Chapter 15: Tangled in the Morning

Elena stirred, a soft weight pressing against her chest. At first, she thought it was part of a dream — the steady rhythm of breath, the warmth seeping into her skin, the heavy arm draped across her waist.

But when her eyes fluttered open, reality struck.

Adrian Blackwell, the cold, untouchable billionaire who never let anyone close, was asleep. On her chest.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

His face was angled toward her, lashes dark against pale skin, his usually sharp expression softened into something she’d never seen before. Peaceful. Human. Vulnerable. His lips parted slightly, breaths slow and even, his gray eyes hidden beneath the fragile shield of sleep.

And his hand… God, his hand was splayed across her waist like it belonged there.

Elena froze, not daring to move. How had she ended up here? The last thing she remembered was sitting in the chair beside his bed, stubbornly refusing to leave while he dozed. She must have drifted off, and somewhere in the night, he’d pulled her onto the mattress — or maybe she’d climbed up in her sleep.

Either way, she was here now. With him.

Her fingers twitched with the insane urge to trace the strong line of his jaw, to feel if his skin was really as warm as it looked. She clenched her fist instead, forcing her eyes to the ceiling.

“This is ridiculous,” she whispered to herself.

But her body betrayed her. Every inhale carried the clean, masculine scent of his cologne, softened now by sleep. Every exhale reminded her how close they were, how dangerously thin the line was between pretending and something more.

She told herself to move. To slide out from under him before he woke and ruined the illusion. But her chest tightened at the thought of disturbing him. Adrian Blackwell didn’t rest. He didn’t let down his guard. Yet here he was, clinging to her like she was his anchor.

And maybe… maybe she didn’t want to move.

Her heart thudded as she stared at the ceiling, caught in the absurd intimacy of the moment.

Then, without warning, Adrian stirred.

“Elena…” His voice was a husky whisper, not quite awake, not quite asleep. He nuzzled against her chest slightly, like a man chasing warmth.

She stiffened, heat rushing to her cheeks. “Adrian,” she hissed softly.

But he didn’t wake. His arm only tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, his breath warm against the hollow of her throat.

Elena’s brain short-circuited. He’s cuddling me. Adrian Blackwell is cuddling me.

She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or shove him off the bed.

Minutes stretched into eternity. Her pulse refused to calm, her mind a tangle of protests and forbidden desires. When the morning light finally crept through the curtains, spilling gold across the room, she dared to glance down at him again.

His face looked younger like this. Less guarded. Almost boyish, though the sharp cut of his cheekbones still held power. She wondered — not for the first time — what burdens weighed so heavily on him that even in sleep, his brow stayed faintly furrowed.

“Elena…” he murmured again, softer this time, like a man dreaming of something he couldn’t quite reach.

Her chest ached unexpectedly.

And that was the moment he woke.

His gray eyes blinked open, slow and hazy, unfocused for a second before awareness sharpened in them. The shift was immediate — from vulnerable to steel.

And then he realized where he was.

On her chest.

Elena’s breath caught as his gaze flicked to their tangled bodies, his arm around her waist, her hand accidentally resting against his forearm. A flush crept along his cheekbones, though he masked it quickly.

Neither of them moved.

Finally, Adrian cleared his throat, his voice rough from sleep. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Elena arched a brow, forcing nonchalance though her heart was rioting. “Really? Because it looks like the great Adrian Blackwell was using me as a pillow.”

Something flickered in his eyes — irritation, embarrassment, maybe even amusement — but he rolled away, sitting up with calculated detachment. “You must have climbed onto the bed in your sleep.”

She scoffed, propping herself on her elbows. “Me? Please. You were the one clinging like a koala.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, believe me,” she shot back, smirking, “I wouldn’t dream of it. But maybe next time you decide to collapse on me, give me a warning. My ribs would appreciate it.”

For once, Adrian didn’t have a sharp retort. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, as if it could wash away the entire scene.

Elena slid off the bed, tying the sash of her robe tighter around her waist. “Relax. I won’t tell anyone that Mr. Blackwell secretly enjoys cuddling.”

His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Elena.”

She blinked innocently. “What? Afraid it’ll ruin your reputation?”

The silence stretched, charged and tense. Finally, he stood, towering over her, his voice low and edged with warning. “Don’t mistake last night for anything more than it was.”

Her smirk faltered, her chest tightening at the coldness in his tone.

“And what was it?” she asked quietly.

Adrian hesitated. His jaw clenched, his eyes unreadable. “Nothing.”

The word sliced through her, sharper than she expected.

He brushed past her, moving toward the bathroom. “Get ready. We have brunch with the board later.”

Elena stood frozen, her heart pounding, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Nothing.

She wanted to scream, to demand why he’d held her so tightly if it meant nothing. But she bit her tongue, swallowing the ache.

If that was how Adrian Blackwell wanted to play, fine. She could pretend too.

But as she turned toward the door, her chest still throbbed with the ghost of his weight, the memory of his breath against her skin. And no matter how cold his words, she knew the truth.

That had been something.

Something dangerous.

Something neither of them was ready to admit.