Adrian's hand burns against the small of my back.

We're at the Metropolitan Opera's gala, our first public appearance as a couple and every eye in the ballroom tracks our movement like we're specimens under glass.

"Smile," Adrian murmurs near my ear. "They're watching."

"Let them." I adjust my grip on my champagne flute. "That's the point."

His fingers press harder against the emerald silk. Possessive. He has no right to touch me this way.

I should pull away. Make a scene. Remind him that proximity doesn't mean permission.

Instead, I let him guide me through the crowd because these witnesses need to see us together. 

They need to believe Victor Kane's will is bringing us back together instead of tearing us apart in slow motion.

"Victoria Ashford," Adrian warns. "She's circling."

Sure enough, Park Avenue royalty wrapped in Chanel glides toward us with a champagne flute and a predator's smile.

"Adrian Kane. Back from the dead." Victoria's eyes slide to me. "And with Elena Sinclair. How resilient of you both!"

"Victoria." Adrian's voice could freeze water. "Still draining your third husband's trust fund?"

Her smile sharpens. "Still letting dead men pull your strings?"

She floats away before Adrian can respond.

"Breathe," I say. His hand has gone rigid against my spine. "They smell weakness like sharks smell blood."

"I know." His jaw works. "I used to be one of them."

'Used to be.'  Like five years changed him into something different. Something better. I don't believe that for a second.

"There's Daniel." I nod toward the entrance where Daniel Morrison stands scanning the crowd. Six feet of surgeon's precision wrapped in black suit, looking like every mother's dream son-in-law.

Adrian's hand tightens against my back. "You invited him."

"I told him I'd be here. That's all."

He takes his hands off my waist. "Are you sure that's all?" 

"News flash!" I drain my champagne and set the empty flute on a passing tray. "I wanted him here."

He smirks and stares at me. "Perfect."

I took my eyes off him to watch Daniel spot me.

"Elena." Daniel stops in front of us, his smile warm and genuine. He barely glances at Adrian. "You look devastating."

"Daniel." I accept his kiss on my cheek, let it linger just long enough for every camera in the room to capture it. "I didn't know you'd be here so early."

"Pediatric surgery fundraiser. I'm on the board." His hand finds my waist-the exact spot Adrian just abandoned. "Dance with me?"

I feel Adrian's heavy stare on me. Every society photographer in the ballroom pivots toward us. "Let's move before the song forgets us, Dan." I grin at Daniel as he leads me onto the dance floor.

The string quartet swells into a waltz. His hand settles at my waist-respectful, appropriate, nothing like Adrian's possessive grip.

He smells like expensive cologne and antiseptic. Clean. Safe. Everything Adrian Kane will never be.

"You're using me," Daniel says as we begin to move. His voice holds no accusation. Just observation.

My steps falter. "What?"

"To make him jealous." He spins me, his smile never wavering for the cameras. "It's fine. I'm aware."

Heat crawls up my neck. "Daniel-"

"I'm not asking you to stop." His brown eyes-kind, uncomplicated-search mine. "But for the record, when you're done playing games with Kane, I'd like to take you to dinner. A real one. Where we talk about things that don't involve jealousy games."

"You don't know-"

"I know enough." He pulls me closer as the music swells. "Would you like me to show you what it looks like when someone stays?"

"Daniel-"

"I'm not asking for an answer now." His thumb brushes my waist. "I'm just telling you: when you're ready to stop looking backward, I'll be here."

The song ends. He bows, kisses the back of my palm, and walks away like he didn't just offer me everything I should want.

I stand on the dance floor, suddenly exposed. Cameras flash. The gossip reaches a crescendo, vibrating through the floorboards.

Then Adrian's hand catches my elbow. "Back to my space."

The quartet begins the final waltz. He pulls me closer than appropriate for two people who hate each other. I could feel his heart hammering against my ribs.

"He wants you." 

"Good."

"Is it?"

"That's the point of this arrangement. You get to watch me be happy with someone else."

His hand splays across my lower back. His fingers span my spine like he's trying to memorize every vertebra. "Are you happy with him?"

"That's none of your business."

"We're supposed to be courting."

"We're supposed to be performing."

We move together, and my body betrays me. "Don't," I whisper.

"Don't what?"

"Make me remember."

"I remember everything, Elena." His mouth hovers near my temple. His breath is warm against my skin. "The way you hum when you're concentrating. How you cry at insurance commercials but never at funerals. The sound you make when-"

"Stop."

"I can't." His fingers tighten against my spine. "I've tried for five years to forget you. I can't. Can't stop wanting you. Can't stop-"

Our eyes lock. The ballroom disappears. Three hundred people, society photographers, Victoria Ashford's malicious laughter-all of it vanishes like smoke.

