All Chapters of The Playboy's Forced Bride: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

It was just past eleven at night. I struggled with sleep, so I slipped out of bed and headed to the kitchen casually. The whole estate felt quiet and empty, every room in each of the wings was dark except one. Adrian’s door. A thin line of light glowed underneath it. I could hear the gentle sound of typing inside, as I passed. I kept walking, got to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and stood there drinking it. But my mind kept going back to that light. I turned around and walked back. I knocked once, then pushed the door open without waiting. Adrian sat at his desk, laptop open, papers scattered around him. He looked exhausted. He glanced up at me. Something about his face didn't feel right, this wasn't just tiredness, he looked pale and worn out, as if his body had been fighting something for hours and was starting to give up. The lines around his eyes looked deeper and his jaw tightened. He was clearly in pain, but doing his best to hide it. “You’re not well,” I said.

He was already at the kitchen table at seven in the morning when I came downstairs. Showered, dressed, and put together, with a cup of coffee in front of him, his laptop was open beside it. The board presentation was on the screen, and he read through it calmly and focused. He glanced up when I came in. “Morning,” he said. That was it, the same tone as every other morning, the full version of himself had reinstalled overnight as if nothing had ever been different. I went to get a cup. “How are you feeling?” I asked. “Better. The call is at nine this morning. I have time to finish the presentation,” His gaze locked on the screen. I poured my coffee, turned around, and leaned against the counter, while I looked at him. Then I noticed it. He paused a little longer than usual before looking back at the screen, and something in his eyes felt different from last night. Recognition. Not gone with the fever. I sipped my coffee and let the kitchen remain quiet. There was no need to

Sunday mornings at the estate felt different from every other day. Just the big quiet house, soft morning light, and the space to do whatever we chose. I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop open, I was deep into the Hargreave records, the kind of thorough work where time slips away without you noticing. The room faded. The world outside disappeared. There was only the screen and the long thread I was trying to follow. Adrian walked in around nine. He made himself a fresh cup of coffee, stood at the counter, and checked his phone. We had shared enough quiet mornings like this, it felt normal now. Two people in the same kitchen, each doing their own thing, no pressure to fill the silence. I was typing a note into my research file when his voice broke through. “Are you happy?” I looked up. He was not looking at his phone anymore. He was looking straight at me “What?” I asked, surprisedly. “Happy,” he repeated. “Are you?” I held his eyes for a moment. This was not one of the

The quarterly board dinner was held every three months at the Ardent Club in a private dining room, with 40 guests at most. It was the usual mix of good food, expensive wine, and mindful discussion meant to make the board members feel valued and keep them aligned with management’s plans. I had attended two of these dinners before, so the pattern was typical. Drinks in the lounge, then dinner, followed by Adrian’s polished presentation. After that came the social hour, when the real conversations happened between people who had decided they trusted each other enough to speak more openly. I was in the middle of the social hour, conversing with the wife of one of the newer board members, when I caught the conversation happening at the bar. Adrian stood with Garrett and two other board members, discussing the presentation. Their focus was on a minor formatting mistake in one of the financial summaries. The error had nearly made it into the final part. It wasn’t serious, just an incorrec

Three days after I came back from the hospital I found another card on my desk. You were right. Sorry, just four words. I read them again, still standing in the middle of my room, still in my shoes, holding the small card. Adrian Tao did not apologize. That wasn’t me making assumptions. That was just a fact, built from weeks of watching him operate up close. I had sat across from this man at dinners, stood with him at events, and shared a kitchen with him often enough to know how he operated. He made decisions and stuck to them. He didn’t reconsider them or soften them afterward. The card sat there. I knew that was his handwriting, and the word sorry sat in the middle of it. I walked to the window, stood there, and looked out at the city full of people living lives that had nothing to do with me. It was late. The lights shone the way they always did, steady and indifferent. I pressed my palm flat against the glass. How careful I had been this whole time, how deliberate every eff