48. The Cost Of Wanting

Lydia didn’t strike the next day.

Or the one after that.

Her absence pressed in on me heavier than her presence ever had. It was the kind of quiet that demanded attention, like the pause before a storm you couldn’t yet see but felt deep in your bones.

I went back to work deliberately.

Not to escape Adrian, but to remind myself who I was outside of him.

The florist shop smelled like cut stems and damp earth, grounding in a way the polished halls of Adrian’s home never quite were. My hands moved automatically trimming, arranging, correcting angles muscle memory soothing thoughts that refused to settle.

Yet even there, my mind betrayed me.

I kept replaying moments that shouldn’t have mattered.

The way Adrian’s voice had softened when he said because of us.

The way he hadn’t followed me when I walked out, letting me leave instead of stopping me.

The way restraint, not possession, seemed to define him.

It would have been easier if he were careless with me.

Men like that were simple to categorize.

Adrian wasn’t.

And that made him dangerous in a way Lydia never could be.

When I returned home that evening, the house felt… altered.

Not physically. Emotionally.

The staff moved with the same discretion, the lights glowed the same soft gold but something had shifted. Like both of us were now aware of an invisible line we’d crossed and were carefully pretending it hadn’t left a mark.

Adrian was in his study when I passed by.

The door was open.

An invitation, or an accident I wasn’t sure.

“You’re back late,” he said without looking up.

“I stayed busy.”

He nodded. “You usually do.”

I paused at the doorway. “Is that a complaint?”

“No,” he said, finally lifting his gaze. “An observation.”

We looked at each other for a long moment, neither moving forward, neither retreating.

The air between us felt taut.

I broke first. “Lydia’s quiet.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not concerned?”

“I am,” he replied evenly. “But not surprised.”

“She never stays quiet for long.”

“No,” he agreed. “She prefers control to chaos.”

I stepped into the room, folding my arms. “And control looks like what this time?”

“Patience,” he said.

That answer chilled me more than any dramatic gesture would have.

Later that night, after dinner eaten with polite conversation and deliberate distance, I found myself standing outside his door.

I didn’t knock.

I didn’t leave either.

This was the danger I’d named the day before.

Wanting.

Not impulsively. Not desperately.

But steadily.

And steady wanting was far more difficult to undo.

“Come in,” Adrian said quietly, as if he’d sensed me there.

I opened the door.

He was seated on the edge of the bed, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up again. He looked tired not physically, but in the way people did when they were managing too many variables at once.

“I’m not here for what you think,” I said immediately.

His lips curved slightly. “I didn’t think anything.”

“That’s a lie.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I need to be clear,” I said. “About us. About me.”

He gestured for me to sit. I remained standing.

“I’m not asking for promises,” I continued. “And I’m not asking for reassurance.”

“What are you asking for?” he asked.

“Honesty,” I said. “About what happens when this arrangement ends.”

He leaned back slightly, studying me. “You’re planning an ending.”

“I’m acknowledging one,” I corrected. “Because pretending otherwise is how people lose themselves.”

Silence settled.

“When this ends,” he said slowly, “you walk away intact.”

I searched his face. “That’s vague.”

“It’s deliberate,” he replied. “Because circumstances change.”

“So do feelings,” I said.

His gaze sharpened. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Mine.”

That surprised him.

Good.

“I didn’t agree to become emotionally leveraged,” I continued. “And I won’t compete with someone who believes history entitles her to you.”

“She doesn’t,” he said immediately.

“Then don’t let her keep acting like she does.”

That hit harder than I intended.

He stood, closing the distance between us but stopped short, leaving space.

“You think I’m indulging her.”

“I think,” I said carefully, “that you underestimate how visible neutrality can be.”

His jaw tightened.

“I won’t make you collateral,” he said.

“I need more than intention,” I replied. “I need alignment.”

We stood there, the tension no longer subtle.

This wasn’t about Lydia.

It was about us deciding whether we were something fragile or something deliberate.

“I don’t want you half-present,” I said softly. “And I won’t stay if that’s all this can be.”

He didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was low. “If I align publicly, she won’t stop. She’ll escalate.”

“She already is,” I said. “Silence didn’t stop her. Distance didn’t stop her. Neither did restraint.”

I met his gaze fully. “All it did was make her bolder.”

Something shifted then.

Not dramatically.

But decisively.

“You’re right,” he said.

I exhaled slowly. “That doesn’t mean I’m asking you to choose.”

He looked at me steadily. “But you are asking me to act.”

“Yes.”

That night, I slept poorly.

Not because of longing.

But because of clarity.

In the morning, Lydia finally moved.

Not with gifts this time.

With presence.

She appeared at a public event Adrian was scheduled to attend uninvited, impeccably dressed, positioned just close enough to be noticed. Cameras caught her smile, her familiarity, the way she greeted people who still associated her with him.

I watched the coverage online, my stomach tight.

This was her test.

Would he acknowledge her?

Ignore her?

Allow ambiguity to linger?

I didn’t hear from him until hours later.

When I did, his message was simple.

I handled it.

Handled it could mean anything.

By the time he returned home that evening, the answer was everywhere.

Photos circulated.

Not of Lydia.

Of Adrian standing beside me at the event’s closing his hand at my back, his posture unmistakably aligned.

Not possessive.

Intentional.

Lydia had been absent from the final narrative entirely.

I found him in the living room, phone still in hand.

“She won’t like that,” I said quietly.

“No,” he replied. “She won’t.”

“And she won’t stop.”

“I know.”

I studied him. “So why do it?”

He met my gaze. “Because you asked me not to drift.”

Something inside me steadied.

Not relief.

Resolution.

“I’m not claiming you,” I said.

“I know.”

“I’m not asking to win.”

“I know that too.”

“But I won’t be invisible,” I finished.

“You aren’t,” he said firmly.

That night, when I lay awake again, staring at the ceiling, I understood something crucial.

Wanting wasn’t the danger.

Pretending I didn’t want was.

Lydia would strike again.

Of that, I had no doubt.

But this time, she wouldn’t be testing silence.

She’d be testing something far more difficult to dismantle.

Alignment.

And whatever came next, I was no longer standing on the edge of this story.

I was inside it eyes open, feet planted, fully aware of the cost.

And for the first time, I was choosing to see whether it was worth paying.