Ch 3: Elena—The Letter and the Lie

The letter arrives at 11 PM, delivered by Adrian's driver like some Victorian courtship ritual.

I stare at the cream-colored envelope on my marble counter while Daniel Morrison pours wine in my living room.

Dinner at Le Bernardin was perfect—the kind of night that would look good in photographs.

The soft jazz, the quiet clink of wine glasses, the way Daniel listened when I spoke, never interrupting.

He was charming, attentive, everything a rational woman should want.

And yet, beneath the surface of polite laughter and dessert wine, a hollow ache reminds me how long it’s been since a conversation felt dangerous.

Real. Like something that could shatter me if I wasn’t careful.

When he asked to come up for a nightcap, I said yes.

I let Adrian's driver report back and remind him that I'm not waiting around.

"Everything alright?" Daniel appears in the doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up.

He's handsome in an understated way—sandy hair, kind eyes, the sort of face that makes patients trust him instantly.

Safe. Stable. The opposite of Adrian Kane in every way that matters.

"Just work." I slide the envelope into my purse, fingers brushing the thick cream paper like it’s an untamed secret.

My pulse hammers against my ribs, betraying a curiosity I refuse to indulge.

Daniel watches me with an easy patience, the kind that would be comforting if my mind weren’t tangled in the ghost of Adrian Kane.

The contrast is sharp—one man offering warmth and stability, the other a storm I can’t forget, a past that refuses to stay buried.

My hand tightens on my purse strap, reminding myself I control what I choose to feel, even if my heart disagrees.

"If you say it's 'just work,' fine." He steps closer. His cologne is expensive but forgettable. Nothing like the Tom Ford that used to make me lose my train of thought. "But Elena, I need to ask you something."

His tone makes me look up.

"I think I'm falling in love with you." He reaches for my hands, thumbs brushing circles over my palms like he’s mapping my nerves.

I feel the warmth of his touch, steady and grounding, and yet a shadow coils in my chest.

Memories of Adrian—raw, intoxicating, reckless—rise unbidden.

My mind warns me to lean toward the safe harbor Daniel offers, but my body tightens in a mix of fear and longing.

Could I let someone in again without losing myself, without opening the door to a storm I’ve spent years avoiding?

"Daniel—"

"I know about Adrian Kane. About what happened five years ago." He takes his thumbs off my palm. "Sofia told me."

My blood goes cold. "Sofia had no right—"

"She was protecting you. She wanted me to understand why you're so guarded." He pauses. "I don't need you to forget him, Elena. I just need to know if you're willing to try moving forward."

Here's a man offering me genuine love. Real commitment. A future built on stability and trust.

And all I can think about is Adrian's voice cracking when he said 'Please.'

"I'm not ready for this conversation," I say. "There are things I need to figure out first."

Disappointment flickers across his face before he covers it. "I can wait. But Elena? I won't wait forever."

His warning is gentle. But it's still a warning.

After he leaves—with a kiss on my cheek that feels like both a promise and a threat.

I stand in the quiet hum of the apartment for a long moment.

The scent of his cologne lingers in the air, too polished, too safe.

My reflection stares back at me from the window, eyes unreadable under city lights.

Somewhere in that stillness, I feel the pulse of an old memory—Adrian’s laugh echoing against a different skyline, a different version of me.

Then I finally open his letter.

I read it twice. Then I pour myself wine and read it again.

It sounds too much like the Adrian I fell in love with at Columbia.

The one who stayed up late helping me debug code, who brought me coffee during finals.

The Adrian who believed I could build an empire before I believed it myself.

I pull out my phone and text Sofia: We need to talk. Now.

Every second I wait for her response feels amplified, heavy with urgency and dread.

Finally, the screen lights up—Sofia.

I swipe to answer, biting the inside of my cheek as if the simple act of speaking could steady the storm inside me.

"Please tell me you're not falling for whatever he sent."

"He was watching me tonight. At dinner."

A pause. "Watching you or stalking you?"

"I don't know." I walk to the window, looking out over Central Park.

"Elena, what did he say in the letter?"

"That he doesn't know if he can win me back. That he saw me with Daniel and I looked happy. That he—" I stop. "It doesn't matter what he said."

"It clearly does if you're calling me at midnight."

