37. Lines She Crossed

Elara’s POV

I didn’t see the first one.

That was the mistake.

It happened during breakfast quiet, ordinary, almost harmless on the surface. Adrian’s phone vibrated once on the counter. He didn’t check it. He rarely did when we were together.

But something about the timing lodged itself in my mind.

When it vibrated again ten minutes later, I noticed his jaw tighten just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to catch. Enough for me.

“You don’t have to ignore it,” I said carefully.

He glanced at the screen, then turned it face down.

“It’s nothing.”

That was when I knew it wasn’t.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t press. I’d learned by now that silence often revealed more than confrontation.

Later that afternoon, I found out.

Not because I was snooping, Not because I was insecure but because Lydia wanted me to know.

The envelope arrived at the penthouse addressed to Adrian.

No return name.

No company seal.

Just thick, expensive paper that felt deliberate in my hands.

I shouldn’t have touched it.

But I did.

Inside wasn’t a letter.

It was a reminder.

Not explicit, nothing crude or obvious. Just something unmistakably personal. Intimate. Familiar in a way that had nothing to do with me.

My chest tightened.

This wasn’t seduction.

It was provocation.

She wasn’t trying to win him back.

She was trying to unseat me.

When Adrian came home, I didn’t confront him right away. I watched him instead—how his shoulders stiffened when he saw the envelope, how his expression darkened with irritation rather than desire.

“She’s escalating,” he said before I could speak.

“So I noticed,” I replied quietly.

He exhaled. “I didn’t respond. I won’t.”

“I know,” I said.

And I did.

That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Lydia wasn’t playing to his weakness.

She was playing to mine.

That night, the messages started.

Not explicit words—nothing that could be shown or quoted. Just fragments. References. Familiar phrases only two people with a shared past would understand.

Enough to make me feel like I was standing in the doorway of a room I was never invited into.

I lay awake beside Adrian, staring at the ceiling, wondering something I hated myself for thinking:

What am I doing here when I’m not even required to be?

I wasn’t paid for this.

I wasn’t protected from this.

I wasn’t guaranteed anything.

I was choosing it.

And Lydia knew that.

The next day, she made sure I understood the full extent of her audacity.

She showed up.

Not at the penthouse.

Not at the office.

At my shop.

Casual. Polished. Smiling like she belonged.

“I won’t stay long,” she said sweetly. “I just wanted to see you.”

I didn’t offer her a seat.

“You’re bold,” I said.

She smiled wider. “I always have been.”

Her eyes flicked around the space. “He still doesn’t know how to keep his past from bleeding into his present.”

“You’re not his present,” I replied evenly.

“No,” she agreed. “But I’m not irrelevant either.”

That was the point.

She leaned closer. “Tell me something, Elara—when does pretending become exhausting?”

I met her gaze. “When the person pretending forgets who they are.”

Her smile faltered for half a second.

Enough.

“You’re trying to provoke a reaction,” I said. “From him. From me.”

She straightened. “I’m reminding him of history.”

“And I’m reminding you,” I said calmly, “that history doesn’t get to dictate the future.”

She left without another word.

But the damage lingered.

That evening, Adrian found me standing by the window again.

“She came to you,” he said quietly.

“Yes.”

“I’ll put a stop to this,” he said.

I turned to him. “No.”

He frowned. “Elara”

“She wants you to draw a line,” I said. “So she can claim it matters.”

Silence stretched.

“What she doesn’t realize,” I continued, “is that I’m not competing with her.”

He searched my face.

“I’m deciding whether I belong here at all,” I finished.

That unsettled him more than anger ever could.

Because for the first time, the risk wasn’t Lydia.

It was me walking away