Ch 6: Elena—You Deserve First Ones

I wake up tangled in Daniel's sheets.

His penthouse bedroom overlooks the East River—floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, everything expensive and tasteful and sterile. Just like him.

No. That's not fair. Daniel isn't sterile. He's safe. Stable.

The kind of man who texts ‘Good Morning’ and actually means it. The kind of man who stayed the night because I asked him to.

"Coffee?" Daniel appears in the doorway wearing boxer briefs and nothing else. His body is gym-perfect—the result of disciplined routine and controlled diet.

Nothing like Adrian's broader frame. The way Adrian's shoulders—

Stop.

"Coffee sounds perfect." I sit up, pulling the sheet around me even though he's already seen everything.

He brings me a cup—black, no sugar. My work order, not my actual preference. I drink it anyway.

"Last night was—" He sits on the edge of the bed, his hand finding my knee through the sheet. "I've been wanting that for months."

"Me too." The lie tastes like ash.

His eyes search mine. Daniel's a surgeon—he reads people for a living. Sees through facades. "Elena, are you sure about us?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you invited me here. We finally took that step. But you've checked your phone six times since you woke up."

Heat crawls up my neck. "I'm sorry. Work is—"

"It's not work." His voice gentles. "It's him, isn't it? Adrian."

I should deny it. Should tell Daniel he's imagining things. That last night meant everything and Adrian mean nothing.

I set down the coffee cup. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"I do." He stands, moves to the window. "I've been letting you do—"

"Daniel—"

"No, let me finish." He turns to face me. "I've been in love with you for months, Elena. Since that tech conference where you destroyed that venture capitalist's pitch in three sentences. Since I saw you light up talking about quantum encryption like most people talk about their children."

My chest tightens. "Dan—"

"But you're not in love with me. You're attracted to me. You enjoy my company. You respect me. But when I touch you, you don't—" He stops. "You don't look at me the way you looked at him at the opera gala."

"I hate him."

"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, hate looks a lot like unfinished business."

I pull the sheet tighter. "He destroyed me."

"I know. Sofia told me everything." He sits back on the bed. "And I'm not asking you to forget what he did. I'm just asking—do you think you can actually move on? Or are you going to spend the next six months punishing him while lying to both of us?"

"I don't know," I whisper. "I thought I could. But every time he shows up with that damn coffee, every time he remembers some detail I thought he'd forgotten—"

"You feel it again."

"I don't want to."

"That's not the same as not feeling it."

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it before I can stop myself.

Adrian's name lights up the screen. Daniel sees it. "You should answer that."

"No, I shouldn’t."

"Elena." His voice is firm but not unkind. "Answer it. Because until you deal with whatever's between you and Adrian Kane, you can't be fully present with anyone else. Including me."

I stare at the phone. Let it ring. On the third ring, I pick up.

"What." My voice comes out harsher than intended.

"Are you okay?" Adrian's voice is rough. Worried. "I saw the photos."

"What photos?"

"TMZ. Page Six. Every gossip site in Manhattan." He pauses. "You and Dr. Morrison. Leaving your building this morning in yesterday's clothes."

Ice floods my veins. "You're having me followed?"

"I don't need to follow you. You're front-page news."

I pull up TMZ on my phone. Sure enough—there I am, entering Daniel's building at 7 AM, hair messy, wearing last night's dress. The headline screams: SINCLAIR'S NEW MAN: Elena Moves On While Kane Courts Disaster

"Damn!"

"Yeah." Adrian's voice drops. "Elena, I need you to know—I'm not angry. I'm not jealous. Well, I am, but that's not why I'm calling."

"Then why are you calling?"

"We’re supposed to do like couples do. Publicly. And photos of you leaving another man's apartment could—"

"Could what? Threaten your inheritance?" My voice turns cold. "Good. Maybe you should've thought about that before you signed up for six months of watching me live my life."

Silence.

Then: "You're right. I did sign up for this. All of it." He pauses then the line goes dead.

I sit there, phone in hand, Daniel watching me from across the room.

"What did he say?"

I can't answer. Can't speak past the lump in my throat. Because Adrian didn't yell. Didn't threaten. Didn't play the wounded party.

He gave me grace I don't deserve. And somehow that infuriates me more than jealousy ever could.

"I need to go." I stand, gathering my clothes. "I'm sorry, Daniel. I just—I need to go."

"Elena—"

"I'll call you later."

I dress in record time and flee his penthouse like it's on fire.

***

By the time I reach my office, there's another coffee waiting on Marlene's desk. Oat milk latte. Extra shot. Cinnamon.

And a note on cream cardstock.

I've been collecting these notes for days. Sliding them into my desk drawer without reading them. Telling myself I'm keeping evidence.

Today, I read it; “Some people deserve second chances. You deserve first ones.”

Seeing them in his handwriting—precise, controlled, the same script that used to leave love notes in my textbooks at Columbia—breaks something inside me.

I slide it into my drawer with the others. Twenty-three notes now. Arranged in chronological order.

I convince myself I'm documenting his stalking. Building a case. But deep down, I know the truth.

I'm keeping them because some part of me—the part I've spent five years trying to kill—isn't ready to let him go.

Marlene appears in my doorway. "Ms. Sinclair? Your ten o'clock is here."

"Cancel it."

"But—"

"Cancel everything today." I pick up the coffee cup. It's still warm. He must have been here minutes ago. "And Marlene? The next time Adrian Kane shows up, let him in."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "You want to see him?"

"No." I take a sip of the coffee. Perfect, like always. "But avoiding him isn't working. So let's try confrontation instead."

She nods and disappears.

I sit at my desk surrounded by quarterly reports and hostile takeover strategies and a drawer full of notes from a man who remembers everything.

My phone buzzes. Text from Daniel: “I meant what I said. But I can't be here forever.”

Another buzz. Sofia: “Babe. TMZ. CALL ME.”

Another. Unknown number: “His response today—the grace instead of anger—that's what's getting to you, isn't it? You expected him to break. He didn't. Now you don't know what to do. — A.”

I stare at the last message. Then I type: “Stop reading my mind.”

His response is immediate: “I'm not reading your mind. I'm remembering your heart.”

I throw my phone across the room. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor, screen cracking in a spider web pattern.

Marlene rushes in. "Ms. Sinclair?"

"I'm fine." I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. "Just give me a minute."

She retreats, closing the door softly behind her.

I pull out my journal—the one I've been keeping since Day One of this arrangement. Documenting every moment. Every small victory:

Adrian saw the photos of me leaving Daniel's building. Saw evidence that I'd spent the night with another man.

His response? Grace. "Some people deserve second chances. You deserve first ones."

I wanted him to break. To rage. To finally show me the jealous, possessive man who chose his father's money over my love.

Instead, he showed me someone I don't recognize. Someone patient. Mature. Someone who loves me enough to want me happy even if it's not with him.

And I hate him for it.

Because anger is easy. Revenge is simple. But this—whatever this is—requires me to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, he really has changed.

And if he's changed, then what the hell am I doing? Am I still trying to hurt him? Or am I trying to protect myself from hoping he's real this time?

I don't have the answer yet.

But I keep his notes. Drink his coffee. Wear his favorite color.

And that terrifies me more than any hostile takeover ever could.

I close the journal. Pick up my cracked phone. Stare at Adrian's last message: I'm not reading your mind. I'm remembering your heart.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Then I delete the thread, pocket the phone, and get back to work.

Because replying means acknowledging that Adrian Kane might actually love me. And that is more dangerous than anything else he could do.