Morning light made everything worse.
Nora stood in front of her closet, staring at hangers like they held the secrets to the universe, and tried to convince herself she wasn't choosing her outfit based on whether Adrian would notice.
The sundress hung innocent and yellow, scattered with tiny white flowers. Fitted bodice, flowing skirt, thin straps that showed her shoulders. She'd bought it last summer, worn it exactly once.
She should wear jeans. A t-shirt. Something that didn't scream I'm trying.
She pulled on the sundress.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and something baking. Adrian stood at the counter, dress shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loose around his neck, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other held a mug.
He looked up when she entered.
His eyes tracked down—shoulders, waist, the length of leg the dress revealed—before snapping back to her face. Something flickered across his expression. Gone before she could name it.
"Morning," he said. Carefully neutral.
"Morning." She headed for the coffee, hyperaware of his gaze following her movement. "You're up early."
"Conference call at six."
"Singapore?"
"Tokyo." He took a long drink of coffee, attention back on his phone. But his knuckles were white around the mug.
Nora poured her own cup, added cream and sugar, tried to pretend this was normal. Just two people sharing breakfast. Nothing complicated about it.
"There are scones," Adrian said, gesturing to a basket on the counter. "Mrs. Chen dropped them off this morning."
"She comes on Thursdays?"
"And Mondays. Leaves prepared meals in the fridge."
Right. Because even the household staff had schedules she'd forgotten about.
Nora grabbed a scone, broke off a piece. Blueberry. Still warm.
The silence stretched.
Adrian set down his phone. "You have plans today?"
"Interview at eleven. The Hartley Gallery in Union Square."
His eyebrows rose fractionally. "The Hartley? That's—"
"I know. Prestigious. Exclusive. Probably a waste of time." She shrugged, aiming for casual. "But the curator saw my portfolio online, wanted to meet. So."
"It's not a waste of time." He said it with such certainty that Nora looked up, found him watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flip. "Your work is extraordinary. They'd be lucky to have you."
Heat flooded her face. "You've never seen my work."
"Victor has three pieces in his office. I've seen them plenty."
"Those are old. From freshman year."
"They're still extraordinary."
The way he said it—matter-of-fact, like he was commenting on weather—made something catch in her chest.
"Thank you," she managed.
Adrian's jaw worked. He set down his mug with deliberate care. "What time's your interview?"
"Eleven."
"How are you getting there?"
"I was going to take an Uber—"
"I'll drive you."
Nora blinked. "You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"Don't you have work?"
"I can move things around."
"Adrian—"
"Let me drive you, Nora." His voice dropped. Rougher. "Please."
The please did it. That and the look in his eyes—something almost vulnerable beneath the control.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Thank you."
He nodded. Picked up his phone. "I'll bring the car around at ten-thirty. Gives us time for traffic."
Then he left the kitchen, taking all the oxygen with him.
Nora stared at her half-eaten scone and tried to remember how to breathe.
The car was a sleek black Audi that probably cost more than most people's houses.
Nora slid into the passenger seat, immediately enveloped in leather and the faint scent of Adrian's cologne. He was back in full businessman mode—suit jacket on, tie properly knotted, sunglasses hiding his eyes.
"Seatbelt," he said, starting the engine.
She clicked it into place. "Bossy."
"Careful."
The word hung between them. A warning. A promise.
Adrian pulled out of the circular driveway, navigated through Pacific Heights with the ease of someone who'd made this drive a thousand times. Classical music played softly through the speakers—something piano-heavy and melancholy.
"You like Chopin?" Nora asked, just to break the silence.
"I like concentration music. Chopin works."
"Do you play?"
"Used to. Not anymore."
"Why'd you stop?"
His hands tightened on the wheel. "No time."
That wasn't the whole truth. She could hear it in his voice—the careful evasion, the door closing on a conversation he didn't want to have.
They lapsed back into silence.
Nora watched the city scroll past. Victorian houses giving way to downtown bustle. Morning commuters flooding sidewalks. Coffee shops with lines out the door.
"Nervous?" Adrian asked.
"About the interview? A little."
"You'll be fine. Just be yourself."
"What if myself isn't what they're looking for?"
"Then they're idiots."
She laughed despite herself. "That's very black and white thinking."
"I'm a black and white thinker."
"I've noticed."
He glanced at her. Quick. Then back to the road. "What else have you noticed?"
