The moment Emily opened her eyes again, the clarity hit like a punch to the chest.
Everything from the night before came crashing back in vivid, unforgiving detail, like a film reel spinning too fast to process. The sting of betrayal, the sickening weight of vulnerability, the heavy fog of alcohol clouding her judgment, the danger she'd blindly stumbled into, and finally… Adrian.
Her body tensed beneath the soft weight of the blanket, heart thudding like a drumbeat in her ears. The sunlight filtered in through gauzy curtains, illuminating the unfamiliar room in a hazy golden glow that did nothing to comfort her.
She remembered the men, the ones who had circled her like wolves. The mocking words, the way her vision blurred and her limbs wouldn't obey. The nauseating fear twisting in her stomach. And then Adrian's voice; cold, steady, terrifyingly calm. A blade in the dark. How they froze. How they backed away as if something primal in them recognized him for what he was. Or maybe what he wasn't.
She remembered how he had taken her hand without hesitation. His grip firm, commanding had silenced the chaos inside her more effectively than words could. No questions. No reassurances. Just action.
And then… the house. The tea. Her unraveling. Her voice had been loud, messy, too honest. The shower. The way her clothes had felt like too much, too heavy, too tight on her burning skin. The way he'd stood at the doorway and watched her fall apart without judgment, but also without comfort.
Her hand flew to her mouth as she sat up with a jolt, eyes wide in horror. Oh my God.
A silent scream clawed at her throat. She pressed both hands to her face, curling forward into herself, trying to disappear into the mattress, into the folds of the blanket, into the void that had swallowed last night.
"I called him an ass," she whispered into her palms. "I ranted. I cried. I got naked. I yelled about feelings. I passed out in his bed."
A fresh wave of heat flooded her cheeks, this time from sheer mortification. Her stomach churned.
How had she let that happen? How had she let herself unravel like that in front of him?
He was unreadable, calculated, barely human in his control. And she'd bared herself; physically, emotionally, messily before that cold exterior. A hurricane crashing into a glacier.
"I have to leave," she muttered, throwing back the covers. "I have to leave. Now."
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood too quickly, her knees buckling for a second beneath her. She caught herself against the edge of the nightstand, breathing hard.
Her heart was still racing.
The oversized shirt she wore fell around her thighs, the fabric soft and clean, smelling faintly of cedar and something darker, something that might have been his cologne or just the essence of him. She yanked it off with trembling hands the moment her eyes landed on her neatly folded clothes on a nearby chair.
He had folded them.
The thought sent another bolt of panic through her.
Did he see me like that? Did he put me in bed? Did he see me fall apart?
She shook the thoughts away. She couldn't afford to spiral again.
One sock. Her shirt. Her jeans. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She dressed in silence, barely noticing the soft sounds of the house around her, the ticking of an antique clock, the distant creak of the wind pushing gently against the windowpanes, the hush of silence that wasn't quite empty.
Every step she took toward the hallway felt like trespassing.
She crept out like a thief in someone else's life. Like she'd stolen comfort she didn't deserve.
The hallway stretched long before her. The floor didn't creak. The rugs muffled every sound. The walls, paneled in rich, dark wood, stood tall and elegant, adorned with paintings that stared at her like silent witnesses.
Everything was still. Too still.
It was the kind of stillness that didn't come from peace; but from control.
She didn't know what scared her more: that he hadn't followed her… or that he didn't need to.
And then, she saw him.
Adrian was seated in the dining room, at the far end of a long-polished oak table bathed in the golden glow of morning. An arched window stretched behind him, framing the garden like a painting. The world outside was still, dew sparkling on leaves. Inside, he looked every bit as timeless.
A porcelain cup rested between his fingers, steam curling into the air as he sipped his tea and flipped through a folded newspaper. His back was straight, posture exact, movements precise. He looked composed. Calm. Impossibly detached.
As if nothing had happened at all.
Emily froze in the doorway, stunned. The surrealness of it all struck her like cold water.
