Chapter 7: Settling into the Penthouse

“A house can be perfect, but it’s the small, clumsy moments that make it feel like home.”

Three weeks.

That’s how long it had been since the wedding. Since I moved into the palace that Adrian called “home.”

Three weeks it was since my life became a strange rhythm of piano notes, half-finished breakfasts, and the sound of his footsteps disappearing down the hallway before dawn.

You’d think living with someone meant knowing them.

But Adrian Kingsley was a tough riddle to be solved written in silk and steel and I was just beginning to learn the alphabet.

The first thing I had to get used to was the silence.

No traffic noise. No neighbors arguing. No roommate humming off-key.

Just air-conditioning hums and the faint scent of the garden.

The second thing? The staff.

They were polite, efficient, and unsettlingly good at appearing and disappearing like ghosts. I once sneezed, and before I could grab a tissue, one had magically appeared on the counter.

“Do they live here?” I whispered to Adrian one evening.

“No,” he said dryly, “they don't .”

I laughed. He didn’t.

But his lips twitched.

He worked long hours; meetings, calls, endless paperwork. Sometimes I caught him standing on the balcony at night, tie loosened, phone in hand,

The city glittered below him; bright and beautiful.

It looked like it belonged to him.

One evening, I decided to bring him coffee there.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“I know. I wanted to.”

He looked surprised, then nodded. “Thank you.”

He didn’t smile. But later, when I went to bed, I found the cup washed, dried, and neatly placed on my bedside table.

A quiet thank-you. His kind of thank-you.

A week later, I had my first real accident in the penthouse.

I was trying to reach a box of plates on the top shelf. I climbed the counter.

Bad idea cause gravity decided to play.

The crash was loud enough to wake the dead.

Adrian appeared within seconds, eyes wide, sleeves rolled up like he’d sprinted from another dimension.

“Elena!”

“I’m fine,” I said, holding up the one unbroken plate like a trophy. “The plate isn’t.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You could’ve hurt yourself.”

“Relax, Mr. CEO. I just bruised my pride.”

He looked at me , really looked and something in his gaze softened.

Then he sighed and bent down to pick up the shards himself.

“Next time you want to fo something like that” he murmured, “just call me.”

The way he said it , so concerning that it made my heart trip over itself.

Over time, the space between us started to shift.

He’d sit beside me during breakfast, reading the paper while I scrolled through my phone.

We’d occasionally bump into each other in the kitchen literally and he’d steady me with a hand on my waist that lingered just a second too long.

Once, I found him asleep on the couch after a long night of work. His tie was still on, the first few buttons of his shirt undone.

I stood there for too long, just… watching him.

He looked peaceful. Younger. Like the weight he carried had finally set him down.

And that’s when I noticed it again the faint scar along his wrist.

The same one from that old photo in his study.

Something twisted in my chest.

Who had hurt him like that?

And why did it matter so much to me?

It happened one night when the rain tapped against the glass wall, steady and soft.

We were in the kitchen, both reaching for the same glass. Our hands brushed.

“Sorry,” I murmured.

He didn’t move.

His fingers lingered against mine, the air between us charged.

“Elena…” he said calling my name; lower, intimate, it didn’t sound like him.

More like a secret he wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

I looked up, and for a second, his face was so close I could see the flecks of gray in his eyes.

Then his phone rang.

He stepped back instantly.

His phone rang.

“Business,” he said too quickly. “I have to take this.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

I stood there, my stupid and nervous heart pounding beforehand wondering what it would’ve felt like if he hadn’t stopped.

That night, I lay awake listening to the rain.

Somewhere across the hall, I heard the faint melody of piano keys again slow, aching, familiar. A routine I was already familiar with.

And as I drifted toward sleep, I realized something.

I wasn’t just settling into the house.

I was settling into him, into the silence, the mystery, the impossible gravity of a man that refused to stay still, who smiled like he was remembering something I had no idea of.