Chapter 3 - Scars and Whispers
By day six, a bizarre domestic rhythm had formed.
During daylight, Adrien was a phantom. Lena would catch glimpses of him in his study, flanked by men in suits, his voice a low, terrifying whip commanding millions of dollars and unspeakable acts.
But at night, he belonged to her.
Or rather, his peace belonged to her.
They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to.
One night, a thunderstorm raged over Lake Michigan.
Adrien tossed and turned, trapped in a nightmare. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. He muttered words in rapid, broken Italian.
“Adrien,” Lena whispered, dropping the formality.
She climbed onto the edge of the mattress—breaking the invisible boundary between her chair and his bed.
She placed one hand on his chest, right over his violently beating heart, and her other hand in his hair.
“It’s just thunder,” she soothed, her voice soft. “You’re safe.”
His eyes snapped open. They were wild, feral, trapped in whatever warzone his mind had conjured.
He grabbed her wrist, hard enough to bruise.
Lena didn’t scream. She didn’t pull away.
She looked down at him with a quiet, fierce empathy. She had spent her life surviving poverty; she recognized survival mode when she saw it.
“I’m here,” she said steadily.
Adrien stared at her. Slowly, the madness drained from his eyes. His grip loosened, his fingers tracing the red marks he had just left on her skin.
“You shouldn’t be so fearless, little bird,” he rasped, his voice raw. “Not with me.”
“You’re not going to hurt me,” she replied.
“You don’t know what I am.”
“I know who you are in the dark,” she said softly.
For the first time, Adrien looked at her not as a cure for his insomnia, but as a woman.
May you like
He didn’t ask her to go back to the chair.
She stayed on the bed until morning.