There's only this: his blue eyes drowning in regret, mine burning with I refuse to admit.

His gaze drops to my mouth. My pulse hammers in my throat.

Just seconds. That's all it takes for five years of carefully constructed armor to crack straight down the middle.

Then the music ends. Reality crashes back. Applause. Camera flashes. Every pair of eyes dissecting every little expression on my face.

I step back. Adrian's hand falls away, but his fingers trail down my arm-deliberate, devastating.

"Thank you for the dance." My voice doesn't sound like mine.

"Elena-"

I walk away before he can finish. Before I do something catastrophic like staying.

Daniel waits near the exit with my coat. "Ready to leave?"

I take his arm without looking back. But I know Adrian's eyes are on me all the way to the door.

Cinnamon. I smell it the moment Marlene sets the cup on her desk. Oat milk latte, extra shot, cinnamon dust on top.

Elena's exact order from five years ago. The one I memorized after our third date when she mentioned-just once, in passing-that most baristas get it wrong.

"She's in meetings all morning," Marlene says before I can ask. Her tone is gentle. Pitying, maybe. "Then calls with Tokyo. Then a site visit."

It's day four of this routine. I've been showing up at Sinclair Technologies at 7:47 AM with coffee she might not drink. "I'll just leave it, then."

Marlene takes the cup but doesn't move toward Elena's office. Instead, she studies me for a while before speaking. "Mr. Kane, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why coffee?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Why not flowers? Or jewelry? Some grand gestures men like you usually make when you're trying to win someone back."

I consider the question. Down the hallway, Elena's frosted glass door stays shut. Her name etched in emerald letters. She's in there pretending I don't exist.

"Flowers die," I say finally. "Jewelry feels like buying forgiveness. But coffee . . ." I pause, searching for words that don't make me sound completely pathetic. "Coffee is what I brought her every morning when we were together. It's proof I paid attention to the small things. That I-"

"Remembered."

"Yeah."

Marlene picks up the cup. For a second, I think she's going to throw it away right in front of me. But she says, "She drinks them. Every single one. She won't admit it, but I see the empty cups."

I hold back my excitement with a smile too brief for her to notice. "Thank you for telling me that."

"I didn't tell you anything." But she's almost smiling. "Have a good day, Mr. Kane."

I leave the building and slide into my car where Nathan's been waiting.

"Kane Industries?" he asks.

"Sure."

We pull into traffic. I stare out the window at Manhattan blurring past-glass and steel and people who don't spend their mornings delivering coffee to women who hate them.

My phone buzzes. Marcus: "Day 4 of your pathetic coffee delivery service. How's that working out for you?"

I just pocket the phone and try not to think about the fact that my brother's right.

Four days of coffee deliveries. Four days of Elena refusing to see me. Four days of Marlene's pitying looks and my own stubborn refusal to accept that some things, once broken, can't be fixed.

But she's drinking the coffee. That has to mean something. Doesn't it?

***

At Kane Industries, I drown myself in quarterly reports and hostile takeover strategies until Marcus storms into my office without knocking.

"You're pathetic." He drops into the chair across from my desk. "Chasing a woman who won't even see you."

"Good morning to you, Marcus Kane."

"It's been two weeks, Adrian. She's not softening. You're wasting your time."

I lean back, studying my brother. We share Victor's blue eyes, but Marcus's hold bitterness where mine hold regret. Always have.

"You want me to give up."

"I want you to be realistic. The will forced this courtship. She's playing along for her own reasons-probably revenge. You think she's going to fall back in love with you over coffee?"

"No." My voice stays level. "But I think she'll remember I loved her enough to learn her order by heart. That's a start."

Marcus laughs-sharp, humorless. "You're delusional."

"Maybe. But I'm showing up. That's more than I did five years ago."

His face shutters. We don't talk about the wedding that didn't happen. About my disappearing act. About the two years I spent falling apart while Marcus held Kane Industries together.

"Dad would be ashamed," Marcus says.

"Dad's dead. And he was wrong about a lot of things."

"Including her?"

"Especially her." I meet his eyes. "He saw a threat. I see the woman I should've fought for."

Marcus stands, buttons his suit jacket. "When she ruins you-and she will-don't say I didn't warn you."

He leaves. I sit in silence.

***

The next day arrives like every other day this week. I show up at Sinclair Technologies at 8 AM. Coffee in hand. Marlene's not at her desk.

So I do something stupid. I walk down the hallway and knock on Elena's door.

"Come in."

I push the door open.

Elena sits behind her desk, phone pressed to her ear, mid-sentence with someone in Tokyo. She's wearing emerald green-a silk blouse that makes her eyes attractive.

The color I told her once, drunk on wine and her, was my favorite on her.

Her gaze snaps to mine. A mix of surprise and anger flickers on her face.

