like liquid gold, the kind that seems designed to enchant. She looks at Adrian, and my chest tightens. Not jealousy at her presence, exactly, but at the ease with which she seems to exist in his orbit. He notices me noticing her, I realize, because his eyes flick briefly toward mine—sharp, assessing, protective.
And I understand then that the feelings I've been trying to suppress are no longer under my control.
---
That evening, Adrian insists on driving me home again. The streets are quiet, the city lights reflecting off the wet pavement. In the car, the air is thick with unspoken words.
"You noticed her," he says finally, voice calm, almost gentle.
"I did," I admit, though my stomach knots. "Does it matter?"
"It matters," he replies. "Because I don't want you feeling… unsettled. But I also don't like the idea of feeling… unsettled myself. Seeing you…" He stops, frustration flickering in his eyes. "I don't like how much I care about you."
I stare at him, shocked. Adrian Vale, the untouchable, icy man I've been trying to resist, is confessing… feelings? Concern? Something dangerously close to attachment?
"I… I don't know what to say," I whisper.
"Then say nothing," he replies. "Just… know."
---
The next few days are a whirlwind. Press speculation escalates. Headlines question the legitimacy of our contract, the chemistry between us, and even hint at jealousy and tension. I try to maintain composure, but every glance Adrian casts my way, every subtle touch, feels amplified under the scrutiny of the public eye.
At a meeting with a high-profile philanthropist, I notice Adrian's hand brush mine ever so slightly as he passes a stack of papers. The contact is brief, almost accidental—but the electricity that shoots through me is undeniable. I catch his gaze, and for a moment, the world narrows to just us, just the current between us that refuses to be ignored.
Later, I sit alone in the office, replaying the events of the week. Every glance, every touch, every word seems loaded with meaning I can't fully decipher. And I realize—fear, desire, and curiosity have tangled together in a knot I can't unravel.
---
Adrian arrives unexpectedly that evening, leaning casually against the doorframe. The apartment feels impossibly small, charged with tension.
"You're thinking too much," he observes, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
"I'm trying not to," I reply, though I know it's a lie.
He moves closer, the proximity dizzying. "You think too much about appearances, about rules, about what you should or shouldn't feel. You think too much about me."
I falter, the words catching in my throat. "And what should I think?" I ask softly, barely audible.
His lips curve slightly, almost a smile. "I don't know. Just… feel. That's all I can ask."
The admission is simple, yet it carries a weight I cannot ignore. He is not commanding, not calculating. He is… revealing. Vulnerable in a way he has never been before.
I step back, unsure, torn between desire and the boundaries we have set. And yet, every instinct screams to close the distance, to allow the tension to finally ignite.
But I don't. I can't. Not yet.
---
The next day, the press intensifies. Articles speculate about Adrian's personal life, our chemistry, and even hint at Bianca's potential interference. I read them with a mix of dread and fascination. Each word, each image, each insinuation feels like a challenge—not just to the contract, but to the fragile tension between Adrian and me.
By evening, he calls, requesting a private dinner. My heart races at the thought, equal parts excitement and dread.
At the restaurant, he is composed, charming, and impossibly close. The conversation is intimate yet careful. Subtle touches, lingering glances, and brief moments where the world outside ceases to exist make it impossible to ignore the pull between us.
And then, a moment. Our hands brush accidentally over the table. I freeze. He doesn't pull away, instead letting the contact linger, just long enough for my pulse to betray me.
"I told you," he murmurs, eyes dark and unreadable, "feel more, analyze less."
I nod, aware that every rule, every boundary, every line in the contract has been blurred, and that the slow burn between us is no longer containable.
Because for all our logic, all our agreements, and all our appearances, one thing is undeniable: Adrian Vale and I are already in too deep.
And neither of us can stop the pull, the tension, or the desire building in the shadows.