The question caught her off guard. "About you?"
"About anything."
Nora studied his profile. Sharp jaw. Straight nose. The silver at his temples catching sunlight. The way he held himself—controlled, contained, like he was always one second away from violence or flight.
"I've noticed you don't sleep much," she said finally. "I hear you moving around at night. Pacing. Like you can't shut your brain off."
His throat worked. "Insomnia's an old friend."
"I've noticed you take your coffee black. No sugar, no cream. Like you don't think you deserve sweetness."
"That's reading into it."
"Am I wrong?"
Silence.
"I've noticed," Nora continued, emboldened now, "that you're kind to Mrs. Chen. That you remember how Victor takes his tea. That you sent flowers to some business associate's wife when she had surgery—I saw the card on your desk."
"You were snooping in my desk?"
"I was looking for a pen. The card was right there." She turned in her seat to face him better. "I've noticed you care more than you pretend to. That the cold businessman thing is armor. That underneath it, you're—"
"Don't," Adrian said sharply.
"Don't what?"
"Don't romanticize me. I'm not—" He cut himself off, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jump. "You don't know me, Nora."
"Then let me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because the more you know, the less you'll like what you find."
The raw honesty in his voice made her chest ache. "I don't believe that."
"You should."
They'd reached Union Square. Adrian pulled into a parking garage, navigated to an empty spot with mechanical precision. Put the car in park but didn't kill the engine.
The Chopin continued playing. Soft and sad.
"What happened to you?" Nora asked quietly. "To make you think you're not worth knowing?"
Adrian's hands were still on the wheel. White-knuckled. "We're not doing this."
"Doing what?"
"This." He gestured between them. "Whatever this is. We had rules, remember?"
"You had rules. I just went along with them."
"Then stop going along with them. Push back. Tell me to fuck off."
"I don't want to tell you to fuck off."
"Nora—"
"I want to know you. I want to understand why you look at me like I'm something precious and dangerous at the same time. I want—"
"You want things you shouldn't want."
"Says who?"
"Says reality. Says the twelve-year age gap. Says Victor, who trusted me to look after you, not—" He stopped. Breathed hard through his nose. "Your interview's in fifteen minutes. You should go."
He was right. She should.
She didn't move.
"Adrian, last night in the gym—"
"Was a mistake."
"You didn't let me finish."
"I don't need to. Whatever you were going to say, the answer is no." He finally looked at her. The sunglasses were off now. His eyes were dark, turbulent, absolutely wrecked. "I can't give you what you want."
"You don't know what I want."
"Yes, I do. You want me to stop fighting this. To admit there's something here worth exploring. To take what we both clearly—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I can't. I won't. End of discussion."
Nora's throat burned. "Fine."
She grabbed her portfolio, opened the door.
"Nora."
She paused. Didn't look back.
"Good luck," he said quietly. "You're going to be amazing."
The words were a gift and a dismissal all at once.
She left before she did something stupid like cry.
The interview was a blur.
Rebecca Hartley was fifties, elegant, sharp-eyed. She looked through Nora's portfolio with the kind of attention that felt exposing—seeing not just the art but the person behind it.
"Your use of color is exceptional," she said, studying a piece Nora had done senior year. Abstract, chaotic, all bleeding reds and golds. "What inspired this?"
Grief. Loss. The anniversary of my parents' death.
"Personal experience," Nora said instead. "Processing emotion through creation."
"I see that." Rebecca set down the portfolio, leaned back in her chair. "We're looking for a junior curator. Entry-level position, but room for growth. You'd be assisting with exhibitions, client relations, some administrative work. It's not glamorous."
"I'm not looking for glamorous. I'm looking for a start."
"Why the Hartley specifically?"
Because you're prestigious and I need to prove I can do this.
"Your focus on emerging contemporary artists aligns with my own aesthetic. I want to be part of elevating voices that might otherwise go unheard."
Rebecca's mouth quirked. "Good answer. Rehearsed, but good."
Nora flushed. "Was it that obvious?"
"A little. But I appreciate preparation." She tapped the portfolio. "Leave this with me. I'll discuss with my partners, we'll be in touch within the week."
"Thank you. Really. This opportunity—"
"Don't thank me yet. You might hate the job." But Rebecca smiled. "You've got talent, Nora. Don't waste it."
Twenty minutes later, Nora walked out of the gallery feeling like she'd been wrung out and inflated simultaneously.