"I'll call you back, Yamamoto-san." She ends the call. Sets down her phone with precision. "You can't just walk in here."

"Marlene wasn't at her desk."

"That doesn't give you clearance to-"

"You're wearing green." My voice cracks around the edges.

"It's a blouse, Adrian. Women wear blouses."

"That's my favorite color on you. You know that."

Her pulse jumps in her throat. She knew it when she pulled that silk from her closet this morning.

She was aware when she fastened every button. Of course she must've checked her reflection and pretended she looked professional rather than a woman sending smoke signals.

"Coincidence."

"Is it?" I step inside. Shut the door behind me. "You haven't thrown away a single coffee either. Six days. Six cups. Marlene says you drink them before they get cold."

She bit her lower lips softly. "So you're spying on me through my staff now?"

"Attention isn't expensive as you think." I move closer-not threatening, just present.

Her breath snags. "Stop."

"I can't." The honesty in my voice could shatter the windows. "I've tried for five years to forget you. I can't. And you're sending me signals-the coffee, the color . . ."

"I'm not sending you anything."

"You are. Even if you don't realize it." I'm close enough now that I could touch her if I wanted. I didn't. "You could restrict me from coming here, Elena. One call to security. One ceases and desists. But you haven't."

Her hands curl into fists on her desk. "You're reading into things that aren't there."

"Then tell me to leave. Say you never want to see me again, and I'll go."

The words should come easy for her. She's a woman who hires and fires executives with a single call or text. She negotiates billion-dollar deals without flinching.

But her mouth won't form the sentence.

I watch her silence stretch. Watch the war happening behind her eyes.

"You can't say it." My voice drops to low. "Because you don't mean it."

"Get out of my office."

"Elena-"

"Now."

I go. But at the doorway, I turn back. "For what it's worth? You're beautiful in green. You always were."

The door clicks shut behind me. I don't see her face. I don't know if my words landed or bounced off her armor.

But I heard her breath catch. And that's enough for today.

I wake up tangled in Daniel's sheets.

His penthouse bedroom overlooks the East River-floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, everything expensive and tasteful and sterile. Just like him.

No. That's not fair. Daniel isn't sterile. He's safe. Stable.

The kind of man who texts 'Good Morning' and actually means it. The kind of man who stayed the night because I asked him to.

"Coffee?" Daniel appears in the doorway wearing boxer briefs and nothing else. His body is gym-perfect-the result of disciplined routine and controlled diet.

Nothing like Adrian's broader frame. The way Adrian's shoulders-

Stop.

"Coffee sounds perfect." I sit up, pulling the sheet around me even though he's already seen everything.

He brings me a cup-black, no sugar. My work order, not my actual preference. I drink it anyway.

"Last night was-" He sits on the edge of the bed, his hand finding my knee through the sheet. "I've been wanting that for months."

"Me too." The lie tastes like ash.

His eyes search mine. Daniel's a surgeon-he reads people for a living. Sees through facades. "Elena, are you sure about us?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you invited me here. We finally took that step. But you've checked your phone six times since you woke up."

Heat crawls up my neck. "I'm sorry. Work is-"

"It's not work." His voice gentles. "It's him, isn't it? Adrian."

I should deny it. Should tell Daniel he's imagining things. That last night meant everything and Adrian mean nothing.

I set down the coffee cup. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"I do." He stands, moves to the window. "I've been letting you do-"

"Daniel-"

"No, let me finish." He turns to face me. "I've been in love with you for months, Elena. Since that tech conference where you destroyed that venture capitalist's pitch in three sentences. Since I saw you light up talking about quantum encryption like most people talk about their children."

My chest tightens. "Dan-"

"But you're not in love with me. You're attracted to me. You enjoy my company. You respect me. But when I touch you, you don't-" He stops. "You don't look at me the way you looked at him at the opera gala."

"I hate him."

"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, hate looks a lot like unfinished business."

I pull the sheet tighter. "He destroyed me."

"I know. Sofia told me everything." He sits back on the bed. "And I'm not asking you to forget what he did. I'm just asking-do you think you can actually move on? Or are you going to spend the next six months punishing him while lying to both of us?"

"I don't know," I whisper. "I thought I could. But every time he shows up with that damn coffee, every time he remembers some detail I thought he'd forgotten-"

"You feel it again."

"I don't want to."

"That's not the same as not feeling it."

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it before I can stop myself.

Adrian's name lights up the screen. Daniel sees it. "You should answer that."

"No, I shouldn't."

"Elena." His voice is firm but not unkind. "Answer it. Because until you deal with whatever's between you and Adrian Kane, you can't be fully present with anyone else. Including me."

I stare at the phone. Let it ring. On the third ring, I pick up.

