39. No Backing Down

Lydia didn’t disappear.

That was the mistake people always made thinking silence meant retreat. With women like her, silence was just strategy changing shape.

The first gift arrived three days after the gala.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic. No note. No name. Just a large, white box delivered to Adrian’s office, wrapped with deliberate precision. His assistant called before opening it, uncertain.

I told her to leave it sealed.

Adrian came home that evening with the box still untouched, set carefully on the marble counter like something that might stain if mishandled.

“She’s testing boundaries,” he said.

“She’s testing me,” I replied.

We opened it together.

Inside was a watch.

Not just any watch, one I recognized instantly from old interviews, from archived photos online. A piece Adrian used to wear years ago. Before me. Before this life collided with his past.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was territorial.

She wasn’t saying I want you.

She was saying I was here first.

Adrian closed the box without touching it. “I’ll have it returned.”

“No,” I said quietly.

He looked at me.

“She wants a reaction,” I continued. “If you return it, she gets acknowledgment.”

“Then what?” he asked.

“Donate it,” I said. “Publicly.”

That earned a pause.

Then a slow nod.

The next morning, the donation was announced..anonymous, tasteful, irreversible.

By afternoon, the second gift arrived.

This time, it was addressed to me.

A bouquet filled my florist shop, delivered mid-day in front of customers. Rare flowers. Expensive. Excessive.

The card read simply:

You wear his world lightly. Be careful it doesn’t crush you.

My hands shook just once before I set the card aside.

This wasn’t flirtation.

This was intimidation dressed as elegance.

I didn’t throw the flowers away.

I sold them.

Every stem.

By closing time, not a single petal remained.

The third attempt came through access.

A request for a meeting official, business-adjacent, routed through channels she knew Adrian couldn’t ignore. She framed it as concern, as legacy, as history that needed “closure.”

I saw it on his tablet before he could shield it.

“She’s persistent,” I said.

“She’s desperate,” he corrected.

“Same thing,” I replied.

He declined the meeting.

The next day, she showed up anyway.

Not at the office.

At a charity lunch I attended alone.

She sat across from me like nothing had happened, perfectly composed, perfectly patient.

“You look tired,” she said lightly.

“I’m busy,” I replied.

She smiled. “So was I. Once.”

I didn’t rise to it.

“That watch,” she continued, stirring her drink. “He wore it when he was becoming who he is now.”

“And now,” I said evenly, “he’s already become him.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“You think gifts are the point?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I think control is.”

She leaned back. “You don’t scare easily.”

“I wasn’t raised to,” I replied.

Silence stretched between us.

“Tell me something,” she said finally. “How long do you think this lasts?”

I met her eyes. “Longer than your patience.”

She stood without another word.

By the end of the week, the attempts blurred together.

A book delivered to the penthouse—one Adrian once quoted publicly.

A restaurant reservation made in his name, canceled at the last minute.

An invitation sent to me for an event I wasn’t supposed to know about.

Each move calculated.

Each one meant to whisper: I still fit where you’re standing.

I didn’t crumble. But I felt it, not jealousy just pressure.

That night, I stood in the bathroom staring at my reflection, wondering something I hadn’t dared say aloud before:

How much of myself am I spending just to stay steady?

Adrian found me there, quiet.

“She won’t stop unless we make her,” he said.

“No,” I replied softly. “She won’t stop until she’s humiliated—or ignored completely.”

He frowned. “Which do you prefer?”

“I prefer choosing,” I said.

The next morning, I made the choice.

I sent Lydia a message.

One line. Polite. Direct.

Please stop contacting my husband and me. Further attempts will be documented.

Nothing emotional.

Nothing reactive.

Nothing she could twist.

She replied within minutes.

You’ve learned quickly.

I blocked her.

That was when I understood something important:

She hadn’t been trying to win Adrian.

She’d been trying to wear me down.

And she failed.

But failure doesn’t end obsession.

It sharpens it.

That night, as I locked the shop and stepped into the street, a car slowed beside me.

Too slow.

My heart jumped.

The window rolled down just enough to reveal a familiar profile.

Lydia.

She didn’t smile.

“Careful, Elara,” she said calmly. “People who stand their ground forget how exposed they are.”

The car pulled away before I could respond.

I stood there, breath steady, pulse loud.

This wasn’t gifts anymore.

This was warning.

And whatever Lydia planned next, It wouldn’t be subtle.