Adrian was leaning against the Audi, phone to his ear, deep in conversation. He saw her, said something quick, and hung up.
"How'd it go?"
"Good. I think. Maybe." She couldn't stop the smile. "She liked my work."
Something shifted in his expression. Softened. "Of course she did."
"She wants to discuss with partners, get back to me within a week."
"That's promising."
"It's terrifying."
"Same thing." He opened her door. "Let's get you home."
Nora slid into the passenger seat, still riding the high of adrenaline and possibility. She'd done it. She'd walked into that gallery and held her own and maybe—maybe—this was the start of something real.
Adrian got in, started the car.
"Celebrate with me," Nora said impulsively. The words were out before she could stop them. "Just coffee. Nothing major. As friends."
His hands stilled on the wheel. "Nora—"
"One coffee. That's it. I just—I want to mark this moment. And I don't want to do it alone."
"Call one of your friends from Berkeley."
"They're all working. Or in class. And I—" She stopped. The truth was too raw. I want to celebrate with you.
Adrian's jaw worked. "We're not friends."
The words stung more than they should have.
"Right," Nora said quietly. "Forget I asked."
"No, you're not—" He made a frustrated sound. "That came out wrong."
"How did you mean it?"
"I meant—" He turned to look at her fully. The expression on his face made her breath catch. "We're not friends, Nora. Friends don't feel like this. Friends don't think about each other the way I think about you. Friends don't lie awake at night trying to convince themselves that what they want is wrong."
"Then what are we?"
The silence stretched. Charged. Heavy.
Adrian pulled out of the parking spot, navigated through downtown traffic without answering. Blocks passed. Buildings. Pedestrians. The world continued around them while Nora's heart hammered against her ribs.
Then he pulled over.
Just—pulled the car to the side of some tree-lined residential street and put it in park.
"You want the truth?" His voice was gravel and warning and something desperate underneath. "Fine. Here's the truth."
He turned to face her. The look in his eyes made her forget how to breathe.
"You're Victor's daughter. You're twelve years younger than me. You're everything I can't have and shouldn't want. You walked back into that house four days ago and destroyed every defense I've spent years building." His hands curled into fists on his thighs. "I think about you every goddamn second anyway. When you're painting. When you're sleeping down the hall. When you're standing in the kitchen in a sundress looking like sunlight made human. I think about things I have no right to think. Want things I have no right to want."
Nora's breath came shallow. Fast.
"I've spent four days trying to convince myself this is just—proximity. Attraction. Something that'll fade if I ignore it long enough. But it's not fading. It's getting worse. And being near you without touching you is the closest thing to torture I've experienced in a very long time."
His phone rang.
The sound shattered the moment like glass.
Adrian closed his eyes. Grabbed the phone from the center console. Victor's name lit up the screen.
He answered. Voice steady. Perfect. Like he hadn't just confessed something that changed everything.
"Victor. Hey." Pause. "Yeah, she's fine. Safe with me."
The irony tasted like lightning.
Nora watched him talk to her guardian—the man who trusted him, who'd left them alone together, who had no idea what was happening in this parked car on a random San Francisco street.
"Interview went well, I think," Adrian continued. "She'll tell you about it." Another pause. "No, no problems. Everything's under control."
Liar, Nora thought. We're both liars.
"Okay. Take care. Talk soon."
He hung up. Sat there, phone in hand, staring straight ahead.
"Adrian—"
"We forget I said that." He started the car. His voice was flat. Empty. "All of it. It didn't happen."
"You can't unsay it."
"Watch me."
He pulled back into traffic. The Chopin had stopped. Now it was just silence and the sound of the engine and the weight of words that couldn't be taken back.
Nora's hands shook in her lap.
They'd crossed a line. Maybe not physically, but confession was its own kind of crossing. And there was no going back from this—from knowing he wanted her as much as she wanted him, from hearing the desperation in his voice, from understanding that the only thing keeping them apart was choice.
Fragile, breakable choice.
"This doesn't change anything," Adrian said as they pulled into the estate's driveway. "You understand that, right? I told you the truth because you asked. But it doesn't change the reality. We can't—this can't—"
"I know," Nora said softly.
But they both knew she was lying.
Because everything had changed.
The confession hung between them now. Alive. Burning.
And it was only a matter of time before one of them stopped running from the fire.