52. Lines I didn’t mean to draw

I didn’t expect the exhaustion to hit me the way it did.

It wasn’t the kind that came from lack of sleep or too much work. It was deeper—settling into my bones, heavy with unspoken thoughts and decisions I kept postponing because naming them felt dangerous.

By morning, my patience was gone.

I moved through the house quietly, deliberately avoiding the spaces that had begun to feel shared in ways I wasn’t ready to define. The silence followed me anyway, stretching thin, like it was waiting for something to break.

Adrian found me in the sitting room, already dressed, already composed. He looked like someone who had chosen control over comfort.

That annoyed me more than it should have.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“So are you.”

He paused, reading my tone. “Something’s wrong.”

I let out a slow breath. “No. Something’s been wrong. I’m just tired of pretending I can carry it quietly.”

He nodded once. “Then say it.”

I turned to face him fully. “Why did you bring me into this?”

His brow furrowed. “Into what?”

“This,” I said, gesturing vaguely around us. “Your past. Your unfinished business. Your war with someone I didn’t even know existed when I agreed to this marriage.”

“That’s not fair,” he said carefully.

“I know,” I replied. “But it’s honest.”

He didn’t interrupt, so I continued.

“I wake up every day navigating landmines I didn’t place. Watching my steps, choosing my words, adjusting my expectations—all because of a history that isn’t mine.”

“Elara—”

“You chose me knowing Lydia wasn’t done,” I said quietly. “You may not have known how she’d act, but you knew she’d react.”

That landed harder than I expected.

He looked away for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “I didn’t think it would reach you like this.”

“But it did,” I said. “And I need to understand why I’m the one standing here now, absorbing the impact.”

“You weren’t meant to absorb anything,” he said.

“And yet,” I replied, “here I am.”

The room fell silent again.

“I didn’t ask to be part of your mess,” I continued. “I didn’t ask to become the woman people speculate about, or the name attached to your decisions, or the presence that unsettles someone else’s sense of ownership.”

Ownership.

The word tasted bitter.

“I agreed to a marriage of convenience,” I said. “Not a battlefield.”

His jaw tightened. “I never intended to make you feel like collateral.”

“I know,” I said. “But intention doesn’t change the fact that I’m involved now. And I don’t even fully understand what I’m involved in.”

He stepped closer, stopping just short of my space. “Ask me.”

I hesitated.

That was the problem. I had too many questions—and some of them scared me.

“What exactly does Lydia want?” I asked finally.

He didn’t answer immediately.

That pause told me everything.

“She wants relevance,” he said. “Control. Proof that what we had mattered more than how it ended.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I want closure,” he replied. “And distance.”

I laughed softly, without humor. “Those are rarely compatible.”

“I know.”

I folded my arms. “Then why am I here, Adrian? Why me?”

His gaze met mine, steady. “Because you’re not drawn to chaos. Because you don’t mistake noise for importance. And because I thought… I thought choosing someone grounded would keep everything else from spilling over.”

I shook my head slowly. “You chose stability to contain instability.”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“And now that instability is pressing against me,” I said. “Do you see why I’m tired?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I don’t want to manage your past,” I said. “I don’t want to compete with it, or stand beside it, or pretend it doesn’t exist while it keeps knocking.”

“You won’t,” he said firmly.

“That’s not enough anymore,” I replied. “I need to know why I should stay when I didn’t create this and I don’t control it.”

“You stay because I’m ending it,” he said. “Properly. Completely.”

“And until then?”

“I won’t ask you to carry it,” he said. “Not emotionally. Not socially. Not privately.”

I studied him, searching for cracks.

“You say that now,” I said. “But what happens when she escalates again?”

“Then I take responsibility,” he said. “Alone.”

Something in my chest loosened—not relief, but recognition.

“I’m drawing another boundary,” I said quietly.

He nodded. “Tell me.”

“I won’t defend this marriage,” I said. “Not to the public. Not to your circle. Not to anyone.”

He stilled.

“If I’m questioned, speculated about, or used as context for your choices,” I continued, “I won’t explain myself. I won’t perform reassurance. That’s yours to handle.”

“That’s fair,” he said.

“And,” I added, “if this starts costing me my sense of self—my work, my family, my peace—I will walk away. No negotiations.”

His expression tightened, but he nodded. “I understand.”

“I don’t need promises,” I said. “I need actions.”

“You’ll get them.”

The conversation ended there—not resolved, but clarified.

Later that day, as I left the house for work, I realized something unsettling.

I wasn’t angry anymore.

I was alert.

And alertness meant I was no longer operating on hope—but on awareness.

Lydia hadn’t appeared. Not yet.

But she would.

And when she did, she wouldn’t be pushing against uncertainty anymore.

She’d be pushing against a line I had drawn clearly—even if I was still deciding how long I planned to stand behind it.