Chapter Twenty-Seven: A New Rhythm
The peace held, fragile but sweet. I sat curled on the window seat in our room, the morning sun painting everything in honey-gold. The dramatic storm of tears had passed, leaving me in a state of pouty, sniffly calm. I watched Adrian move around the room, selecting a tie for his first official day at his father's office—or rather, the government ministry William oversaw.
He was a vision. The severe cut of the charcoal suit, the crisp white shirt, the way his broad shoulders filled the jacket perfectly. He looked older, sharper, like a prince being fitted for his crown. My heart gave a familiar, foolish squeeze.
He caught me watching in the reflection of the mirror and turned, holding up two ties. "Silver or navy?"
I pointed a toe towards the navy one, sniffling delicately for effect. He smirked, but his eyes were soft.
"Still mad at your old man?" he asked, looping the tie around his neck.
"I'm cooled down," I announced, with great dignity. I drew my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. "But I wasn't being difficult just to be difficult, you know."
"Oh, I know." His voice was dry as he focused on his Windsor knot. "You're never just anything."
I ignored the jab. "It's culture," I explained, as if presenting a learned thesis. "After marriage, a daughter visits her mother's house. It's… what you do. It shows respect. That you haven't forgotten where you came from." I let my gaze drift out the window, my voice taking on a wistful, reasonable tone. "I can't very well call my mother and say, 'Sorry, Mom, can't come. Can't live without my husband for a few hours.' She would think I've lost all my sense. It would look… shameless, na?"
I punctuated the last word with a perfect, plaintive pout, looking back at him.
He finished his knot and turned fully to face me, leaning against the dresser. He'd heard every word, understood the cultural weight I was invoking, and saw right through the adorable pout to the stubborn core beneath. Amusement warred with lingering concern in his eyes.
"Shameless," he repeated, a slow smile spreading. "Yes, we can't have that. The scandal of a devoted daughter would be too much for the Maddens to bear." He pushed off the dresser and came to kneel before me on the window seat. His hands settled on my bare feet, his thumbs stroking my arches. "So you're not going because you want to defy me or buy silly shoes. You're going to perform a sacred cultural duty."
"Exactly," I said, my nose in the air. Then I peeked at him. "The shoes are just a bonus."
He laughed, shaking his head. He leaned forward and kissed my pout away, his lips warm and firm. "Go. See your mother. Be a good daughter. But," he added, his tone leaving no room for argument, "you will have two cars. Marcus will be your primary shadow. You check in. And you are home by five. Understood, Mrs. Madden?"
It was an order, but it was wrapped in the velvet of his kiss. I nodded, my pout finally dissolving into a real smile. "Understood."
---
Later, as I got ready in the spacious, marble bathroom, I chose my armor with care. Not the fierce, interview-ready armor of my first meeting with Adrian, but something softer. A simple, flowy gown in a pale dove grey that whispered when I moved. Over it, I pulled on the soft, cashmere cardigan Maria had given me—a delicate cream color, like warmed milk. It felt like a hug, an acceptance. My makeup was subtle, just enough to highlight my eyes and give my lips a soft blush. I left my hair down, letting it fall in the natural waves Adrian loved to twist around his fingers.
When I walked back into the bedroom, Adrian was putting his wallet into his inner suit pocket. He looked up.
And stopped.
All movement ceased. The air seemed to thicken, to pull taut between us. His gaze traveled over me, from the top of my head down to my bare toes and back up again. It wasn't the assessing look of a politician's son, or the heated gaze of a lover in the dark. This was something new, something raw and utterly captivated.
He looked… ravished. And he hadn't even touched me.
For a long moment, he just stared, his eyes darkening to the colour of a storm-ridden sea. His jaw tightened, and I saw his throat work as he swallowed.
"You…" he began, his voice a rough scrape. He cleared his throat. "You look…"
"Appropriate for a daughter's visit?" I supplied, twisting slightly, making the skirt of the gown flare.
A low sound, almost a growl, rumbled in his chest. "You look like a dream I'd kill to keep." He took a step toward me, then stopped, as if physically restraining himself. "That's what you're wearing? Out there? Where other people can see you?"
I fought a smile. "It's just a dress and a cardigan, Adrian. Your mother gave me the cardigan."
"I know what she gave you," he said, his eyes fixed on the way the cashmere draped over my shoulders. "I didn't know it would look like that on you." He took another step, close enough that I could smell the clean, sharp scent of his cologne and the starch of his shirt. "You look innocent. And expensive. And so fucking beautiful it makes my chest hurt."
His hand lifted, not to pull me to him, but to gently, almost reverently, trace the line of the cardigan's collar where it lay against my throat. His touch was electric. "I have to go. My first day. Father is expecting me."
"I know," I whispered, my breath catching.
"But all I can think about," he continued, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, his gaze dropping to my lips, "is calling in sick. Locking that door. And spending the day finding out how many ways I can make you cry out while still wearing this cardigan."
A shiver, hot and liquid, raced down my spine. My knees felt weak. "You'll be late."
"I don't care." But he did. The conflict was plain on his face—the pull of duty, of the legacy awaiting him, versus the visceral, overwhelming pull of the wife standing before him, looking like a softly wrapped gift meant only for him.
With a visible, Herculean effort, he dropped his hand and took a step back. He adjusted his already-perfect cuffs, a nervous, habitual gesture. "Five o'clock," he said, his voice tight with restraint. "Not a minute later. Or I will send out a search party. And I will be… displeased."
It was a threat that promised delicious retribution. I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He gave me one last, long, consuming look—a look that felt like a brand, a promise of what awaited when the day's duties were done. Then, with the discipline he'd been born and bred for, he turned and walked out of the bedroom.
I listened to his footsteps fade down the hall, the front door opening and closing. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding and touched the spot on my throat where his fingers had been. The room felt emptier, colder, without his electric presence.
But as I looked at my reflection, at the woman in the soft gown and borrowed cardigan, I didn't see a girl playing house. I saw a wife. One who could bring a powerful man to a standstill with a look. One who understood the weight of his name but carried a weight of her own. One who had a cultural duty to fulfill, and a husband who, despite his growling protests and simmering possessiveness, had let her go to fulfill it.
A slow, private smile touched my lips. He thought he was the lord granting permission. But in that moment, with the memory of his hungry, helpless stare etched into my skin, I felt like the one who held all the power. And I couldn't wait to come home and prove it to him.