Chapter 8: Awkward Conversations

If anyone had told me that being married to a billionaire would mean spending most of my time dodging conversations, I would’ve laughed. But that’s exactly what it was like with Adrian, like living in a house made of glass where every word had weight and and could shatter everything.

The morning started like most others.

I poked at my cereal, trying not to look at him too long. The clink of his spoon against the coffee cup was the only sound between us.

He looked tired like he’d been carrying a hundred silent things around and forgot to put them down. He was sitted across me scrolling through something on his tablet.

I cleared my throat. “Do you ever take a day off?”. The words came out smaller than I meant.

He didn't look up, "From what?"

“From all this" I waved vaguely

He finally looked at me amused, “Is that a complaint, Mrs. Kingsley?”

I winced. “You really like using saying that"

He smirked faintly. “You started it.”

“I did not—” I began, but then stopped when he raised an eyebrow.

Touché. I had. When we went out to a restaurant, I’d introduced myself as “Mrs. Kingsley”

"Only because the hostess didn't believe we were married", I said

Now it was coming back to bite me.

After breakfast, while adjusting his cufflinks, i lingered pretending to scroll through my phone.

“So,” I said, as casual as i could. “Are you still in touch with your ex?”

He froze, noticeably.

He turned slowly. “Why do you ask?”

“My aunt said something about you being, uhm..engaged once.”

His expression stayed calm, but his eyes flickered a bit.

“People say a lot of things.”

“That’s not a no,” I said before I could stop myself.

He signed, setting his cufflink case down. “Elena.”

“Sorry,” I looked down. “Forget I asked.”

I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.

“I don’t talk about the past because some things don't stay buried once you dig them up" he said quietly

It wasn’t anger in his voice it sounded like grief.

I nodded slowly but as I walked away, part of me wondered if his silence was really about protecting himself or protecting me.

Later that day, I decided to explore the lower floors of the building mainly because I was bored and partly because I’d heard from the staff that there was a private gallery in the basement.

As I stepped into the elevator, I heard footsteps behind me.

“Going somewhere?” Adrian asked.

“Just exploring.”

He followed me in, pressing the button.

“Basement,” he said.

I frowned. “Are you… coming with me?”

“Can’t let you wander into restricted areas alone"

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. You think too highly of your art collection.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You think too little of it.”

The elevator doors closed and for a moment, I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.

“Why do you do that?” I blurted.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying not to.”

He smiled knowingly “Maybe I am.”

The elevator dinged open just in time to save my dignity.

The basement wasn’t what I expected. No dark corners or creepy lighting just a quiet, room filled with paintings, sculptures, and the faint scent of varnish.

“This is beautiful,” I whispered.

He nodded, hands in his pockets. “It’s the only place in the building that feels real.”

I turned to him. “Real?”

“Work is noise. This is silence.”

For a moment, he looked almost human like a man standing in front of ghosts he’d painted himself into.

I stopped in front of a painting, a woman in a pale blue dress, standing by the sea. Her face was turned away, but something about her posture made my heart twist.

“Who is she?” I asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly:

“Someone I once knew.”

That night, I couldn’t shake it, the painting, the way he looked at it.

So when I found him in his study later, I asked before i could think better of it..

“You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

He looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”

“The woman in the painting downstairs, the one by the sea

“Elena,” he warned, “stop.”

“No, you stop.” My voice cracked. “You keep pretending this marriage is real, but you treat me like someone who wandered in by mistake "

“I never said it was real,” he said evenly.

That landed like a slap.

For a long second, neither of us breathed

“Then what is this, Adrian?” I whispered. “A performance? A distraction?”

His face tightened. “It’s what you wanted. Remember? You’re the one who proposed.”

That stung even more.

I swallowed hard. “Right. How could I forget?”

I turned away, he didn’t follow.

But when he finally spoke again, his voice softer, "I'm sorry"

I didn’t look back. Some apologies only makes things heavier.

For the next few days, the silence between us felt colder as it went on.

I tried to focus on other things pretending I didn’t care. But the truth was, I did. Too much.

On the one night, a knock on my door.

“Elena?”

I almost didn't answer. Then i did, “Come in.”

He stepped inside, hands in his pockets, the faintest shadow of regret in his eyes.

“You were right,” he said. “I’ve been keeping you at arm’s length. That’s on me.”

I crossed my arms. “Why?”

He hesitated, “Because every time I get close i forget what I’m supposed to be protect.”

I “Protect from what?”

He didn’t answer. Just moved a step closer.

His hand brushed my cheek lightly as if he were testing my reaction.

“Adrian,” I whispered. “What are you doing?”

“Finding the line,” he murmured. “Yours. And mine.”

“Elena, if I cross a line, tell me to stop.”

And then he stepped back just as suddenly as he’d leaned in.

“Goodnight, Elena.”

He left quietly.

I stood there, my heart racing against the quiet, my cheeks burning, where his touch had been, wondering what made me feel like this, love?

I should’ve felt relieved.

But all I felt was the ghost of something that almost happened and the ache of everything that still could.

I didn’t know what scared me more how little I knew about him, or how much I already felt.