The Distance Between Us

Chapter 16: The Distance Between Us

The distance didn’t announce itself.

It settled in quietly, like dust on untouched furniture, unnoticed until it became impossible to ignore.

Adrian became efficient. Polite. Distant in a way that felt intentional. Mornings passed without shared coffee. Evenings ended with brief exchanges about schedules and appearances. We moved around each other like strangers who shared a space but not a moment.

And somehow, that hurt more than open conflict ever could.

I kept myself busy—reading, taking long walks in the private garden downstairs, pretending this penthouse wasn’t slowly suffocating me. But no matter where I went, the absence followed.

That afternoon, a package arrived.

No name on the card. Just my initials.

Inside was a dress—deep emerald, elegant, unmistakably chosen with care. Beneath it, a note in Adrian’s precise handwriting.

Luncheon tomorrow. Formal. —A.

I stared at the card longer than I should have.

That night, I knocked on his study door.

“Come in.”

He didn’t look up when I entered.

“You didn’t have to send the dress,” I said.

“I did,” he replied calmly. “Appearances matter.”

“I know,” I said. “But sometimes it feels like that’s all that matters.”

He finally looked at me then, his gaze sharp but tired.

“This distance,” I continued, “is it what you want?”

“It’s what we need.”

“Why does it feel like punishment?”

His jaw tightened. “Because restraint always does.”

The next day, the luncheon was held at a private estate outside the city. The moment I stepped out of the car, I could feel eyes on me. The emerald dress clung perfectly, and Adrian’s gaze lingered just a second too long before he masked it.

We played our roles again—flawless, detached, convincing.

Until a man I hadn’t met before approached us.

“Adrian Blackwood,” he said, smiling. “And this must be your wife.”

“Yes,” Adrian replied.

The man’s gaze shifted to me. “You seem quiet. Are you enjoying the life?”

I smiled politely. “I’m learning.”

“Learning often leads to choice,” he said pointedly.

The words lingered uncomfortably.

Later, as we stood apart from the crowd, Adrian spoke under his breath. “Don’t engage people like that.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” I said.

His eyes darkened. “Choice complicates things.”

“Or clarifies them.”

He said nothing.

On the drive home, tension thickened the air.

“People are starting to notice,” he said finally.

“Notice what?”

“That we’re… uneven.”

I turned to him. “And what do you plan to do about it?”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Reinforce the boundaries.”

The words felt like a door closing.

That evening, I stood on the balcony alone, watching the city lights flicker like distant stars. I didn’t hear him approach.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said.

“I needed air.”

He stood beside me, not touching, not close—but present.

“This distance,” he said quietly, “it’s temporary.”

“That’s what people say when they’re not sure,” I replied.

He turned toward me, conflict clear in his eyes.

“I’m trying to protect something,” he said.

“And what if the thing you’re protecting,” I whispered, “is exactly what’s slipping away?”

The silence between us stretched.

“I don’t know how to be halfway,” he admitted. “It’s either control… or chaos.”

I looked at him then, really looked. “Maybe what you’re afraid of isn’t chaos. Maybe it’s connection.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I won’t chase you,” I said softly. “But I won’t disappear either.”

He nodded slowly. “That might be the hardest part.”

As I walked back inside, I understood something clearly for the first time.

Distance wasn’t just space.

It was a choice.

And sooner or later, one of us would have to decide whether to keep choosing it—or risk everything to cross it.