The next morning, Clara arrived at Adrian's penthouse with her usual notebook, her hair pulled neatly into a bun. On the outside, she looked calm, professional, unshaken. Inside, however, her heart still echoed with last night's argument the sting of his words, the sharpness of her own reply.
She had barely slept.
When she stepped into the living room, Adrian was already there, sitting on the edge of the sofa with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. He didn't look up. Didn't say a word.
"Good morning," Clara said evenly, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
A curt nod was his only response.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. She scribbled notes, updated his calendar, answered two phone calls on his behalf. He didn't acknowledge her. Not once.
By midmorning, they were riding in the backseat of his black SUV, on their way to a recording session. The city rushed past outside, but the real storm was inside the car. Normally, Adrian filled the silence with sarcasm or demands; today, he stared out the window, jaw tight, fingers drumming against his thigh.
Clara's patience thinned. "If you're going to punish me with silence, you might as well say it out loud."
His gaze shifted to her, cool and sharp. "I don't need to punish you. You already did enough damage."
Her chest tightened. "I was doing my job."
"No," he said, his tone like ice. "Your job is to follow instructions. Not to speak for me. Not to make me look weak in front of the press."
Clara's lips pressed into a line. Every word felt like a push, forcing her further away from him. She wanted to scream that she had only wanted to protect him, that she had seen the human behind the mask he wore. But she bit it back.
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
At the studio, Adrian buried himself in work. He sang take after take with mechanical precision, his voice flawless, his expression unreadable. Clara sat behind the glass, watching. She had always admired his talent how easily he commanded a room, how his voice carried emotion even when he refused to show it himself.
But today, every note sounded hollow. Empty.
During the break, a producer tried to joke with him, but Adrian barely responded. When Clara handed him water, his fingers brushed hers by accident. She pulled back quickly, the sting of his earlier words still raw.
Hours later, as they left the studio, the city's night lights shimmered across the skyline. Clara walked a few paces behind him, her bag slung over her shoulder. She had decided tomorrow, she would keep her distance. She would do the bare minimum, stay invisible, and remind herself that this was just a job.
But then, in the lobby of the building, a group of paparazzi appeared out of nowhere. Cameras flashed, voices shouted Adrian's name, questions fired like bullets.
"Adrian, is it true you called your collaborator untalented?"
"Who was that woman whispering to you during the press conference?"
"Are you hiding a relationship?"
Clara froze. She knew the story had already broken online. She knew those pictures of her leaning in close to him would be everywhere.
Adrian didn't miss a beat. He put on his celebrity mask, flashing a practiced smirk. But when one reporter shoved too close, nearly knocking Clara off balance, his arm shot out instinctively, steadying her.
For a fraction of a second, their eyes met. There was no arrogance in his gaze this time only something softer, almost protective.
Then it was gone. He released her hand, barked at the driver to pull the car around, and walked ahead without waiting for her.
Clara exhaled shakily, her pulse racing.
In that fleeting moment, she had glimpsed the truth Adrian tried so hard to bury: beneath the cold pride and sharp words, there was a man who cared. A man who feared being seen.
And despite everything, her heart betrayed her with a dangerous thought maybe he wasn't as untouchable as he wanted the world to believe.