Chapter 3

Chapter 3

ADRIAN POINT OF VIEW

The elevator ride to Elias's apartment feels endless. Each floor number lights up, counting me closer to the moment I'll destroy everything. My reflection stares back from the polished doors, a ghost already, pale and empty-eyed.

I check my watch. 7:58 PM. I'm never early, never late. Always exactly on time, a habit beaten into me by years of Grandfather's disapproval.

The elevator chimes. Floor twenty-two. No more putting it off.

I step into the hallway, my expensive shoes silent on the thick carpet. Elias's apartment is at the end, 607. A corner unit with windows facing east and north. We watched sunrise here once, tangled in sheets, whispering about futures that will never exist now.

My fist hangs in the air before the door. One knock and everything changes.

I knock.

Footsteps approach, and the door swings open. Elias stands there, dark hair damp from a shower, wearing faded jeans and a soft gray t-shirt. Home clothes. The Elias nobody else gets to see.

His smile dies when he sees my face. "What happened?"

I step inside without answering, moving to the windows and looking out at the city lights blinking to life. Behind me, I hear him pour water into glasses.

"Did your grandfather say something?" Elias asks, offering me a glass when I finally turn around.

I take it, our fingers brushing. The simple touch sends pain through my chest.

"Adrian, please." His voice drops lower. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it. Together."

"My grandfather knows about us."

Elias goes still, his glass halfway to his lips. He lowers it slowly.

"How?"

"He's had someone watching me. Following us." I run a hand through my hair. "He knows everything, Vermont, the texts, this apartment."

Elias sinks onto the couch, elbows on his knees. "So that's it? He cuts you off? Writes you out of the will?"

I almost laugh at how simple he thinks it is. "He's arranged a marriage."

His head snaps up. "What? To who?"

"Celeste Moreau. Philippe Moreau's daughter. The Moreau contract is worth hundreds of millions. If Philippe finds out about us, the deal dies."

"So you're just going to marry some woman you've never met?" Elias stands, his voice rising. "Because your grandfather said so?"

"If I don't, he'll destroy your career." The words rush out, painful and sharp. "He'll make sure no firm will hire you. No client will work with you."

Elias freezes. "He threatened me?"

"He threatened everything you've worked for. Everything you've built without family connections, without money backing you."

"Let him try." Elias lifts his chin. "I'm good at what I do. The best."

"You don't understand how he works." I shake my head. "He destroys people completely. Without mercy or regret."

Elias takes my face between his hands. "So we fight him. Together."

"You should be afraid." I pull away. "I am."

Outside, rain begins to tap against the windows. A spring storm rolling in across the city.

Elias walks to the kitchen, pours whiskey into a glass, drinks it in one swallow.

"When?" The single word holds so much pain.

"I meet her Friday. Dinner at the Whitelaw."

"And the wedding?"

"Next Saturday."

Elias laughs, a harsh, broken sound. "One week. Seven days to plan a funeral for us."

"I'm sorry." The words are pathetic, not enough.

"Are you? Or are you relieved? Now you can be the perfect Lancaster grandson without the messy secret threatening your precious legacy."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" His voice rises. "Was it fair when you canceled our anniversary dinner because your grandfather called? Was it fair when you introduced me as your 'colleague'? Was it fair when you spent Christmas with your grandfather instead of me?"

Each example hits like a punch. I have no defense.

"I love you," I say simply.

"But not enough." He turns away, hands braced on the counter. "Never enough to choose me."

Rain hits the windows harder now, wind howling between the buildings.

I stand behind him but don't touch him. "If there was any other way..."

"There is. Tell him no. Walk away. We can leave the city. Start over somewhere new."

"And then what? Hide forever? Live on what? Your career would be ruined just for being with me."

"So we adjust. We struggle. We build something new." He turns, eyes shining with tears he won't let fall. "That's what people do for love, Adrian. They sacrifice. They fight. They choose each other over everything else."

I step back. "I can't."

Something dies in his eyes then. The last bit of hope goes out.