"He's playing a game, Sofia. I just can't figure out the rules."

"Maybe there are no rules. Maybe he's just desperate."

"Adrian Kane doesn't do desperate things. Everything he does is calculated."

"The Adrian Kane you knew then did calculated things. People change."

"Do they? Or do they just get better at hiding what they want?"

"But what do you really want, Elena?"

"I want him to suffer," I say. "The way I did."

She laughs. "Are you sure? Or you want him to prove he has changed so you don't have to keep punishing him?"

For a fleeting moment, we could hear each other’s breathing over the phone.

"I should go," I finally say. "I need to check on Ava."

"How is she?"

"Perfect. Innocent. Everything I need to protect."

"From Adrian?"

"From this whole mess."

After I hang up, I climb the stairs to Ava's room.

She's sprawled across her princess bed, blonde curls spread across the pillow like spun gold.

Her tiny hand clutches the corner of her blanket, as if even in dreams she’s afraid something might slip away.

The night-light throws soft constellations on the wall, painting her room in pink and quiet magic.

I stand there longer than I should, memorizing the sound of her breathing that reminds me what peace is supposed to feel like.

Four years old and she still sleeps like she's trying to take up every inch of space.

My daughter. My miracle. The one good thing I built when everything else was ashes.

"What should I do, baby girl?" I whisper, smoothing her hair.

She sighs in her sleep, content and safe in a world where mommy can fix anything.

But I can't fix this. I can't undo five years.

I can't make Adrian Kane into someone trustworthy just by wishing it. I can't stop the part of me that wants to believe his letter is the truth.

I lean down, kiss her forehead, and make a silent promise: Whatever happens with Adrian, you come first. Always.

Back in my home office, I pull out the leather journal I bought today. Time to document this properly.

Day One:

Adrian agreed to my terms without hesitation.

Even watching me date Daniel. Giving me complete control.

Either he's desperate or he's playing a longer game than I realized.

He sent a letter tonight. Raw, honest, vulnerable.

It was everything I wanted to hear five years ago when I was standing at that altar, waiting.

Now it feels like strategy. Like he's studied what I need to hear and is feeding it to me in careful doses.

He was watching me at dinner. Sent a text afterward wishing me happiness with Daniel.

Gracious. Mature. Everything he wasn't before. Which makes me trust him less, not more.

The problem is my body doesn't care about trust.

When I saw his name on that envelope, my pulse jumped. When I read his words, my chest cracked open.

The same thing that cracked open five years ago and nearly destroyed me.

I won't make that mistake again.

This is about revenge. About making him feel what I felt.

About watching him realize too late that some things, once broken, can't be fixed.

He wants witnesses to his redemption or destruction.

Fine.

I drop my pen, staring at my own words until the ink begins to blur.

Would this be my revenge as planned? Or am I already caught in whatever game Adrian is playing?

The thought coils around me like smoke—familiar, intoxicating, dangerous.

My reflection in the glass looks like someone I almost recognize. Someone who swore she’d never let him back in, and yet can’t seem to shut the door completely.

My phone rings. Adrian. I should ignore it.

"It's late."

"I know." His voice is rough. "I needed to hear your voice."

"Why?"

"Because I saw you with him, and I need to remember this is real. That I actually have a chance."

"You don't."

"Don't I?"

"You have six months to audition. That's different."

"Fair." Pause. "He seems like a good man."

"He is."

"Does he know about us?"

"Sofia told him."

"He must really love you."

"He's patient."

"Not the same thing."

"No. It's not."

Silence.

"I read your letter," I say.

"What was it like?"

"Sounds like what Adrian would say. Like you calculated exactly what I needed to hear."

"Is that what you think? That I'm manipulating you?"

"Aren't you?"

"No. I'm being honest. Maybe for the first time."

"What do you want, Adrian?"

"You. I want you back." His voice drops. "I want to prove the boy who ran has become a man who fights."

My hand tightens on the phone.

"You don't get to say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm supposed to make you suffer."

"Then let me suffer honestly. I can't spend six months pretending I don't still love you."

"It's too late."

"Is it?"

"Let's call it a night, Adrian."

I end the call.

But I couldn't stop wondering; What if it's not too late? What if that's the most dangerous thought of all?