Chapter 9: Coffee and Secrets

If someone had told me that the quietest mornings could be the most dangerous, I would’ve laughed.

But that was before Adrian started making coffee.

There’s something almost domestic — sinful about watching a man like him do something ordinary.

The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing the faint lines of veins on his forearm. Even the espresso machine seemed to whisper around him.

I leaned against the counter, pretending not to stare.

I was definitely staring.

He didn’t look up, but his voice was smooth, amused.

“You know, you don’t have to lurk there like a spy.”

“I’m not lurking,” I said, crossing my arms. “I’m… observing.”

“Observing,” said, pouring the coffee into two mugs. “That sounds serious.”

“It is. Not everyone gets to see the elusive Mr. Kingsley making coffee. It’s practically a sighting.”

He slid one mug toward me without looking up.. “Careful, Mrs. Kingsley. You make it sound like I’m an endangered species.”

“Maybe you are,” I said, taking a sip. The coffee was rich, dark, perfect. of course it was.

“Most men don’t make coffee this good. Or brood this much before 9 a.m.”

“Brooding?” he echoed. “That’s a new one.”

“Oh, please,” I said, waving a hand. “You have ‘emotionally unavailable ’ written all over you.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “And you married me anyway.”

That shut me up for a second.

I looked down at my coffee, heat prickling behind my ears. “Desperation is a strong motivator.”

He hummed, his gaze flickering over me briefly. “ curiosity too.”

Our eyes met across the counter, and for a second, the air between us tightened.

I looked away first.

“So… this is your idea of relaxing?” I asked lightly. “Coffee and staring contests?”

“Only when the company’s worth it,” he said, too easily.

The day passed in slow, deceptive calm.

He disappeared into his office like usual, but I caught myself listening for his footsteps, for that deep, low voice that had started living somewhere in my head.

By afternoon, I wandered into the study in search of a distraction and stopped.

He was already there.

Sunlight poured through the tall windows, turning the edges of his hair gold. He looked up, surprised for a fraction of a second before his face settled into calm again.

“ i didn’t realize this room was off-limits,” I said quietly.

He looked up from the papers on his lap. “It’s not. You just never come in here.”

I hesitated, then stepped inside. “Maybe I should start.”

“Maybe you should.” He looked at me for moment.

I skimmed the bookshelf, my fingers tracing the spines.

“Did you actually read all of these?”

“Most of them,” he said. “Some were gifts.”

“From her?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly: “From people who don’t matter anymore.”

I turned, half to change the subject. “You have a lot of books about art.”

He smiled faintly. “You noticed.”

“You don’t strike me as the painting type.”

“Because I don’t look tortured enough?”

“No,” I said, grinning. “Because you look like the type who buys the gallery, not the painting.”

That earned a small, genuine laugh. It was low, warm — and gone too quickly.

But it stayed with me, long after it faded.

That evening, we had dinner together.

Not a planned thing, it just happened. I’d cooked something simple, and he’d shown up right when it was ready. He joined anyway.

“Smells good,” he said, setting his phone aside.

“Try not to sound so surprised.”

He smirked, taking a seat. “No offense, Mrs. Kingsley, but last time you tried to ‘cook,’ the fire alarm nearly resigned. ”

I rolled my eyes and handed him a plate. “That was one time.”

He took a bite then looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“This is… actually good.”

I couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Maybe I’m improving.”

He studied me for a moment, unreadable.

“Or maybe you were trying to impress me.”

I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth.

“Why would I try to impress you?”

His voice was low when he answered.

“Because you already do.”

My heart skipped a beat.

Before I could say anything, He went back to eating, like he hadn’t just said something I’d still be hearing hours later.

Later that night, I found myself outside his study again.

I didn’t even know why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was that damn painting — the woman by the sea — that wouldn’t leave my mind.

His door was slightly ajar.

Inside, he sat at his desk, leaning forward, one hand on his forehead. He looked… tired.

On the desk beside him sat an old photograph, face-down.

I hesitated, then knocked gently. “Can I come in?”

He looked up, startled , then nodded. “You’re not sleeping?”

“Couldn’t.”

He gestured for me to sit. “Neither could I.”

I settled into the chair across from him. “Work stuff?”

“Something like that.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. The quiet was close.

“Adrian,” I asked quietly, “do you ever regret anything?”

His gaze shifted toward the window.

“Every day,” he said. “But regret doesn’t change much, does it?”

“What did you do?”

He looked at me then for a bit. And for one fragile second, I saw something raw in his eyes.

Something he didn’t want me to see.

Then it was gone.

“Go to sleep, Elena,” he said gently. “It’s late.”

I stood, even though I didn’t want to.

. “Goodnight, Adrian.”

He watched me go, but just as I reached the door, his voice stopped me again.

“Elena?”

I turned.

“Thank you,” he said. “For not walking away.”

I smiled faintly, even though my chest ached. “I’m not sure I know how to anymore.”

That night, the ceiling felt too far away. The bed too big.

I tried to sleep. I couldn’t.

I was falling. slow, inevitable, and completely undone.

And somehow, I knew: Adrian Kingsley wasn’t the kind of man you could fall halfway for.

When you fell for him… you fell all the way.

And I was already halfway gone.