"Then why are you here?" His voice drops to a whisper. "What do you want from me tonight?"

"I want to remember what it feels like," I say, my own tears finally falling. "To be real. To be myself. To be loved without conditions."

He stares at me, emotions fighting in his eyes, anger, hurt, love, want. Then he closes the distance between us, hands gentle on my face.

"I should throw you out," he whispers, forehead pressing against mine. "I should hate you for this."

"You should."

"But I don't." His breath is warm against my lips. "God help me, I don't."

Our mouths meet, desperate, hungry, sad. I clutch at his shirt, trying to memorize the feel of him, the taste, the solid warmth of his body.

He breaks the kiss first. "This changes nothing. Tomorrow you'll still go back to him. You'll still marry her."

"I know."

"And this will hurt us both more."

"I know that too."

He takes my hand and leads me toward the bedroom without another word.

The storm rages outside as we create our own inside. We take our time, drawing out each moment. Everything laid bare, want, anger, tenderness, grief.

After, we lie tangled in sheets, the storm quieter now. I trace patterns on his chest, counting heartbeats.

"Come with me," he says. "To Chicago. The job offer is still open. We could start fresh there. No Lancaster name following us."

I close my eyes, the dream so tempting it physically hurts. "He would find us. There's nowhere his power doesn't reach."

"Then farther. Europe. Asia. Somewhere beyond his reach."

"There is no such place. Not for me."

He turns to face me. "So that's it? We just give up? In a week you marry her, live a lie, and I... what?"

"I want you to take the Chicago job." The words hurt to say. "Find someone who can love you openly, proudly. Someone better than me."

He rolls away. "There is no one better than you. That's the problem."

We fall silent, the gap between us widening despite how close we are.

"Will you at least tell her?" he asks. "Celeste. Will you tell her the truth before you marry her?"

"I don't know."

"She deserves better too." His voice holds no anger now, just giving up. "Better than a husband who can never love her completely."

"Maybe my grandfather is right." I hate myself for the words. "Maybe a marriage built on shared goals is enough. Maybe love grows from that."

He sits up suddenly, back to me. "Don't try to convince yourself this is okay. Don't try to make his poison sound reasonable."

"I'm trying to find a way to live through this." My voice breaks. "To survive the next fifty years without you."

He reaches for his t-shirt, pulls it over his head. "What time do you need to leave?"

"Soon. Now, probably."

"Then you should go."

"Elias..."

"Please. If this is our goodbye, let's not drag it out. I can't watch you put yourself back together just to walk out that door."

I dress quietly. My phone buzzes, a text from my driver, waiting downstairs. Time's up.

At the bedroom door, I pause. He still sits on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.

"I will always love you," I say softly. "Whatever happens, that won't change."

He looks up, a sad smile touching his lips. "I believe you. That's the tragedy of it all."

"Goodbye, Elias."

He closes his eyes. "Goodbye, Adrian."

I walk through the apartment without looking back. At the front door, my hand freezes on the handle. One turn and it's over.

Behind me, the bedroom door closes, him giving me privacy for my exit. Or maybe he can't watch me leave.

I step into the hallway. The click of the lock sounds final, like death. I stand there a moment, forehead pressed against the cool wood, palm flat against the surface.

The elevator arrives with a cheerful ding that feels like mockery. In the lobby, my driver waits. I slide into the back seat, give my address in a voice I barely recognize.

As we pull away, I look up at the building, count windows to the twenty-second floor, find what I think is his corner unit. The lights are off now. Darkness where there had been warmth.

My phone buzzes again. A message from a number I don't recognize:

*Flight to Chicago leaves Thursday. 8:15 AM. Seat 14A is yours if you want it. Last chance to choose happiness before the wedding. - E*

I stare at the screen until it goes dark, the city passing in blurs outside the window. Thursday. Two days away. A door still open, if I'm brave enough to walk through it.

The car reaches my building with its doorman and security and empty luxury. I pocket my phone without answering.

Some messages don't need a response.

Some choices are already made.

Some goodbyes will always stay silent.