"What." My voice comes out harsher than intended.

"Are you okay?" Adrian's voice is rough. Worried. "I saw the photos."

"What photos?"

"TMZ. Page Six. Every gossip site in Manhattan." He pauses. "You and Dr. Morrison. Leaving your building this morning in yesterday's clothes."

Ice floods my veins. "You're having me followed?"

"I don't need to follow you. You're front-page news."

I pull up TMZ on my phone. Sure enough-there I am, entering Daniel's building at 7 AM, hair messy, wearing last night's dress. The headline screams: SINCLAIR'S NEW MAN: Elena Moves On While Kane Courts Disaster

"Damn!"

"Yeah." Adrian's voice drops. "Elena, I need you to know-I'm not angry. I'm not jealous. Well, I am, but that's not why I'm calling."

"Then why are you calling?"

"We're supposed to do like couples do. Publicly. And photos of you leaving another man's apartment could-"

"Could what? Threaten your inheritance?" My voice turns cold. "Good. Maybe you should've thought about that before you signed up for six months of watching me live my life."

Silence.

Then: "You're right. I did sign up for this. All of it." He pauses then the line goes dead.

I sit there, phone in hand, Daniel watching me from across the room.

"What did he say?"

I can't answer. Can't speak past the lump in my throat. Because Adrian didn't yell. Didn't threaten. Didn't play the wounded party.

He gave me grace I don't deserve. And somehow that infuriates me more than jealousy ever could.

"I need to go." I stand, gathering my clothes. "I'm sorry, Daniel. I just-I need to go."

"Elena-"

"I'll call you later."

I dress in record time and flee his penthouse like it's on fire.

***

By the time I reach my office, there's another coffee waiting on Marlene's desk. Oat milk latte. Extra shot. Cinnamon.

And a note on cream cardstock.

I've been collecting these notes for days. Sliding them into my desk drawer without reading them. Telling myself I'm keeping evidence.

Today, I read it; "Some people deserve second chances. You deserve first ones."

Seeing them in his handwriting-precise, controlled, the same script that used to leave love notes in my textbooks at Columbia-breaks something inside me.

I slide it into my drawer with the others. Twenty-three notes now. Arranged in chronological order.

I convince myself I'm documenting his stalking. Building a case. But deep down, I know the truth.

I'm keeping them because some part of me-the part I've spent five years trying to kill-isn't ready to let him go.

Marlene appears in my doorway. "Ms. Sinclair? Your ten o'clock is here."

"Cancel it."

"But-"

"Cancel everything today." I pick up the coffee cup. It's still warm. He must have been here minutes ago. "And Marlene? The next time Adrian Kane shows up, let him in."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "You want to see him?"

"No." I take a sip of the coffee. Perfect, like always. "But avoiding him isn't working. So let's try confrontation instead."

She nods and disappears.

I sit at my desk surrounded by quarterly reports and hostile takeover strategies and a drawer full of notes from a man who remembers everything.

My phone buzzes. Text from Daniel: "I meant what I said. But I can't be here forever."

Another buzz. Sofia: "Babe. TMZ. CALL ME."

Another. Unknown number: "His response today-the grace instead of anger-that's what's getting to you, isn't it? You expected him to break. He didn't. Now you don't know what to do. - A."

I stare at the last message. Then I type: "Stop reading my mind."

His response is immediate: "I'm not reading your mind. I'm remembering your heart."

I throw my phone across the room. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor, screen cracking in a spider web pattern.

Marlene rushes in. "Ms. Sinclair?"

"I'm fine." I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. "Just give me a minute."

She retreats, closing the door softly behind her.

I pull out my journal-the one I've been keeping since day one of this arrangement. Documenting every moment. Every small victory:

Adrian saw the photos of me leaving Daniel's building. Saw evidence that I'd spent the night with another man.

His response? Grace. "Some people deserve second chances. You deserve first ones."

I wanted him to break. To rage. To finally show me the jealous, possessive man who chose his father's money over my love.

Instead, he showed me someone I don't recognize. Someone patient. Mature. Someone who loves me enough to want me happy even if it's not with him.

And I hate him for it.

Because anger is easy. Revenge is simple. But this-whatever this is-requires me to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, he really has changed.

And if he's changed, then what the hell am I doing? Am I still trying to hurt him? Or am I trying to protect myself from hoping he's real this time?

I don't have the answer yet.

But I keep his notes. Drink his coffee. Wear his favorite color.

And that terrifies me more than any hostile takeover ever could.

I close the journal. Pick up my cracked phone. Stare at Adrian's last message: I'm not reading your mind. I'm remembering your heart.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Then I delete the thread, pocket the phone, and get back to work.

Because replying means acknowledging that Adrian Kane might actually love me. And that is more dangerous than anything else he could do.