Florence's breath stuttered.
The name slid through her mind like ice: Adrian Cross.
The man in the portrait stared down at her, his painted eyes dark and unyielding, as though he knew she was standing here wrapped in nothing but a sheet, trembling. Last night's heat bled out of her, replaced by a cold that sank to her bones.
Her gaze darted to the cufflink on the nightstand, the weight of it in her memory, his hand brushing hers when he'd passed her the wine. The crest gleamed in her mind's eye: two wolves circling a crown. A mark she'd seen once in a glossy magazine spread about the billionaire no one dared cross.
Her pulse hammered. She'd heard whispers about him, deals built on silence, rivals who vanished, fortunes crushed with the flick of a pen. Men like Adrian didn't pick up broken women off the street. Men like him collected.
She pressed the sheet tighter to her chest, retreating a step from the staircase as though the painted Adrian might climb down from the wall. The house was too quiet, every echo of her bare feet swallowed by velvet and marble.
A floorboard creaked.
Florence froze, heart clawing at her ribs. She turned her head slowly, the way prey senses the predator before seeing it.
"Awake already."
The voice slid through the silence like silk.
He was there, half in shadow, leaning against the carved archway at the end of the hall. Black shirt, open at the throat, sleeves rolled just enough to expose strong forearms. No tie. No smile. His eyes found her instantly, sharp as a blade, and she felt the sheet useless between them.
Her throat worked, but no sound came out.
Adrian pushed off the wall with lazy grace, every step unhurried yet deliberate. His presence seemed to bend the air, pull it toward him.
"You move quietly," he said, gaze flicking to her bare feet. "But not quietly enough."
Florence tightened her hold on the sheet, her pulse a roar in her ears. "I—I was just leaving."
Adrian stopped a few feet away. Close enough that she could see the faint line of stubble on his jaw, smell the clean spice of his cologne. His eyes dropped, slowly, deliberately, to the curve of her collarbone above the sheet.
"You leave now," he murmured, "and what? You go back to your old life? To the man who betrayed you? The friend who gutted you? You think the city has something better waiting for you outside my gates?"
Her breath hitched. "I didn't ask for…"
"No." His voice cut across hers, low, certain. "You didn't ask. But you came. You stayed."
Heat rushed to her cheeks. Shame. Anger. Something darker she couldn't name. "That was a mistake."
Adrian's eyes flickered, unreadable. Then, just for a breath, his mouth curved, not soft but knowing. "There are no mistakes. Only choices you can't take back."
Her grip faltered on the sheet. She hated the way his words burrowed under her skin, hated the way her body remembered the heat of his hands even as her mind screamed to run.
She forced herself to lift her chin. "Then let me go."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, thick as the velvet drapes. Then Adrian stepped closer, so close she felt the heat of his body without his touch. His gaze held hers, steady, unrelenting.
"Florence." The way he said her name, it wasn't a question, it wasn't a command. It was possession.
Her lips parted. The sheet slipped an inch.
His hand lifted, slow, inevitable, until his fingers brushed the edge of fabric at her shoulder. A whisper of contact, but enough to send a shiver down her spine.
"You'll walk out that door if you want." His eyes didn't waver. "But you'll never walk away from me."
Florence's chest rose and fell too fast, shallow breaths scraping her throat. His words pressed against her ribs, against her will, and she hated how they lodged there like truth.
Her grip tightened on the sheet, knuckles white. "You don't own me," she whispered.
Adrian tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle piece he already knew the answer to. "Don't I?"
The air thinned between them. She stepped back, but he followed, measured, unhurried, his shadow stretching across the marble until it swallowed hers.
"You don't know me," she tried again, firmer this time, though her voice betrayed the tremor in her.
His mouth curved faintly. "I know more than you think."
Her stomach clenched. A memory flickered, last night in the car, his voice slipping around her name though she'd never offered it. That detail slammed back into her now with sharp clarity.
"How did you…know my name?."
"Names are easy," he said smoothly, cutting her off as though reading the thought straight out of her skull. "It's what's beneath them that matters."
Florence's pulse stumbled. He was too close now, the heat of him searing, the scent of smoke and spice crowding her senses. She wanted to step back, but there was nowhere left, just the cold marble wall pressing into her spine.
Adrian reached up, fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from her temple. The touch was featherlight, but it anchored her, pinned her like prey in a snare.
"You ran last night," he murmured, eyes searching hers. "But you didn't run far enough. Why?"
The question landed like a blade. Why? Because she'd been drunk? Broken? Because his presence had pulled her like gravity and she hadn't been strong enough to fight it?
She swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Because I was stupid."
Adrian's eyes darkened, his thumb skimming her cheekbone. "No. You were honest."
The simple certainty in his tone stripped her bare. Her throat burned. She wanted to scream, to shove him away, to demand why he cared at all. Instead, her body betrayed her again, the sheet loosening under her trembling hands, sliding just enough for the swell of her shoulder to show.
His gaze lingered there for a beat before lifting back to her face. "Florence," he said, softer now, almost a whisper. "The city chews up honesty. But in here…" his eyes flicked upward, taking in the vast mansion, the chandeliers, the velvet drapes, "…in here, it has a price. One you can't yet imagine."
Her lips parted, but the words tangled. The danger in his voice wasn't bluster. It was a promise.
The silence thickened until her own heartbeat filled her ears. Finally, she found her voice, hoarse but steady. "Then maybe I don't want to stay."
For the first time, something shifted in Adrian's expression, not surprise, not anger, but a flicker of interest sharpened to a blade's edge.
He stepped back. Just one step, but it felt like the air rushed back into her lungs.
"Then prove it," he said.
Her brows knit. "What?"
Adrian's smirk cut like glass. "The door is open. Walk out. Go back to your world." He turned slightly, gesturing toward the heavy double doors at the far end of the hall. "If that's truly what you want."
Her heart slammed. The doors loomed, their iron handles gleaming under the chandelier. Freedom, or something like it. All she had to do was walk.
Her feet itched to move. But her body stayed rooted, heavy, as though invisible chains anchored her to the marble beneath his gaze.
Adrian watched her, silent, patient. The predator waiting to see if the rabbit would bolt.
Florence's throat worked. Her pulse hammered so loudly she swore he could hear it.
One step. That was all it would take. One step toward the door, away from this fire, away from him.
But her legs betrayed her.
She didn't move.
Adrian's smirk deepened, slow and satisfied. "Exactly."
The word sliced her. Shame flared hot, but underneath it, beneath the trembling, beneath the panic, was something darker. Something that thrilled her, that she hated herself for recognizing.
Adrian reached past her, brushing the sheet deliberately as he lifted the cufflink from the table behind her. He held it up between them, the crest glinting.
"You keep this," he murmured, slipping it into her palm and curling her fingers around it. His hand lingered, warm, firm. "So you remember the choice you didn't make."
Florence stared at him, breath shallow, the metal searing into her skin like a brand.
"Now," Adrian said, stepping back at last, his eyes never leaving hers, "get dre
ssed. Breakfast is waiting."
And then he turned, walking away with the quiet confidence of a man who never doubted she'd follow.