Chapter 5 CHAPTER FIVE

Adrian’s POV

The Blackwood penthouse always struck me as too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, not the kind you found in libraries or gardens, where silence was alive and breathing. No, this was the sterile quiet of marble and glass, the type of silence that pressed against your chest and made you wonder if anyone inside remembered how to live. Damian thrived in it. He liked his life polished, controlled, untouchable.

I never did.

So the moment I stepped through the door that morning, the weight of it hit me again, the cold air, the gleam of chandeliers that hung like frozen constellations, the faint hum of machines hidden in the walls. Everything here was perfect. Everything was lifeless.

Until I saw her.

Amelia.

She was sitting near the edge of the living room, wrapped in a silk robe the color of ivory, her hair still damp, falling in waves over one shoulder. She looked like she didn’t belong in this place. Not because she wasn’t enough for it, but because she was too much too real, too soft, too human for Damian’s museum of a home.

Her head was bent, her lashes dark against her cheeks. She twisted the sash of her robe in her hands, as if she needed something to hold onto. Her stillness reminded me of a painting, something delicate and untouchable, framed by walls that didn’t deserve her.

And God, she was beautiful.

Not the kind of beauty plastered on magazine covers. This wasn’t about diamonds or gowns. It was in the curve of her shoulders, delicate but weighed down. In her lips, pressed tight as though holding back words no one had ever let her say. In the faint vulnerability of her posture, like someone who hadn’t been seen in a long time.

I knew that look. I’d lived it. Growing up, I’d been the second son, the one no one expected much from, the one measured against Damian in everything invisible, in a house that only had room for one heir.

Damian barely looked at her before leaving. He didn’t notice the way her fingers trembled on the sash, or how her shoulders stiffened at the sound of the elevator doors closing behind him. He didn’t see anything.

But I did.

I cleared my throat lightly, breaking the silence. “Amelia.”

Her head jerked up, eyes widening as if she hadn’t expected me to say her name. The sound of it hung in the air between us. Her eyes storm-gray, almost like Damian’s but softer somehow, locked on mine, startled, uncertain.

I smiled, trying to ease the tension. “Finally, we meet without chandeliers and flashing bulbs. You’re even more stunning without the armor.”

Her lips parted. Surprise flickered across her face, then she pulled her robe tighter around her, as if I’d seen too much. “You didn’t have to come up.”

“I didn’t,” I admitted, chuckling. “But it felt wrong leaving you alone while Damian ran off. Besides…” I glanced at the massive dining table stretching across the room, “It’s a crime to have this much food and no company. Join me?”

She hesitated, her hand tightening on the robe. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Then eat for me,” I said lightly. “I promise, I’m better company than my brother.”

Her eyes flickered, and I saw the faintest crack in her wall. A spark of something like disbelief, maybe even amusement. She was fighting a smile. That small reaction was enough to push me.

I gestured to the chair across from mine. “Come on. One bite. Humor me.”

Slowly, as though every step was a risk, she crossed the room and sat.

The chef must have been waiting; within moments, platters appeared: eggs, warm bread, bowls of fruit glistening with dew. The coffee pot steamed, filling the air with a rich scent that cut through the sterile quiet.

I poured her a cup and slid it across the table. She stared at it, unsure whether to take it. When she finally wrapped her hands around the mug, something in my chest eased.

“Try this,” I said, breaking a croissant and handing her half. “Flaky as sin. Don’t deny yourself the small joys.”

Her fingers brushed mine as she took it. She froze. I felt it too, though I covered it with a casual smile. She bit into it, cautious.

And then it happened.

The smallest, faintest curve of her lips. A smile. Quick and fragile, but real.

“There it is,” I said softly. “Told you I was better company.”

Her cheeks flushed as she shook her head, retreating behind her wall. “I should… get some air.”

I let her go, though part of me wanted to stop her. “The garden’s best in the morning,” I told her. “Trust me.”

She disappeared into the elevator, and I stayed at the table, staring at the half-empty croissant on her plate. Such a small thing. Such a victory.

Later, I followed. Not to chase her, not to intrude, but because I didn’t trust this house to be kind to her silence.

The garden stretched below like a hidden paradise. Roses climbed trellises, lilies bloomed in perfect rows, and fountains whispered into marble basins. Sunlight spilled across everything, gilding the stone paths and the soft sweep of her robe as she moved among the flowers.

She touched the petals gently, her fingers brushing like she was afraid they might bruise. She moved like someone searching for escape, her gaze roaming but never settling.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I said quietly.

She turned, startled, but I didn’t step closer. I stayed a few paces back, hands in my pockets, giving her space.

“Yes,” she said after a pause. Her voice was soft, almost reverent.

The wind lifted her hair, catching a strand across her lips. She brushed it back quickly, but the image burned into me.

“You looked like you needed air,” I told her. “I didn’t want you wandering down here alone, lost in thought.”

She gave me a small, almost bitter smile. “I like being alone sometimes.”

“Of course,” I said. I meant it. I’d spent half my life alone, even in rooms full of people. “Still… It’s nice to know someone’s nearby, isn’t it?”

Her eyes lifted to mine, and for the first time, I saw it. The loneliness she carried, raw and unguarded. It flickered for only a moment before she looked away, but it was enough.

I knew that feeling too well. I’d lived in it for years. Always the second son. Always the shadow. Always unseen.

I wanted to tell her she wasn’t invisible. That I saw her really saw her, that she was more than Damian’s trophy, more than the contract that caged her.

But I didn’t. Not yet. Because the way her gaze lingered told me she already knew.

She turned back to the fountain, the sunlight spilling over her hair until it glowed like spun gold. Her robe caught the breeze, pressing against her curves, and I forced myself to look away before I betrayed too much.

But the truth was already burning in me.

And in that moment, framed by roses and sunlight, I realized the danger had already begun. I wasn’t just at risk of falling for Amelia Blackwood. I was already falling. My brother’s wife. The one woman I could never touch. And God help me, I didn’t want to stop.