What He Almost Says

Chapter 18: What He Almost Says

The silence after Claire left was not the kind that faded.

It settled into every corner of the penthouse, thick and immovable, pressing against my chest long after I retreated to my room. I tried to sleep. I really did. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw Adrian’s face when he’d admitted the truth—unfinished, failing.

Near dawn, I gave up.

The city was just beginning to stir when I stepped onto the balcony, the cool air cutting through the heaviness in my chest. I wrapped my arms around myself, watching the sky lighten slowly, like it was deciding whether to forgive the night.

Footsteps sounded behind me.

I didn’t turn.

“I thought you might be here,” Adrian said quietly.

“I needed air,” I replied. “Again.”

He came to stand beside me, keeping just enough distance to be safe. Or so he thought.

“You shouldn’t have had to hear any of that from her,” he said.

“Maybe I should have,” I said softly. “Truth has a way of finding us anyway.”

He nodded once. “I’ve spent years outrunning it.”

I finally looked at him. He looked different this morning—less armored, more human. Tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix.

“Why did you marry me?” I asked.

He stiffened.

“I know the contract reasons,” I continued. “I mean… why me?”

The city hummed below us as he searched for words.

“Because you weren’t looking for anything from me,” he said. “Not my name. Not my money. Not my protection.”

“And now?” I asked.

“And now,” he said slowly, “I’m afraid you see too much.”

I stepped closer. “Seeing you isn’t a threat, Adrian.”

“It is when I don’t know what to do with it,” he replied.

We stood there, the distance between us narrowing with every breath.

“I hurt Claire,” he said suddenly. “Not intentionally. But by omission. By withholding. I convinced myself that restraint was kindness.”

“And was it?” I asked.

“No,” he admitted. “It was cowardice.”

The honesty in his voice made my chest ache.

“I don’t want to be her,” I said quietly. “I don’t want to give everything to someone who only meets me halfway.”

He turned to me then, his gaze intense, searching. “I don’t want that either.”

“But you don’t know how to give more,” I said.

His jaw tightened. “I’m learning.”

I reached out before I could stop myself, my fingers brushing his wrist. He inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away.

“This is the part where you say something,” I whispered. “The part where you decide.”

His hand lifted, hovering near my cheek, trembling slightly.

“I—” he started.

The word hung between us, fragile and unfinished.

“I don’t know how to say it without breaking something,” he said, his voice rough.

“Some things are meant to break,” I replied. “So something real can take their place.”

His thumb brushed my cheek, barely touching. The contact sent a shiver through me.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said quietly. “In moments that have nothing to do with this arrangement.”

My breath caught.

“I imagine what it would be like,” he continued, voice low, “to choose you without calculation. Without consequences.”

“And why don’t you?” I asked.

Fear flickered across his face—raw, unfiltered.

“Because if I choose you,” he said, “I won’t survive losing you.”

The words struck deeper than any confession ever could.

I swallowed hard. “You won’t survive never choosing either.”

For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath.

He leaned in, forehead resting against mine, his hand sliding to my waist. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the promise of one.

“This is where I stop,” he whispered. “If I don’t, I won’t be able to.”

I closed my eyes. “Then stop.”

He pulled back slowly, every movement deliberate, painful.

“I need time,” he said. “Not distance. Time.”

I nodded, even though my heart protested. “Time only works if it’s moving toward something.”

“It is,” he said. “Toward truth.”

He left me on the balcony as the sun rose fully over the city.

And as I watched the light spill across the skyline, I realized something with terrifying clarity:

What he almost said mattered more than what he didn’t.

Because it meant he was standing at the edge too.

And sooner or later, one of us would step forward—and everything would change.