Ch 2: Adrian—The Price of Regret

"Where to, Mr. Kane?" Nathan asks from the driver's seat as I make it to my car.

"Just drive."

He pulls into traffic without another word.

I stare out the window at Manhattan blurring past. Glass and steel.

Can’t stop thinking about you. Tonight can’t come fast enough. Daniel's text is burned into my brain.

The way Elena blushed when she saw it. The way she left it sitting on her desk, unanswered, like she had all the time in the world.

My phone buzzes. Marcus: Well? Did the ice queen agree to save your pathetic ass, or do I start measuring the corner office for new furniture?

I turned off my phone.

"Mr. Kane?" Nathan's voice cuts through. "Sir, we've been driving for twenty minutes. Where would you like to go?"

Where do I want to go?

Not home.

Not to the penthouse that's felt like a mausoleum since my father died.

Not to the office where his portrait still hangs in the boardroom—with his eyes following me just as he's still pulling strings from beyond the grave.

"The Plaza," I hear myself say. "Drop me at the bar."

Nathan's eyes flick to the rearview mirror but he doesn't comment.

The Oak Room is nearly empty at five in the evening. I take a corner table and order a scotch. Then another.

The bartender is starting to give me looks when my phone rings. I'd turned it back on without thinking.

Harold Whitmore. My father's lawyer. Now mine.

I let it ring twice before answering. "What."

"Adrian. I heard you spoke with Ms. Sinclair."

"Word travels fast."

"Her lawyer called me an hour ago. She wants the agreement drawn up by tomorrow morning." He sighs. "Are you certain about this arrangement? The terms she's proposing give her considerable control over—"

"I know what they give her."

"Then you also know that if you violate any clause, you forfeit everything. The company, the properties, the trust funds. All of it goes to Marcus."

I drain my scotch. "I said I know."

"Adrian." Harold's voice softens. "Your father's will was unconventional. Cruel, even. You don't have to do this. We could contest—"

"No."

"But—"

"I'm not contesting it. I'm not looking for loopholes." I signal the bartender for another drink. "I'm doing exactly what Elena wants. Every condition. Every term."

"Even watching her date other men?"

"Especially that."

Silence on the other end. Then: "May I ask why?"

"I deserve it." The bartender sets down another scotch. "Five years ago, I was a coward. And now I get to watch what that cost me."

"That's not redemption, Adrian. That's self-punishment"

"Maybe I can't tell the difference anymore."

I hang up before he can argue.

The scotch burns going down. I welcome it.

I pull out my phone and do what I swore I wouldn't do. G****e search: DANIEL MORRISON SURGEON NEW YORK.

The results load. My stomach drops.

Dr. Daniel Morrison. Pediatric cardiac surgeon.

Columbia Medical Center | Published in The Lancet, New England Journal of Medicine | Graduated top of his class from Johns Hopkins | Volunteer work in South America | Board member of three children's charities.

He's not just successful. He's a goddamn saint.

And he's probably with Elena right now. Probably making her laugh. Probably being everything I wasn't—steady, present, someone who shows up.

I scroll through images. There he is at a charity gala, black tie, confident smile. There at a hospital fundraiser. There—

My breath stops.

There with Elena.

It's from six months ago. Some tech industry event. She's in a silver dress, and he has his hand on the small of her back. She's looking up at him, smiling.

Not the cold, corporate smile from today. A real one.

I close the browser and order another drink.

"Rough day Mr Kane?" The bartender asks.

"Something like that."

"Woman trouble?"

I laugh. It sounds hollow. "Is it that obvious?"

"You've got that look. Like someone just showed you exactly what you lost." He wipes down the bar. "Let me guess. She moved on. You didn't."

"I moved. Just in the wrong direction."

He nods. "And now she's with someone else."

"Now she's with someone better."

"Better, or just there?"

"What's the difference?"

"Better means you can't compete. There means you weren't." He shrugs. "One's about him. One's about you."

I sit with that for a moment.

My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number: Hurt her again and I'll destroy you. – S

Sofia Rodriguez. Elena's best friend. The one who held her together after I shattered her.

I stare at the message. Then I type back: I know.

That's all. Because what else is there to say?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Then why are you doing this? You think six months of groveling erases five years of her putting herself back together?

Fair question. No. But maybe it's a start.

A start? Adrian, you don't get it. She's not the same girl. She doesn't need you anymore.

I stare at my phone for a long moment. Three dots disappear and don't come back. I pay my tab and walk out into the late evening light.

Nathan is parked across the street, waiting. Always waiting.

