Morning spilled through the penthouse windows in streaks of pale gold, catching on the glass edges of the living room. Adrian's world was spotless, chrome, marble, and silence.
Her footsteps made no sound on the polished floor, as if the house itself refused to acknowledge her.
She hadn't meant to open his drawer.
She'd only been looking for a pen, something to sign a delivery receipt. But when the smooth metal handle slid open, she froze.
Beneath stacks of neatly arranged documents and cuff links lay a single photograph. The paper was soft at the edges, worn from years of being touched.
She lifted it carefully.
Two students stood on the university courtyard steps, laughing, her in a white dress with ink stains on the hem, him in a loose shirt, wind in his hair.
Adrian's arm curved around her shoulders, casual, protective, as if he already knew she belonged there.
Her throat tightened.
That was the day they'd skipped classes, hiding in the art studio to paint each other's portraits on scraps of cardboard. He'd said her laugh sounded like sunlight. She'd believed every word.
She pressed the corner of the photo between her fingers. Why would he keep this?
The man who'd made her sign a marriage contract now kept a relic of a love he'd destroyed.
The soft click of the door made her spin around.
Adrian stood at the threshold of his office, coat draped loosely over one shoulder, expression unreadable. His eyes fell on the photo in her hand.
The silence stretched, thin, sharp, waiting to break.
Elena's heart stumbled. "I was looking for a pen."
He didn't answer. He crossed the room slowly, the faint scent of cedar and rain following him. Every step he took made her pulse climb higher.
When he stopped in front of her, she could see his reflection beside hers in the window, two ghosts of what they used to be.
He plucked the photo from her fingers, eyes never leaving her face. "You shouldn't touch what isn't yours."
She swallowed. "I didn't know the past belonged to you alone."
A flicker crossed his expression, pain, maybe, gone too fast to name.
Then came the calm, practiced cruelty. "Don't live in the past, Elena. It doesn't suit you."
He slipped the photograph back into the drawer and shut it with a soft click, the sound far too final for something so small.
She was still watching him, eyes bright with unspoken questions. He wanted her to stop looking at him like that, like she still saw the boy who'd loved her before power and vengeance took his place.
He loosened his tie and turned toward the window, needing the distraction of the skyline. "You're free to use the study," he said. "Just not my desk."
Her voice was steady, but soft. "Why keep it, then?"
He didn't move.
For a moment, he thought of the rain-damp grass of the old campus, her laughter echoing through the courtyard, paint smudged on her cheek.
He'd kept the photo because it was the only piece of that world he hadn't been able to burn.
But he wouldn't give her that power again.
"Sentimentality," he said lightly. "A weakness I occasionally indulge."
He turned back, expecting her anger, her glare.
What he didn't expect was the quiet sorrow in her eyes.
"You were never weak," she whispered. "Just afraid."
The words hit too close.
He stepped forward before he could stop himself. "Afraid?"
She didn't flinch. "Yes. You pushed people away before they could hurt you. You always did."
He felt the edge of control slip, the one thing he swore he'd never lose again.
"Careful, Elena," he murmured. "You talk as if you know me."
She met his gaze, unblinking. "I did."
Five Years Earlier
Rain had drenched the university courtyard, forcing students to scatter beneath the covered walkways.
Elena clutched her umbrella, searching for him.
She found Adrian sitting on the steps outside the art building, hair dripping, sketchbook open on his knee. The rain had smudged the charcoal lines of whatever he'd been drawing.
"You'll ruin it," she scolded, kneeling beside him.
He looked up with that grin, the easy one that always unraveled her defenses. "It's only paper."
She tried to cover both of them with the umbrella, but he shifted closer, shoulder brushing hers. The air between them smelled of rain and graphite.
"You shouldn't wait out here," she said. "You'll get sick."
He looked at her, eyes full of something she hadn't learned to name yet. "Then you'd have to take care of me."
She laughed, swatting his arm. "You're impossible."
He caught her hand, fingers warm despite the chill. "And you like that."
Their eyes met, the rest of the world blurring into rain.
He kissed her then, softly, unsure, as if he was asking a question instead of making a promise.
That was before everything, before family names and power wars, before betrayal found its way between them.
For years, she'd kept that memory buried like a secret flame.
Now, standing in his office, she realized the past still burned.
He was watching her again, arms folded, eyes hard as the glass walls around them.
"You should get ready," he said. "The driver will take you to the foundation gala tonight. It's our first public event together."
She wanted to ask if he remembered that day in the rain. But his tone, cool, controlled, made the words die on her tongue.
Instead, she said, "Is this another rule? Smile for the cameras, pretend we're happy?"
He gave a faint, humorless smile. "You're learning quickly."
"I hate this," she said quietly.
He stepped closer. "Good. It keeps things honest."
She laughed once, hollow. "Honest? Nothing about this is honest."
His gaze sharpened. "Then why are you still here?"
The question cut deeper than it should. Because she couldn't walk away. Because her mother needed the money. Because somewhere beneath the anger, the girl who once loved him still wanted to understand why he'd turned to ice.
"I'm here because you left me no choice," she said.
Something flickered in his eyes again, guilt, regret, or just the reflection of her defiance.
He took another step forward, close enough that she could feel the heat of him. "You always had a temper," he murmured, echoing the words he'd once thrown at her. "But tell me, Elena, does pride feed your mother?"
Her hand moved before thought caught up. The slap echoed through the room, sharp and shocking.
His head turned with the impact, jaw tightening. For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
Then, slowly, he looked back at her, a dangerous calm settling over his features. "Satisfied?"
She trembled. "I hate what you've become."
He smiled, but it was a wound disguised as charm. "No, you hate that I stopped being the boy who adored you."
He should have walked away. Should have left her standing there, flushed and furious.
Instead, something cracked inside the armor he'd spent years building. The sight of her, eyes blazing, chest rising with uneven breaths, dragged him backward through time.
He remembered the warmth of her laughter, the way her hand fit in his.
He remembered the night she'd cried when her father forbade her from seeing him.
He remembered leaving without goodbye, thinking distance would protect them both.
And now, here she was, still fighting him like the world owed her a reason.
He didn't think. He simply moved.
His hand caught her wrist, pulling her toward him. She gasped, balance tipping, and suddenly her palms were flat against his chest. He could feel her heartbeat, wild, furious, familiar.
"Let go," she whispered.
He should have. Instead, he whispered back, "Tell yourself you hate me."
She looked up, eyes bright with anger and confusion. "I do."
"Then why are you shaking?"
The distance vanished. His mouth found hers, rough, unplanned, a collision of years of silence and unsaid words.
It wasn't gentle; it was punishment and confession tangled together.
For one suspended moment, she kissed him back, then pushed him away, breathless, trembling.
Her hand rose again, then fell uselessly at her side.
"I said let go," she breathed.
He stepped back, hands closing into fists to keep from reaching again. "Consider it a reminder," he said, voice low. "Some debts aren't paid with money."
She stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief, hurt cutting through her composure.
Then she turned and walked out, leaving the door swinging behind her.
In the hallway, she pressed her back to the wall, forcing her breath to steady.
Her lips still burned from the kiss she didn't want to remember.
The city lights glimmered through the glass corridor, cold, distant stars.
She whispered to herself, as if saying it aloud could make it true:
"I don't love him anymore."
She want to convince herself so fiercely that she repeated it for number of times. But somewhere deep inside, the past still smoldered, quiet and relentless,
a fire that refused to die.