Chapter 11: Breakfast with the Blackwells

The Blackwell dining room looked like something out of a glossy lifestyle magazine—polished mahogany table, crystal chandelier, and the quiet efficiency of staff who could set a table without making a sound. Elena sat at the far end of the impossibly long table, dressed in a simple cream silk blouse and tailored trousers. Simple, yet undeniably elegant. She poured herself coffee as though she owned the room.

Adrian entered without announcement, as he always did. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, cufflinks glinting. He didn’t glance at her at first, simply sat at his end of the table, nodded once at the butler, and reached for the morning paper.

The silence stretched, thick and awkward. Elena smirked into her coffee cup. If she didn’t say something, they’d eat in complete silence, like two strangers forced to share oxygen.

“Good morning to you too,” she said lightly.

Adrian folded the paper just enough to glance at her. “You’re awake early.”

“Designers never sleep,” she said without thinking, then quickly added, “—I mean, people with ambition never sleep.”

His eyes lingered a beat too long. “Ambition?”

Elena stirred her coffee lazily. “Something you know plenty about, I’m sure.”

“I do,” he said simply, returning to his paper. “Though I’m curious—what do you do with all your ambition? Rearrange the flowers in the hallway?”

Elena’s lips twitched. Cold, dismissive Adrian was annoying—but she couldn’t resist needling him. “Oh, you’d be surprised. I’m not nearly as idle as you think.”

A faint raise of his brow. “Should I be concerned?”

“No,” she said sweetly. “Terrified.”

The butler arrived with breakfast—perfectly poached eggs, smoked salmon, fresh fruit. Adrian ate with the same precision he applied to business meetings: silent, efficient, controlled. Elena, by contrast, took her time, making a deliberate show of cutting her food like she had nowhere else to be.

Halfway through the meal, Adrian spoke again. “We have a gala this Friday.”

Elena glanced up, feigning surprise. “A gala? How thrilling. Will there be champagne and insufferable billionaires?”

“Most likely,” he said dryly. “You’re coming.”

She set down her fork. “Oh? And what if I have plans?”

“Cancel them,” Adrian said, not looking up from his plate. “It’s a Blackwell Foundation event. Your attendance isn’t optional.”

Elena tilted her head, lips curving. “You do realize I don’t take orders well?”

“I’m aware,” Adrian replied evenly, finally meeting her gaze. “Which is why I phrased it as a fact, not a request.”

Elena stared at him for a long moment, amused despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, “you’re still sitting here.”

The faintest tension sparked between them, invisible to anyone else in the room. Elena looked away first, focusing on her coffee. He had a way of making her pulse quicken without even trying—and she hated it.

“Fine,” she said finally, as if granting him a royal favor. “I’ll go to your precious gala. But only if I get to pick my own dress.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Adrian said smoothly.

Of course, he had no idea that she wouldn’t just pick her dress—she would design it. The thought almost made her laugh out loud. Let the world whisper about Adrian Blackwell’s mysterious new wife wearing a gown no one could trace to any designer.

After breakfast, Adrian rose, adjusting his cufflinks. “I have meetings all day,” he said. “Try not to burn the house down while I’m gone.”

“I’ll do my best,” Elena said with mock sweetness.

As he turned to leave, she added casually, “By the way, Adrian… do you ever get tired of being so cold?”

He paused, glanced back at her. His expression didn’t change, but there was the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “No. Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re not hiding something?”

Her breath caught, just for a second. But she smiled, smooth and unbothered. “If I were hiding something, you’d never find it.”

Adrian studied her a beat longer before walking out without another word.

The moment he was gone, Elena’s phone buzzed. A message from Lila, her manager.

Lila: The Paris buyers loved the new collection sketches. You’re a genius. But you need to decide—are we revealing your identity next year or keeping it secret?

Elena smiled faintly, fingers flying across the screen.

Elena: Keep it secret. No one—not even my husband—can know I’m behind E.C. Couture.

She looked toward the doorway where Adrian had disappeared moments ago. Cold, controlled, unreadable Adrian Blackwell. If he ever found out… well, she wasn’t sure what he’d do.

And strangely, that uncertainty thrilled her.