But then, he just has to open his mouth.
His voice drops, colder. "You write romance novels for a living. You craft happily-ever-afters, sell fantasies, tell people thatlove conquers all. But according to Violet," —he pauses— "you haven't had a relationship longer than three months in five years."
The words feel like a slap, and I don't know whether to scream my lungs out or cry like a baby. Maybe I can do both. "She told you that?"
"She was worried. You're single, and the only thing that occupies your days is work—" He stops and blinks.
Realization hits us both at the same time.
"Just like you."
Silence falls between us. A heavy and charged silence.
"We're the same kind of broken, aren't we?" I breathe out. "And she thought THAT was the problem."
Adrian steps back, his professional mask sliding into place. "You have thirty days, Ms. Blake. The terms are clear."
I glance up at him. His face caught in a shaft of light.
"Thirty days to find someone, convince them to help me, and make you believe it's real."
"Yes."
"Impossible."
"Perhaps. But those are the terms."
We stand three feet apart. Close enough that I can see the dark ring around his gray irises. My hands shake, and I shove them into my cardigan pockets. His knuckles are white where he grips the edge of the conference table. The air between us feels thick,charged with confusion, anger, and something else I refuse to name.
Even now, furious and devastated, I notice: the way his jaw tightens when I hit a nerve, how his eyes are more gray than blue in this light, the rigid control in his posture.
Stop noticing him. Stop.
He just eviscerated you, and you're cataloging the color of his eyes. What is WRONG with you?
I force my gaze away, focus on the will papers.
I grab my bag—worn leather messenger, a gift from Violet—and head for the door. I pause with my hand on the doorknob, not turning around, my head and heart an absolute mess.
"Did she really think this would work? Forcing me into something?"
Adrian's voice comes from behind me. "She thought you needed a push. She believed in love stories, just like you."
My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Well, she was wrong about me."
I walk out. I want to look back—hate that I want to—but don't. I make it to the elevator, press the button, and wait for what feels like eternity. When the doors slide open, I step in and turn. The hallway remains empty. His office door closed. Adrian hasn't followed.
The elevator doors close, and I grab the railing for support, still unable to wrap my head around what just happened. I'm alone in the small space, my reflection staring back from polishedsteel. The first tear falls, and I touch Violet's brooch. Rub it gently between my thumb and forefinger.
Thirty days.
I don't care about the estate, but the library—my sanctuary, my connection to Violet.
She knows it will break my heart, and she did it anyway. Why?
What have I done to deserve this?
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