It started with rain.
Not a storm. Not thunder or drama.
Just a steady, gentle drizzle falling over the city, misting the windows of the penthouse as if the sky itself had softened.
I stood by the glass wall, watching raindrops trace slow paths down the surface, arms crossed over the silk robe I hadn't changed out of since the bath.
Behind me, the silence wasn't empty.
It was heavy.
And filled with him.
Aiden.
He didn't speak right away.
Just watched me.
I didn't need to turn around to feel it.
His gaze had weight.
Had heat.
"I didn't look at the drive," I said, quietly. "Not because I trust you. But because I didn't want to go back to being the girl who lets people feed her pain like it's candy."
His voice, low: "I never wanted you to be that girl."
"Then why did you keep so much from me?"
A pause.
"Because I don't know how to do this without control. And you… you unravel things I can't name."
I finally turned.
He was standing by the fire, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed, like he'd been dragging his fingers through it all day.
His expression was guarded, but his eyes — ash gray, storm-touched — were wide open.
"What am I to you, Aiden?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stepped closer. One measured stride at a time.
Until we were only inches apart.
"You're the only person who sees me," he said. "Not the wealth. Not the power. Just me."
His hand lifted.
Stopped just shy of touching my cheek.
"I don't want to hurt you," he added, quieter now. "But I will. Because I wasn't built for softness."
"And I'm not soft," I whispered.
That was the truth of it, wasn't it?
He thought I was fragile.
But I'd buried myself and clawed out of a grave no one saw me fall into.
His hand finally touched my cheek.
And I didn't flinch.
"If I kiss you," he said, "this stops being fake."
I met his gaze. Steady. Sure.
"Then stop pretending."
—
The kiss was not gentle.
It wasn't polite or patient or anything that belonged in the pages of a fake marriage agreement.
It was fire.
Need.
Starvation that had simmered beneath months of tension and sharp words.
His hand tangled in my hair as my mouth opened to his, and suddenly I couldn't remember a time when he hadn't touched me.
I felt him breathe me in like I was the one thing in his world that wasn't tainted by expectation.
And for that single breathless minute, there was no Jasmine.
No Travis.
No betrayal, no strategy, no headlines.
Just two people who had built their walls too high, now finding the cracks.
When we broke apart, our foreheads pressed together, the silence was different.
It wasn't heavy.
It was intimate.
"I don't know what this means," I said softly.
"Neither do I," he murmured. "But I know I don't want to stop."
We stood there, wrapped in each other's gravity, until the fire dimmed and the room went dark.
—
The next morning, everything should've been awkward.
It wasn't.
We didn't talk about the kiss.
We didn't talk about the way I'd fallen asleep on the couch with his arm draped around me like a silent promise.
Instead, we went back to pretending.
Sort of.
Except now, every look lingered too long.Every touch held a question.Every silence was thick with what we hadn't said.
—
That afternoon, I met with the Foundation's media strategist to approve a press release for the new school grant I'd designed.
It was my first solo contribution under the Blackwood name.
And Elias noticed.
"You've grown teeth," he said, sipping coffee across the boardroom table.
"No," I replied. "I just stopped apologizing for having them."
He grinned. "Blackwood's rubbing off on you."
I smiled — tight, polite.
But inside, something twisted.
Because I didn't know where Aiden stopped and I began anymore.
—
Later, back at the penthouse, Aiden was in the kitchen, shirtless, tossing vegetables into a pan like a Michelin chef.
"You cook?" I asked, stepping into the light.
"Only when I'm too angry to delegate."
"Are you angry now?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because someone leaked our boardroom security footage to the press," he said.
I froze.
"Of what?"
"You and Elias. Laughing. Shaking hands. Him touching your back."
My heart sank. "It wasn't inappropriate."
"I know that," he said, turning. "But the internet doesn't."
He handed me a tablet.
On it was a headline:
MRS. BLACKWOOD TOO FRIENDLY WITH FOUNDATION EXECUTIVE?
Underneath: a freeze frame of Elias whispering something into my ear.
"Great," I muttered. "Just what I needed. Another media storm."
"I've already issued a legal warning to the blog."
"And what about Elias?"
"He's being investigated."
My eyes shot up. "You think he leaked it?"
"No. But he let it happen. And I don't tolerate sloppiness."
There it was again — that line he always walked between protectiveness and control.
"You can't shield me from everything," I said. "You can't fight every battle for me."
"No," he said. "But I can fight the ones that might take you away from me."
I stared.
The room went still.
"You don't have to say it," he added, voice rough. "But you should know — I'm not playing anymore, Scarlett. This isn't fake for me."
Neither was it for me.
Not anymore.
But the words wouldn't come.
So instead, I walked forward.
And kissed him.
—
That night, I didn't go back to my room.
We didn't make love — not yet.
But we slept in the same bed.
Tangled.
Warm.
Safe.
And when I woke up, it was to the feeling of his lips against my shoulder, whispering my name like it meant something more than ownership.
Like it meant everything.