He was reading the news?
She hovered, unsure, the silence between them stretching like a held breath. Her lips parted to speak; an apology, a question, anything but the words tangled somewhere in the knot forming at the back of her throat.
Adrian looked up then, as if sensing her before truly seeing her. His gaze swept over her once, cool but not unkind. He closed the paper with quiet finality and set it aside.
"Good morning," he said.
His tone was even. Neutral.
She blinked. "W–What?"
He gestured calmly to the table. "Sit. You should eat."
Her eyes flicked down to the spread before her. A full breakfast had been laid out with meticulous care, scrambled eggs softly folded, toast golden and crisp, grilled tomatoes glistening, roasted mushrooms seasoned and warm, a small bowl of vibrant fruit arranged like a still-life painting.
The smell made her stomach clench with sudden hunger. But more than that, it was the normalcy of it that nearly undid her.
Still stunned, she moved forward and sank into the chair across from him, unsure if her legs would hold her much longer. The seat was cushioned, comfortable, too soft for the storm still brewing inside her.
He poured her tea without asking. The gentle clink of ceramic against ceramic echoed in the silence.
"You didn't have much of a filter last night," he said at last, voice unreadable as ever.
Her eyes widened, heat rising in her cheeks again. "Oh god. I said things, didn't I?"
He nodded, still calm. "You said many things."
She groaned, burying her face in her hands, fingers pressed against burning skin. "I'm never drinking again. Ever."
He handed her a fork, like a doctor calmly prescribing a remedy. "Eat."
She hesitated, then took it with trembling fingers. The first bite; warm, buttery eggs made her eyes sting unexpectedly. It was too gentle. Too kind. Too normal.
Each bite grounded her, brought her a little closer to the surface of herself. Like resurfacing from deep water.
He ate in silence, eyes occasionally drifting to the newspaper. Yet she knew he wasn't reading anymore.
After a few moments, she set her fork down and looked at him. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I… don't know what to say."
He met her gaze without flinching. "Then don't say anything."
There was no edge to it. No coldness. Just a quiet understanding that words weren't always necessary.
She studied him, his sharp profile, the perfect lines of his suit, the faint shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there before. Had he slept at all?
But there was no telling. His face remained unreadable, as always. A fortress with no windows.
"I'm sorry for… everything," she managed.
He gave the smallest of nods. "Apology noted."
She stood slowly, carefully, as if afraid the spell of stillness might break if she moved too fast. Her voice was softer now. "Thank you, Dr. Blackwood. For last night. For… helping me."
Adrian didn't flinch. "You were unsafe. I acted accordingly."
So clinical. So sterile. Her chest ached.
But somehow… she understood. This was how he protected himself. This was how he made sure nothing ever got too close.
Still, her throat tightened. "I'll go now."
He gave another quiet nod. "You know the way."
Emily turned, her heart heavy and strangely full. As she walked through the foyer and opened the front door, the sunlight washed over her like absolution.
She stepped out into the morning, the sky painfully blue above her. Birds sang in the trees. The world had continued turning.
But nothing felt the same.
Her legs trembled as she walked down the stone path. Not just from weakness, but from everything she almost said.
From everything she wished he had.
...
Adrian sat perfectly still long after she had gone, his eyes fixed on the empty chair across the table, the one that still held the faintest impression of her presence.
The clock on the mantel ticked softly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat in an otherwise lifeless room.
He didn't move.
Not even to breathe.
In his hand, the porcelain teacup trembled... just slightly… so subtly it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But Adrian noticed. He always noticed.
He stared at it, the tremor of his fingers betraying what the rest of him refused to show. He hated it. The weakness. The humanity of it.
"She was never supposed to matter," he said aloud, though his voice barely carried through the stillness. It was quieter than breath, more thought than sound, like something wrung from deep within and barely allowed to exist.
"She was supposed to pass through my life. Nothing more."
Transient. Like the others. A flicker of light, a distraction, a fragile thing destined to shatter under the weight of his world.
