Chapter 16: Whispers at the Brunch

Adrian Blackwell did not linger in bed. Not ever. His mornings were efficient—up before dawn, showered, suited, and gone before the mansion had even begun to stir. Yet that morning, he found himself rooted by the window, the glow of the rising sun slipping past the glass as though mocking him.

He had slept.

Not the restless, fractured naps he had trained himself to survive on. Not the medicated, shallow dozing that left him fogged and irritable. Real sleep. Nine uninterrupted hours of silence, darkness, and peace.

His hand clenched loosely around the edge of the curtain as his mind replayed the moment he had woken up. The sheets still warm. The faintest trace of her perfume clinging to the air. And most damning of all—his head had been resting against Elena’s chest, her soft rhythm of breathing having lulled him through the night.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t like the realization. He couldn’t. Elena Blackwell was chaos in silk—reckless, untamable, defiant. She wasn’t supposed to be his cure.

Adrian exhaled sharply and reached for his phone. There was only one person who needed to hear this.

James picked up on the second ring, his familiar drawl carrying a note of humor.

“Blackwell. It’s barely past dawn. Either the markets have crashed, or you’ve finally decided to follow my advice and meditate.”

Adrian didn’t waste time. “I slept.”

A pause. Then a short laugh. “Congratulations? That’s what humans do.”

“Not like this,” Adrian cut in, his tone clipped. “Nine hours.”

The silence on the other end stretched long. Then James’s voice sharpened. “Nine? Adrian—you haven’t slept that long in… what, five years?”

“Closer to seven,” Adrian said flatly.

James’s chair squeaked faintly, as though he’d sat upright. “So the prescription finally worked. I told you the adjustment period would—”

“It wasn’t the medication.”

Another pause. “Then what was it?”

Adrian’s gaze flicked to the bed again. To the faint indentation where Elena had slept. His chest pulled uncomfortably tight.

“Elena.”

James let out a low whistle. “Your wife? Explain.”

“She was there,” Adrian said. His voice was low, reluctant. “I woke up and…” He cut himself short, unwilling to give shape to what had felt so raw. “It was different.”

James chuckled softly. “Sounds like your insomnia has finally met its match—in nightwear.”

“Don’t start,” Adrian warned.

But James’s amusement was clear. “I’ve tried pills, therapies, every damn trick in the book. None of them worked. And suddenly you sleep like the dead because Elena’s beside you? That’s not coincidence, Blackwell. That’s chemistry.”

Adrian’s jaw flexed. “Or a one-off. I don’t plan on needing her for anything.”

“You already do.”

Adrian ended the call before James could press further. He couldn’t afford to think about it. Not when today had weightier matters waiting—namely, the quarterly brunch with the board of Blackwell Entertainment.

>>>>>>>

The brunch was held at the Blackwell Tower’s executive dining suite, an opulent room of glass and steel with sweeping views of the city skyline. The long mahogany table gleamed under chandeliers, already crowded with board members, investors, and senior executives, all murmuring into their mimosas.

Adrian strode in with his usual imposing calm, his tailored suit sharp enough to cut glass, his expression carved from ice. Conversations faltered, chairs shifted, and eyes immediately turned toward him with a mixture of respect and guarded wariness.

Elena entered a beat later.

Her dress was a soft ivory with a sleek silhouette—not ostentatious, but elegant. A quiet contrast to the glittering ensembles of the socialites and executives’ wives who filled the room. As soon as she stepped in, whispers stirred like smoke.

“That’s her… Blackwell’s new wife.”

“She could’ve tried harder. Doesn’t she know this isn’t a tea party?”

“Pretty face, plain dress. Figures.”

Elena ignored them, her chin tilting higher as she took her seat at Adrian’s side. She was used to whispers, but these stung in a different way. They didn’t know she was the hand behind half the gowns the women were flaunting at the table—creations they had begged, pre-ordered months in advance, paid fortunes for. To them, she was just Adrian’s young, fortunate wife.

One of the bolder actresses leaned forward, her lips curling. “Mrs. Blackwell, you’re looking… simple today. A bold choice, considering the occasion.”

Soft chuckles rippled across the table.

Elena’s lips twitched. “Simplicity is harder to pull off than sequins. Not everyone can manage it.”

The woman stiffened, while a few others hid their smirks behind champagne glasses.

Adrian said nothing, but his fingers tapped once against the armrest of his chair, his gaze slicing toward the offender. The actress paled under his look and quickly busied herself with her drink.

The brunch unfolded, the board diving into profit reports, market expansions, film distribution rights. Adrian led effortlessly, his words precise, his authority absolute. Every time someone questioned a strategy, he cut them down with facts, numbers, and that unnerving calm that made even the boldest executives falter.

But the murmurs about Elena didn’t stop.

“So, Mrs. Blackwell,” one older board member drawled during a lull, swirling his wine. “Do you enjoy these little… business gatherings? Or do you find them dull?”

Elena smiled sweetly. “Oh, I find them fascinating. Especially watching powerful men circle the same idea for half an hour only to land exactly where Mr. Blackwell began.”

The table went silent. Adrian’s lips curved—barely, but it was there.

Another man coughed. “Sharp tongue.”

“Sharp mind,” Elena corrected softly, taking a sip of her orange juice.

Whispers flitted around again, but this time, tinged with respect.

Adrian leaned back, his expression unreadable, but his gaze lingered on Elena longer than usual. She had a way of twisting the knives without raising her voice, of walking into a room full of wolves and refusing to bow her head.

And though he would never admit it out loud, something about that quiet defiance had him more awake than any amount of coffee ever had.

By the time the brunch adjourned, it wasn’t just Adrian’s dominance that left an impression. It was Elena—calm, elegant, and sharper than they expected.

As they exited the room, Adrian placed a hand lightly at her back. Not for show. Not out of habit. But as though claiming her in front of the people who had dared underestimate her.

“Don’t get used to it,” Elena murmured, glancing up at him. “I’m not always so diplomatic.”

Adrian’s lips quirked in the faintest ghost of a smile. “Good.”

Because he had no use for someone who bowed. But a woman who could cut with silk and steel? That was far more dangerous.

And far harder to resist.