The days that followed should have been ordinary. Elena told herself they would be. She buried herself in the familiar rhythm of her work—cataloguing, writing exhibition notes, guiding private clients through the gallery halls. Routine was her armor, the daily brushstrokes that painted her life into something steady and predictable.
But no matter how much she tried to pretend, Adrian's presence lingered. He was everywhere—on the glossy pages of business magazines, in whispers over coffee from patrons who admired or envied him, in the late-night silence of her bedroom when her thoughts betrayed her. She hated that he had become a shadow stitched into her days, yet a part of her longed for that shadow to stay.
Sophia, of course, noticed.
"You're distracted," her friend said bluntly as they sat in a café one morning, the small table between them littered with half-finished cappuccinos and crumbs of almond biscotti. "Don't deny it, Elena. You've been staring at the same sentence in your notebook for ten minutes."
Elena sighed, closing it with a snap. "I'm fine."
Sophia raised a brow. "Fine is the word people use when they're drowning quietly. Spill it."
Elena hesitated, then muttered, "It's him."
Sophia's eyes lit up. "Adrian Blake?"
Her cheeks warmed. "Keep your voice down."
"Why? Afraid the walls have ears?" Sophia teased. "Come on, Elena, this is huge. I've never seen you like this. You're usually a fortress, but one man with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes walks in, and suddenly you're—"
"I'm not suddenly anything," Elena interrupted, though her tone was weak.
Sophia leaned closer. "You want him."
Elena opened her mouth to argue, but the words refused to form. She wanted to say no, to insist that this wasn't desire, that it was merely fascination. But deep down, she knew Sophia was right.
She wanted Adrian Blake.
And that terrified her
Later that week, Elena was again at the Blake Hotel to finalize the last of the art display. She thought she'd be safe—that she could slip in, complete her work, and vanish without a trace.
But safety, she was learning, didn't exist where Adrian was concerned.
She found him waiting in the lounge, as though he had anticipated her every move. He was seated in one of the leather armchairs, a glass of whiskey in hand, his gaze locked on her the moment she entered.
"Miss Moretti," he said, standing as if she were royalty. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten me."
She adjusted the strap of her bag nervously. "I was working."
"Always working," he murmured, studying her intently. "Tell me, Elena—when was the last time you did something reckless?"
Her heart skipped. "Reckless?"
"Yes." He stepped closer, his presence swallowing the distance. "When was the last time you let go of control and simply… lived?"
She forced a shaky laugh. "I'm not sure that's in my nature."
"Then perhaps it's time you learned." His voice dropped, rich and commanding.
Her breath caught, and she hated that her pulse quickened under his gaze. "Why me, Adrian? Why this… attention?"
"Because you don't ask for it," he said simply. "Everyone else takes what I give them. You resist. And that makes you unforgettable."
The words sliced through her, leaving her defenseless.
She should have walked away, but instead she found herself drawn closer, as if his gravity were stronger than her will.
"Adrian," she whispered, his name feeling strange yet intimate on her tongue.
His hand brushed against hers, the contact electric, fire sparking in the silence. Her heart pounded as he leaned in, his lips dangerously close to hers—
"Elena?"
The voice shattered the moment. One of the hotel staff appeared at the doorway, holding a document. "The final approval for the gallery exhibit, signora."
Elena jerked back, her chest tight, her face flushed. She took the paper quickly, grateful for the interruption yet aching at its cruelty.
Adrian's jaw tightened, his eyes still locked on her. He didn't hide his frustration. But instead of pressing further, he simply said, "This isn't over."
And she knew it wasn't.
That night, Elena lay awake, staring at the ceiling as the city hummed beyond her window. She could still feel the heat of his hand against hers, the weight of his gaze, the words he had left lingering in the air.
Sophia's warning echoed in her mind: You want him.
Yes. She wanted him.
But want was dangerous. Want could destroy her carefully built world.
Yet as the clock struck midnight, she whispered to the darkness what she could never admit to him:
"I'm already yours."