47. After The Lines Was Crossed

Morning arrived quietly, too quietly.

I woke before Adrian did, my body aware of his presence beside me in a way that felt unfamiliar and unsettling. Not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t simple anymore.

The space between us had changed overnight.

I slipped out of bed carefully, pulling on a robe and padding toward the window. The city was waking up, indifferent as always. Somewhere in that routine world, people woke beside partners who belonged to them without clauses or expiration dates.

That wasn’t us.

Not really.

When I heard movement behind me, I didn’t turn immediately. I needed the extra seconds to gather myself—to remember where I stood.

“Morning,” Adrian said, voice low, still heavy with sleep.

“Morning,” I replied.

Nothing else followed.

No easy conversation. No reassurance. No claims.

Just the quiet acknowledgment of something shared and the uncertainty of what it meant.

We moved around each other later with careful politeness. Too careful. Like strangers who knew too much about one another’s bodies but not enough about where to place their hands now.

I hated that it bothered me.

This wasn’t supposed to complicate anything.

Yet, as I dressed for the day, I caught myself replaying small moments his restraint, the way he’d looked at me afterward, like he’d crossed something too and wasn’t sure what to do with it.

I told myself it was proximity.

Stress.

A temporary lapse in judgment.

It had to be.

By midday, Lydia made her presence known again.

Not with noise.

With spectacle.

The first delivery arrived at the office Adrian and I shared a massive floral installation, elegant and unmistakably expensive. No card. No signature. Just lilies. White. Immaculate.

“They’re addressed to Mr. Vale,” the assistant said carefully, glancing between us.

I felt something twist in my chest, of course they were.

The second arrived an hour later.

A vintage watch. Rare. Personalized.

This time, there was a card.

Some things don’t fade with time - Lydia

Adrian stared at it longer than he should have.

I noticed.

That annoyed me more than the gifts themselves.

By the third delivery, a charity pledge made publicly in his name. I stopped pretending it didn’t affect me.

“She’s escalating,” I said flatly.

“She’s posturing,” he replied.

“And you’re letting her,” I said before I could stop myself.

He looked at me then, really looked at me. “You think I want this?”

“I think,” I said carefully, “that she knows exactly how to get your attention.”

That landed.

Silence stretched.

I stood, gathering my bag. “I’m heading out.”

“Where?” he asked.

“Somewhere I don’t have to watch your past compete with my present.”

The words surprised both of us.

I didn’t wait for a response.

Outside, the air felt sharper. Cleaner. I walked longer than necessary, letting my thoughts spiral and settle all at once.

This was the danger.

Not Lydia.

Not the gifts.

Not even the marriage.

It was the way last night had shifted something inside me.

I didn’t want to care.

I didn’t want to notice his pauses or his restraint or the way his jaw tightened when Lydia’s name resurfaced.

I didn’t want to wonder whether what I felt was attachment or just chemistry magnified by circumstance.

But when my phone buzzed later with a message from him

We need to talk tonight, I felt it anyway.

That evening, the gifts were gone.

All of them.

Adrian had ordered them removed, donated, redirected handled.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied. “I did.”

I searched his face. “Because of me?”

“Because of us,” he corrected. Then paused. “Whatever that is.”

I exhaled slowly. “Last night complicated things.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“I don’t want to be someone who mistakes intensity for meaning,” I said. “Or proximity for permanence.”

“Neither do I,” he said.

“And yet,” I added quietly, “I’m thinking about you more than I should.”

His gaze darkened not triumphantly, but thoughtfully.

“Lydia’s trying to remind me of history,” he said. “You’re reminding me of the present.”

That wasn’t reassurance.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Later, alone in my room, I stared at the ceiling again only this time, sleep didn’t come easily.

Lydia would keep trying.

I knew that.

And I knew something else too, something more dangerous.

If I wasn’t careful, I might start wanting more than this arrangement was meant to give.

And wanting was where leverage lived.