He stood, slowly, like something old and tired waking from centuries of sleep. His joints didn't creak, but the silence did. The room shifted with him, shadows stretching as if reluctant to let him move.
He crossed to the window and parted the curtain with one hand.
Outside, the street was quiet. Sunlight glinted off passing cars. A few pedestrians walked by, unaware of the eyes watching from above. She was gone now, already swallowed by the city, by its noise and normalcy.
Still, he looked.
Not because he expected to see her.
But because a part of him wished he could.
His expression remained unreadable, sculpted in marble. But his shoulders had drawn tight, tension coiled beneath the skin like wire. His fingers, now clenched at his sides, betrayed the control he was so careful to wield.
"I don't bring people into my world," he whispered, the admission heavier than iron.
It wasn't a rule. It was a law. One written in blood and silence, in choices made long ago that could not be undone.
"I don't feel. I don't let them in."
He'd carved himself into stone for a reason.
But now… now it was too late.
She had walked into the darkest corners of his carefully constructed life and lit a match without even knowing it. And he had let her. Watched her. Protected her.
He had touched her skin and listened to her cry and let her fall asleep in his bed.
He had folded her clothes.
He had cared.
His hand rose to his temple, fingers brushing the place where tension pulsed behind his eyes like a warning.
This was dangerous.
This was unacceptable.
But it was also undeniable.
She had become something more than a complication. More than a moment.
She was a fracture in his logic. A ripple in still water.
And though he would never admit it aloud perhaps not even to himself; Adrian Blackwood was beginning to realize…
He had no idea how to make her stop mattering.
...
Emily didn't stop walking until the familiar outline of her accommodation appeared on the horizon. Her pace had started as a brisk walk, but somewhere along the way, it had turned into a near-sprint driven less by urgency and more by the need to outrun her own thoughts.
The morning air bit at her skin, sharp and clean, the city still half-asleep. Pavement clicked under her boots, streetlights flickered above her, and the occasional car hummed past, unaware of the storm churning just beneath her calm exterior.
She had humiliated herself. There was no gentle way to frame it.
She had been reckless. Desperate. Vulnerable in the worst possible way.
Used by a man she didn't remember, nearly hurt in a moment she barely understood and then, inexplicably, rescued.
By him.
By Adrian.
And now, every memory felt like a fever dream: blurred edges, burning shame, and the echo of something she couldn't quite name. He had pulled her out of a nightmare, nursed her through the aftermath, and sent her home like none of it had ever happened.
She should have been grateful.
She should have been relieved.
But instead, she felt unmoored. Confused. Unsettled.
And yet…
The way Adrian had looked at her… no. The way he hadn't looked at her that was what haunted her.
He hadn't scolded her, or comforted her, or tried to take advantage of her fragile state. He hadn't offered platitudes or reassurances. He had simply been there; solid, unreadable, calm in a way that only made the chaos inside her burn hotter.
What kind of man did that?
What kind of man saw someone at their absolute lowest and refused to react?
He hadn't pitied her.
But he hadn't ignored her either.
It was maddening.
It was magnetic.
She pressed a hand to her chest as if to steady the ache blooming beneath it.
Why did she feel safer near him than she had with anyone else? Even when his presence was ice-cold and impenetrable, even when his words were measured like a surgeon's scalpel, she'd felt safe.
It didn't make sense.
None of it did.
What was he hiding behind those eyes that never flinched?
What truths lived in the space between his silences?
Who was he, really?
Emily walked faster, arms folded tight across her chest, the wind slicing through her coat like it knew her secrets. The questions clung to her like shadows—persistent, whispering, heavy with something she couldn't name.
She wasn't ready for the answers. Not truly.
Because some answers didn't just illuminate.
Some answers changed everything.
But deep inside her beneath the fear, beneath the confusion something else stirred. A spark of instinct. Of knowing.
Whether she wanted to or not…
She would find the truth.
And when she did, there'd be no turning back.