27. When I Stopped Waiting

I didn’t tell Adrian that Lydia had come to the penthouse.

Not because I was afraid of his reaction and but because I needed to know something first.

I needed to know whether I was still reacting to his world… or whether I was finally acting for myself.

The city outside felt restless that evening, clouds hanging low, the sky bruised with the promise of rain. I stood by the window long after Lydia left, replaying her words in my head.

He won’t always choose you.

Maybe she thought that would frighten me.

What frightened me more was how calm I felt after she said it.

Dinner passed quietly.

Adrian spoke about meetings, about negotiations, about pressure from investors that he brushed off like dust from his shoulders. He was too careful with me too careful. As if one wrong word might send me packing.

That restraint sat badly with me.

“Why didn’t you tell me she came here?” he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through my thoughts.

I looked up. “You knew?”

“I know Lydia,” he said. “And I know timing.”

I set my fork down. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to react.”

His brow furrowed. “React how?”

“Like this is something you need to handle for me,” I replied calmly.

Silence.

“That’s my instinct,” he admitted. “To remove threats.”

“And I’m not a threat,” I said softly. “Neither is she. We’re people making choices.”

He leaned back slightly, studying me. “She warned you, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I listened,” I said. “Then I decided.”

His gaze sharpened. “Decided what?”

“That I won’t live in anticipation of losing you,” I replied. “If you choose me, it will be because you’re ready not because I held on long enough.”

That landed.

Adrian didn’t speak for a long moment.

“You’re changing the rules,” he said finally.

“No,” I corrected. “I’m stepping out of them.”

That night, I slept better than I had in days.

Not because things were resolved but because I had stopped waiting for permission to feel secure.

The next morning brought rain.

It washed the city clean, blurring sharp edges, turning the streets reflective and uncertain. I dressed simply and left the penthouse without announcing it.

I needed space that wasn’t curated by Adrian’s name.

The florist shop I had kept before the marriage sat quietly between a café and a bookstore unchanged, grounded, familiar. The bell above the door chimed as I entered, and the scent of fresh stems and damp earth wrapped around me like memory.

This was mine.

I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

Arranging flowers reminded me that beauty didn’t need permission. That balance could be created with intention, not force.

By midday, I noticed it.

A car was parked across the street.

Black. Unmarked. Idling too long.

I didn’t panic.

I finished my arrangement first.

When I stepped outside, rain misted the air. The car didn’t move.

“Can I help you?” I called out.

The window lowered slightly. A man inside studied me not threatening, not apologetic.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said.

I stiffened. “Who sent you?”

He hesitated.

That was enough.

“Tell Lydia,” I said calmly, “that watching me won’t make me leave.”

The window rolled back up.

The car drove off.

My hands shook only after.

I locked the door and leaned against it, heart pounding not with fear, but with anger. Not explosive anger. Focused.

She was escalating.

Not violently.

Strategically.

I didn’t call Adrian.

I finished the day, closed the shop, and went home on my own terms.

When Adrian arrived that evening, he knew immediately.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“I was followed today.”

The room went cold.

His control snapped not outwardly, but inwardly. I could see it in the way his shoulders squared, his breath slowed.

“You’re telling me now?” he asked tightly.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because I didn’t want my safety to become another reason for you to go to war.”

His jaw clenched. “She crossed a line.”

“She’s been crossing lines,” I replied. “The difference now is that I see them.”

He stepped closer. “You don’t have to carry this.”

“I’m not carrying it alone,” I said. “I’m carrying myself.”

His gaze softened not with relief, but with something heavier.

“You’re not who I thought you were when this started,” he said.

I met his eyes. “Neither are you.”

He exhaled slowly. “I’ve spent my life controlling outcomes.”

“And now?” I asked.

“And now I’m realizing that control isn’t the same as certainty.”

The air between us shifted.

Not heated.

Grounded.

“I need to know something,” I said quietly. “If this gets worse if your board pushes harder, if Lydia keeps circling will you still stand beside me when it costs you more than reputation?”

His answer didn’t come immediately.

And that pause mattered.

Finally, he said, “I’m already paying.”

I searched his face. “That’s not what I asked.”

He stepped closer. “If I choose you publicly, I will lose people.”

“I know.”

“If I cut her off completely, she’ll retaliate.”

“I know.”

“If I fail to do either,” he added, “I’ll lose you.”

I nodded once. “Yes.”

Silence.

Then, decisively: “I’ll address it.”

“How?” I asked.

“By making it clear,” he said, “that you’re not a variable. You’re a constant.”

Something in my chest loosened.

“Do that,” I said. “And I’ll stay.”

He didn’t reach for me.

He didn’t promise romance.

He promised alignment.

And that meant more.

Later, as the rain eased and the city exhaled, I stood on the balcony alone.

I wasn’t certain how this would end.

But for the first time since becoming his wife, I knew something else with absolute clarity.

I wasn’t waiting to be chosen.

I was watching to see if he was strong enough to choose back.