"Home, sir?"

"No." I check my watch. 6:47 PM. Elena's date is at eight. "Le Bernardin. Park somewhere we can see the entrance."

"Sir, I don't think—"

"I'm not going in. I just . . ." I trail off. "Just take me there."

The drive across town feels like walking to my own execution.

We park half a block down with a clear view of the restaurant entrance. It's 7:53 PM.

"Mr. Kane, this isn't healthy."

"Then what's healthy right now?"

"You should go home. Get some rest. Plan your next move."

"I know that too."

At 7:58, a town car pulls up. The door opens.

Elena steps out.

Even from half a block away, she's stunning. Red dress. Different from the Armani blazer—this is softer, more feminine.

Her hair is down, falling in waves over her shoulders. She's wearing it the way I loved it. My chest tightens.

Then another car pulls up behind hers.

A man gets out. Tall, dark hair, confident walk. He's wearing a charcoal suit and he's smiling at her like she's the only person on the street.

Daniel Morrison. He says something. She laughs.

That laugh. God, I'd forgotten what her real laugh sounded like.

He offers his arm. She takes it.

They walk into the restaurant together, and I could swear I'm dying inside.

This is what I chose. Five years ago when I ran. This is the consequence—watching her be happy with someone who had the courage I didn't.

"Sir?" Nathan's voice is gentle. "We should go."

"Yeah." My voice sounds rough. "Yeah, we should."

But I don't look away until the restaurant door closes behind them.

***

The penthouse is exactly as I left it this morning. Empty. Pristine. Lifeless.

I pour myself a drink I don't need and walk to the window. Central Park spreads out below, lights beginning to twinkle in the dusk.

My phone sits on the counter, taunting me.

I should be planning. Calling in favors, arranging the perfect grand gesture that will make Elena see I've changed.

Instead, I open my nightstand drawer.

The engagement ring sits in black velvet.

Three carats, princess cut, platinum band. I pick it up, and the inscription catches the light: My Heart Has Your Name On It.

She never saw these words. Never got the chance to read the promise I'd engraved in a rush of certainty and love and youth.

I was twenty-seven when I bought this ring.

Twenty-seven and stupid enough to believe love was enough.

That my father would eventually accept her. That I could have both—my family legacy and the woman I loved.

I chose wrong.

And now I get to watch her fall in love with someone who wouldn't.

My phone buzzes. Email notification.

From: Harold Whitmore | Subject: Agreement Draft

Attachment: Kane-Sinclair_Courtship_Agreement_DRAFT.p*f

I open it.

Twenty-three pages of legalese that essentially say: Elena Sinclair owns you for six months. Break any rule, lose everything.

It's a trap. A beautifully constructed legal trap. And I'm going to sign it.

I pull out my laptop and start typing an email to Harold: Approved. Send final version for signature.

Then I delete it.

Instead, I open a new document and start writing.

Elena,

I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to prove I've changed when I'm not sure I have.

I spent five years trying to become the man my father wanted.

And all I became was someone who couldn't look at himself in the mirror.

You asked me why now?

The truth is: because my father's dead and I finally realized I've been running from the wrong thing.

I thought I was running from his disapproval.

Turns out I was running from the fact that I was already becoming him.

Cold. Calculating. Someone who puts legacy before love.

You don't owe me a second chance. You don't owe me anything.

But I need you to know—this isn't about the money.

If my father had left everything to Marcus, I'd still be standing in your office, asking for the same thing.

Six months to prove I'm not the coward who ran.

Six months to show you that some people can change.

I don't know if I can win you back. I don't even know if I should try.

But I know I can't spend another five years wondering what would have happened if I'd just fought for you.

See you at the signing tomorrow.

— Adrian

P.S. I saw you tonight. Outside Le Bernardin. I know that's pathetic, but I needed to see you happy. Even if it's not with me. Maybe especially if it's not with me.

I read it twice. It's too honest. Too raw. Too much.

I hit 'Send' before I can change my mind.

Then I walk to my bedroom, still holding the engagement ring. I should put it back in the drawer. Should accept that this ring will never be on Elena's finger.

Instead, I slip it into my pocket.

Just in case somewhere in the next six months, I become the man who deserves to give it to her.

My phone buzzes one last time.

Text from Elena: Go home, Adrian. Stalking isn't part of the agreement.

My heart sinks.

She saw me. Or someone told her.

I type back: Already home. Couldn't sleep.

Three dots. Then: Good. You'll need your rest. Tomorrow's going to be a long day.