Florence stood in the hallway for what felt like hours though it couldn't have been more than a minute. The cufflink still sat in her palm, heavy as though it contained the weight of every choice she had failed to make. The sheet clung damp against her skin where her grip had tightened, and her breath scraped her throat like dry leaves.
Breakfast is waiting.
The words rolled through her again, softer this time but no less commanding. A summons, not an invitation. And yet her feet carried her forward before her mind decided. Each step echoed faintly against marble, absorbed quickly by velvet carpets and high ceilings that smelled faintly of polished wood and citrus oil.
The house was too grand, too silent. Every detail whispered of control, the symmetry of paintings aligned with architectural precision, the subtle gleam of brass fixtures, the chill orderliness of a man who left no corner untended. It wasn't simply wealth. It was dominion.
Florence trailed her fingers along the banister as she descended. Her reflection glanced back at her from a wide mirror near the stairwell: a girl wrapped in a sheet, hair disheveled, eyes wide and hunted. She hated the sight. Hated the memory of his smirk when she hadn't walked out the door.
She should have left. She should leave now.
And yet, the scent of coffee drifted upward, rich and warm, luring her deeper.
The dining room was a cathedral of glass and light. Sun streamed through tall windows, spilling across a table so long it looked like it belonged in a palace rather than a home. At the far end, Adrian sat already, his black shirt now buttoned, cuffs neat, posture deceptively casual.
His eyes lifted at her entrance.
She froze. For an instant she thought of bolting, but his gaze pinned her in place. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. The faintest tilt of his chin beckoned her forward.
Florence swallowed, tightening the sheet around herself as though it were armor. She wished desperately for clothes, anything to hide in, but her dress from last night was nowhere in sight. A trap, she realized. He wanted her vulnerable. He wanted her to feel the imbalance.
And it was working.
"Come," he said, his voice low, smooth as the coffee scent between them.
She forced her legs to move. The long stretch of polished table between them gleamed like a chessboard waiting for its first piece. When she reached the chair at his right, she hesitated. He gestured again, and she sat, gripping the sheet tight as she sank into the leather.
Silver covers gleamed across the table. At once, a servant appeared, a woman in muted gray, hair pinned back, movements silent as shadow. She set a porcelain cup before Florence and poured. The steam curled upward, fragrant, almost comforting if not for the oppressive quiet.
Adrian watched her take the first sip.
The coffee scalded her tongue, but she swallowed anyway, refusing to wince.
"You didn't leave," Adrian said finally, his tone deceptively mild.
She met his gaze. "Not yet."
The corner of his mouth curved faintly. "Progress."
The word prickled under her skin. "Don't assume anything."
"Assumption?" He tilted his head slightly. "No. I deal in certainty."
Florence shifted, the sheet threatening to slip as she set her cup down. "Then you're mistaken about me."
Adrian leaned back, fingertips resting lightly against the armrest of his chair. He didn't challenge her directly. He didn't have to. The silence he let stretch between them was its own blade.
Her pulse skittered. She had to say something, anything to break the weight pressing in. "You could have woken me to tell me to leave."
"I could have," he agreed. His eyes flicked deliberately to the cufflink still clenched in her fist. "But then you would have left with nothing to remember me by."
The audacity of it made her throat tighten. "I don't want to remember."
"Liar." The word was soft, almost tender.
Florence stiffened. "You don't know me."
"I know enough." He leaned forward now, his forearms braced on the table, his gaze unwavering. "I know betrayal cut you open. I know you were standing at the edge of something last night, grief, rage, despair, doesn't matter and you chose to step toward me instead of falling. That tells me more than your entire past could."
Her breath caught. She hated how easily his words stripped her bare.
"You make it sound like I had no choice."
"Everyone has a choice." His eyes flicked down to the sheet draped across her. "But not everyone is honest enough to live with it."
The servant returned, placing plates before them, eggs, fruit, bread so delicate it flaked beneath the knife. Florence stared down, appetite absent, nerves twisting her stomach.
Adrian ate slowly, deliberately, each movement unhurried. Control in every bite. He was a man accustomed to waiting, to watching others unravel.
Florence forced herself to take a piece of bread. She tore at it more than ate, aware of his gaze flicking to her hands, her mouth, her every hesitation.
Finally, she snapped. "Stop looking at me like that."
His brow arched slightly. "Like what?"
"Like you already own me."
Adrian's knife paused against the plate. He didn't look away. "Do you think ownership requires a contract? A ring? Papers filed in court? No. Ownership is simpler. It's recognition. You recognize me."
Her throat worked. "I recognize a mistake."
His eyes narrowed, not anger, but focus. "And yet you're still here."
Florence slammed her bread back on the plate, hands trembling. "Because you're playing games. Because you keep, keep twisting everything."
Adrian leaned forward again, slow, unrelenting. His voice dropped, intimate, almost gentle. "I'm not twisting anything. I'm showing you what you already know."
The words scraped her raw. She shoved back from the table, the chair skidding across marble with a sharp scrape. "I can't do this."
Adrian didn't rise. He only watched her, gaze heavy as chains. "Then go."
Her breath stuttered.
He gestured faintly toward the archway. "The doors are still open. Walk through them, Florence. Prove me wrong."
Every muscle in her body screamed at her to move, to run, to end this torment before it carved her hollow. The cufflink dug into her palm, biting her skin, an anchor and a brand.
She turned sharply, the sheet swirling around her legs as she fled the dining room. Her bare feet slapped against marble, then softened against carpet, then echoed again against the grand foyer floor.
The massive double doors loomed ahead, sunlight spilling golden through the beveled glass.
Her hand shook as she reached for the iron handle.
Behind her, Adrian's voice carried, calm, certain, echoing across the hall like a vow.
"You'll come back."
Florence wrenched the door open, the sheet slipping dangerously, and stepped into the blinding sunlight.
The world outside roared with color and sound, the shriek of gulls, the hum of engines, the salt sting of sea air she hadn't realized was so close. For one disoriented moment she stood on the steps, heart hammering, not knowing where to run.
And then..
A shadow moved at the edg
e of the drive. A figure. Waiting.
Florence's breath caught in her throat.
Not Adrian. Someone else.
Watching her.