The mansion was too quiet.
I woke up to soft sunlight filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows, the white silk sheets wrapped around my legs like chains. The bed was untouched on one side, his side as if he hadn't slept at all.
Adrian Kane Williams didn't just live like a ghost; he moved like one. No footsteps, no sounds, just tension that lingered in the air like cigar smoke.
I found him in the kitchen that morning. Black shirt. Rolled sleeves. Cufflinks discarded beside a half-empty cup of espresso.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"Morning," I said quietly.
Silence.
I poured a glass of water. Sat across from him.
His fingers tapped against the marble counter. Not mechanically. Calculated. I wondered what he was thinking. What he saw when he looked at me. If he saw me at all.
"You said I'm not the one you were supposed to marry," I said, eyes locked on his face. "So who was?"
He finally looked up.
Those cold eyes didn't soften. Not even a little.
"It doesn't matter now."
"It does to me."
He stared for a long time. Then, finally, he spoke.
"Her name was Celeste.
Celeste.
Even the name sounded sharp.
"She was... perfect," Adrian said, pouring himself more espresso. "Educated, elegant, connected. Her family had deep ties with mine. We were arranged from birth."
"Arranged," I repeated, tasting the word like poison.
He nodded. "It was more than just marriage. It was a merger. A contract to secure our empires."
"So what happened?"
Adrian's eyes darkened. "She disappeared. Two weeks before the wedding. No call. No warning. She vanished."
I blinked. "Vanished? As in ?"
"Gone. Off the grid. She left a note saying she couldn't do it. That she wanted freedom."
He set the cup down hard, ceramic clinking against stone.
"She humiliated me. Publicly. The board, the press, the investors, they smelled weakness."
I leaned back, crossing my arms. "So this marriage is damage control."
He didn't deny it.
"You're the solution to a very expensive problem," he said flatly. "So don't expect flowers and poems, Zara. This isn't love. This is an obligation."
His voice was ice, but mine stayed steady.
"Then why do you look at me like you're still searching for her?"
Adrian stood abruptly. "You don't know anything about me. Don't pretend you do."
"Maybe not," I said, standing to meet him. "But I do know you haven't touched that wedding ring once."
He looked at his bare hand.
And then at mine.
The platinum ring still circled my finger like a brand.
That evening, I wandered into the study.
Books lined the walls in neat, perfect rows. Nothing personal. No photos. No clutter. No warmth. Just polished surfaces and expensive silence.
But one drawer in his desk wasn't locked.
I wasn't snooping, not really. I just... looked.
Inside were old letters. A worn photograph. And one velvet box with a ring inside.
Her ring.
Celeste's ring.
Elegant. Smaller than mine. Gold. Delicate.
It didn't fit the man I'd married.
"What are you doing in here?"
I spun around.
Adrian stood at the doorway, arms crossed.
"I was looking for a book," I lied.
His eyes flicked to the open drawer. The ring in my hand.
"Don't touch my past, Zara."
"Then stop living in it."
We stared at each other, the silence louder than the city beyond the windows.
"She left you," I said, voice quiet. "That wasn't your fault. But punishing me for it? That is."
He stepped closer. Too close.
"You think you're being punished?"
"Aren't I?"
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
For a second, I thought he'd kiss me.
Instead, he turned and walked away.
Again.
---
The next morning, a gift box appeared on the bed.
Inside: a designer dress. Red. Bold. Dangerous.
No note.
Just an invitation on heavy cardstock:
WILLIAMS CORP. CHARITY GALA
You are expected to attend.
Dress appropriately.
I got the message.
I was to play the perfect wife. On his arm. In front of his world.
Even if he couldn't stand the sight of m
The gala was held at the Met. Lights. Music. Champagne that cost more than my mother's hospital stay.
Adrian was flawless beside me. Black tux. Stoic. Impeccable.
And cold.
He didn't touch me. Didn't smile. Just introduced me with a nod and moved on.
"She's beautiful," someone whispered.
"But she's not Celeste," someone else replied.
My skin burned.
We sat at a table near the stage. Adrian's fingers drummed the glass beside his plate. Mine stayed clenched in my lap.
"You said this was a contract," I whispered. "Fine. But contracts go both ways."
He arched a brow. "What are you demanding now?"
"A name. A life. A shred of dignity."
He didn't answer.
But when the cameras turned toward us, his hand slipped over mine.
Warm.
Unreal.
We smiled for the flash. Perfect couple. Billionaire and bride.
The lie tasted like champagne and ash.
That night, back at the penthouse, he poured two drinks.
Whiskey for him. Wine for me.
We stood on the balcony, the city glittering below.
"You looked... convincing," I said, sipping.
"I'm used to pretending," he replied.
"Maybe you should try not pretending, for once."
He looked at me. And this time, he didn't look away.
"I hated Celeste for leaving," he said. "But I hate myself more for needing her."
My chest tightened.
"You don't need anyone," I whispered.
"I didn't think so," he said. "Until you."
The glass slipped from my hand.
It shattered.
We didn't move.
He stepped forward. One hand to my waist. The other to my cheek.
His mouth hovered inches from mine.
"I still don't love you, Zara," he whispered.
"I know," I breathed.
And he kissed me anyway.
Hard.
Desperate.
Like he hated himself for it.
Like I was the woman he wanted to hate but couldn't.