Lines We Pretend Not to Cross

Chapter 12: Lines We Pretend Not to Cross

The next morning felt different.

Not louder. Not warmer. Just… heavier.

I woke with the strange awareness that something had shifted, like the air before a storm. Adrian’s words from the night before clung to me, replaying in quiet fragments.

You’re a complication.

You make me question things I locked away.

I sat up in bed, pressing a hand to my chest as if it might slow the restless beat there.

This was dangerous territory. And we both knew it.

When I stepped into the kitchen, Adrian was already there, sleeves rolled up, tie absent. He looked composed—controlled—as if the intimacy of last night had never happened.

“Good morning,” he said, neutral.

“Morning.”

We moved around each other with careful distance, two people pretending the ground beneath them wasn’t cracking. He poured coffee. I reached for a mug. Our fingers almost touched.

Almost.

He pulled back first.

“I have an event tonight,” he said. “A private dinner. Investors. They’ll expect you.”

I nodded. “What do I need to do?”

“Be present. Be attentive. Stay close.”

I hesitated. “And after?”

His jaw tightened. “After, we return home. Separately.”

The reminder stung more than it should have.

The car ride that evening was filled with the kind of silence that wasn’t comfortable, but not hostile either. Just… restrained. The city lights blurred past, reflections dancing across the window like thoughts I didn’t dare speak.

The dinner was held in a historic estate—elegant, intimate, designed to impress without excess. The moment we entered, Adrian’s hand found my lower back automatically, guiding me forward.

The touch was practiced.

Still, my body responded like it wasn’t.

We played our roles perfectly. Smiles. Polite conversation. Subtle gestures that spoke of unity and partnership. I felt eyes on us constantly, measuring the distance between us, the way he leaned slightly toward me when he spoke.

At one point, a woman in a red gown approached, her smile sharp and knowing.

“So this is the wife,” she said, eyes sweeping over me. “You’ve been very quiet, Amara.”

“I prefer listening,” I replied calmly.

She laughed. “Smart. Adrian doesn’t tolerate interruptions.”

I glanced at him. His expression was unreadable.

“On the contrary,” he said, his hand tightening at my waist. “Amara’s insight has been… refreshing.”

The woman raised a brow. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” he said firmly.

The word echoed louder than it should have.

Later, as we stepped outside for air, the night breeze cool against my skin, I finally exhaled.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

He looked at me. “Do what?”

“Defend me.”

His gaze softened, just slightly. “I wasn’t defending you. I was stating a fact.”

My heart betrayed me again.

Back inside, the music shifted, slower now. A few couples moved to the open floor.

One of the hosts smiled at us. “Care to join?”

I started to decline, but Adrian spoke first.

“Of course.”

He held out his hand.

This was new. Not in the contract. Not rehearsed.

I placed my hand in his.

The music was slow, intimate. His hand rested at my waist, warm and steady. My other hand rested against his chest, and I could feel his heartbeat beneath my palm.

For a moment, the world faded.

We swayed gently, close enough that I could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his breath near my temple.

“This crosses a line,” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Then why—?”

“Because sometimes,” he murmured, “lines only exist because we’re afraid of what happens when we step over them.”

My breath caught.

When the song ended, he released me immediately, the distance returning like a snapped cord. The drive home was silent again, but it was different now. Taut. Charged.

At the penthouse door, he stopped.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he said.

“I know.”

“It won’t end cleanly.”

“I know.”

He looked at me then, really looked, and for a second, the walls were gone.

“Goodnight, Amara.”

“Goodnight, Adrian.”

I watched him walk away, my heart pounding.

Because the truth was impossible to ignore now:

We weren’t pretending not to cross the line anymore.

We were standing on it.