CHAPTER ELEVEN

Adrian’s Hale POV

I woke up with a small groan, my eyes blinking open to meet the darkness of the room. The other side of the bed was empty. My heart skipped. Where was Damien? I checked the clock on the nightstand. Just past midnight.

Quickly, I grabbed one of Damien’s shirts from the closet, slipping it on. It was too big for me, hanging loosely on my frame, but somehow the smell of him wrapped around me like a shield.

I opened the bedroom door and walked down the silent hall. The whole house was dark. Not even a light from the lamps. That was strange. Halfway down the stairs, I heard something a faint clinking sound, like glass. My stomach sank, and I followed it.

The sound led me to the breakfast bar. My fingers fumbled for the light switch, and when the room finally lit up, the sight made my chest ache.

Damien was sitting at the counter, a bottle of alcohol half-empty beside him. His glass was full, but what shook me wasn’t the whiskey it was him. His face was buried in one hand, his shoulders shaking. Damien Cross, the man who never showed weakness, was crying.

I rushed forward and grabbed the glass, sliding the bottle away before he could reach for it again. I’d heard drunk men sometimes lash out when you take away their drink. If he hit me, so be it. I wasn’t leaving him like this.

His bloodshot eyes lifted, focusing on me with difficulty. “What the fuck do you want, Hale?” he slurred, voice thick. He tried to push me off, but he was too drunk.

“You’re drunk,” I said firmly, looping his arm over my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

His weight pressed against me as I helped him up from the stool. He stumbled, muttering.

“You know what, Hale? I hate you. I fucking hate you.” His words dragged out, heavy and bitter.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” I murmured, more to myself than him. He didn’t know what he was saying.

“I hate you… because you made me fall in love with you… in three damn days.” He tried holding up three fingers, failing miserably.

My heart cracked. I whispered back, “I know. I love you too.”

We staggered toward the stairs. Halfway up, he spoke again, voice breaking. “I drank… to forget Vince. The pain. But then I realized I already forgot… because of you. And then… I drank ‘cause… I felt rejected when you said no.”

My throat tightened. A tear escaped me, but my hands were too busy holding him up to wipe it away.

“I thought you weren’t ready,” I whispered. The memory of him pushing me away in the bathroom came back sharp.

His eyes fluttered. “You… turn me on. Never felt this way… not since Vince.”

That name. Vince. My jaw clenched. Whoever he was, he had hurt Damien deeply.

Finally, we reached the bedroom. I half-dragged, half-pushed Damien onto the bed. He flopped back, staring up at me with dazed eyes. Then, suddenly, he started calling my name.

“R-ride me,  Wife. Y… yeah…” His hips moved against the air, like he was thrusting into an invisible body.

My face burned hot. “What the hell, Damien…” I muttered, torn between embarrassment and the urge to laugh.

“I-I’m… coming!” he groaned, chest arching before he collapsed flat. A second later, soft snores filled the room. He had passed out cold.

I stood there in shock, staring at him. My husband had just had… imaginary sex with me in his head. Shaking my head, I climbed into bed anyway. I curled against his chest, letting his heartbeat lull me.

Memories started playing in my mind. Him sending me tulips when roses were sold out. Him harassing a flower shop clerk just to get what he wanted for me. Him pushing Drew to the floor, jealous out of his mind. We laughed in the mall until our stomachs hurt.

And then darker memories the sight of him trembling when Vince appeared. The brokenness in the shower when he begged me not to leave.

“I promise. I won’t leave,” I had said. But last night, I did leave. I walked away, when he needed me most. The guilt gnawed at me now, heavier than ever.

My eyes stung. He had told me he loved me already. Said he wanted to grow old with me. And here I was, crying into his chest.

I didn’t even know when sleep finally took me.

Damien’s POV

I woke up with my head pounding. “Shit…” I muttered, rubbing my temples. What did I do last night?

The memories came back in pieces drinking too much, feeling rejected, Adrian trying to drag me to bed. And then… nothing.

Beside me on the nightstand sat a glass of orange juice, two Advil pills, and a folded note. I picked it up.

Good Morning Sleepyhead!

I know your head hurts, so I got you some orange juice and Advil. You know what to do 

P.S. Come downstairs for breakfast.

P.P.S. I love you.

A smile tugged at my lips. For a moment, my hangover didn’t feel so bad. I downed the pills, drank the juice, then splashed cold water on my face in the bathroom. After brushing my teeth Adrian hated morning breath I headed downstairs.

At the breakfast bar, I stopped in my tracks. Adrian was asleep, head resting on folded arms at the counter. My eyes shifted to the food. Not pancakes, not waffles but a golden-brown chicken pot pie.

I glanced at the clock. It's almost noon. He must’ve been up for hours. I walked over and shook his shoulder gently.

“Mmm… go away,” he mumbled, nuzzling into his arms.

“Wake up, baby. I need you,” I teased.

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with sleep. “Good morning… How are you feeling?”

“Just a bit hungover. Did I… do anything stupid last night?” I asked carefully. His face flushed red instantly.

“N-no… not really,” he stammered. “But, uh… how are you, emotionally?”

“I’m fine,” I lied, hoping he’d drop it. He didn’t look convinced, but he smiled anyway.

Then he cut into the pie, serving me a slice.

“You made this?” I asked, surprised.

“Yeah. Chicken pot pie. It’s the only thing I’m good at.” He smirked.

But I knew he was hiding something. “How did you make it? We didn’t have any pie crust.”

His eyes darted away. “I… uh…”

“Adrian.” My tone was firm.

He sighed. “I woke up at four in the morning. Made the crust. Let it chill. Cooked the filling. Baked it. And cleaned up.”

I stared at him, shocked. “Why would you… waste all that time?”

Tears welled in his eyes. “Because I wanted to comfort you. I can’t do much… but I could at least do this.”

I pulled him into my chest instantly. “Thank you,” I whispered, kissing the top of his head.

Then, his small voice asked against my shirt, “Do you trust me?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Do you trust me enough to tell me about Vince?”

My chest tightened. The name itself sent waves of memories through me. Could I? Should I?

“Yes,” I finally said. “I trust you enough.”

So I told him.

About being seventeen. About the football game. About being kidnapped, beaten, humiliated. About Vince my boyfriend at the time betraying me for money. About the weeks of torture until I was finally rescued.

Adrian’s hand squeezed mine the whole time. His anger burned when I explained Vince had never paid for it.

“That bastard should rot in prison!” he snapped.

I chuckled weakly. “I couldn’t. Back then… I still loved him.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He just looked at me with eyes so full of warmth, it almost hurt.

“Enough story time,” I said with a smirk, leaning closer. “I want to kiss you.”

“Kiss me, then,” he whispered.

And when our lips met, for the first time in years, I felt the past loosen its grip. The pain didn’t vanish, but it no longer owned me. Because my future our future was brighter.