The soft glow of morning filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Adrian's penthouse, painting the sleek marble floors in hues of gold. Ayla lay awake in the guest suite's bed, the silk sheets a foreign comfort against her skin. She hadn't slept much. Not with the flash drive hidden beneath the lining of her purse, and not with Adrian's words from last night echoing in her head.
We're not alone.
She rose quietly, pulling on a loose sweater as her mind raced. The memory of Adrian's arms around her—protective, commanding—had kept her warm all night, even as unease gnawed at her chest. She wanted to trust him. Against her better judgment, she even wanted to be with him. But the flash drive felt heavier than gold in her bag, a weight she couldn't ignore.
Moving softly so as not to alert Adrian, she slipped out of her room and down the hallway toward his private office. The penthouse was silent save for the faint hum of the city below.
She closed the door behind her, heart pounding. The room smelled faintly of cedar and leather, his presence lingering in every detail. At the massive glass desk, she slid into his chair and pulled the flash drive from her purse.
Her fingers trembled as she inserted it into his laptop. A password prompt flashed across the screen.
"Of course," she muttered under her breath, biting her lip.
She almost gave up—almost—when a faint click behind her made her jump. She spun around, pulse hammering. But the room was empty. Only the shadows seemed to shift with the morning light.
Taking a deep breath, she typed in the only password she could think of: "A.K." Her initials.
The screen unlocked.
Her stomach dropped.
The first file was a series of encrypted contracts—offshore accounts, shell corporations, and coded transactions involving companies she recognized from the news, all tied to Adrian's name. Illegal. Dangerous.
The second file stopped her cold. It was a photo.
A young woman—beautiful, with dark hair and haunting green eyes. Her smile was warm, genuine. The file name read: "Isla Blake – Deceased."
Ayla's breath caught in her throat. Adrian had a wife. Or… had one.
The next document was a police report: Isla Blake, age 26, killed in a car accident two years ago. Suspected foul play. Case unsolved.
Her heart ached, confusion swirling with a sharp pang of pity. Was this why Adrian was so cold? So guarded?
Before she could read more, the office door creaked.
"Ayla."
She froze.
Adrian stood in the doorway, his tailored suit immaculate despite the early hour, his expression unreadable. His gaze flicked from her face to the glowing laptop screen, then back to her.
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence was suffocating.
"I… I was just—" she began, but the words died as he took a slow, deliberate step forward.
"You were just what?" His voice was calm, but it carried that razor edge she'd come to recognize. "Snooping? Or trying to find a reason to hate me?"
Her fingers tightened on the desk. "I was trying to understand you. You keep me in the dark about everything, Adrian. Last night, someone tried to kill us, and you don't even flinch. I had to know why."
His jaw flexed as he closed the distance between them. "And what did you find? The part where the world thinks I'm a criminal? Or the part where the only person I ever loved ended up dead because someone wanted to hurt me?"
His words hit her like a blow. For the first time, the mask of control slipped from his face. Beneath it, there was anger, yes—but also pain.
Ayla's chest tightened. Against her instincts, her hand lifted to his arm, lightly touching the fabric of his sleeve. "I didn't mean to dig up your pain. I just… I need to know what I'm getting into, Adrian. I can't keep walking blind through your storm."
For a moment, his gaze softened, the ice in his eyes melting into something warmer, something vulnerable. His hand came up to her cheek, fingers trailing gently along her jaw.
"You think you want to know," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper. "But the truth will destroy you, Ayla. Just like it destroyed her."
Her breath hitched as the space between them vanished. His lips hovered near hers, their breaths mingling. Her heart pounded—not just from the proximity, but from the storm of emotions tangling inside her: fear, attraction, pity, desire.
The tension snapped when his mouth finally met hers. The kiss was slow but deep, a mix of heat and unspoken desperation. Ayla melted against him, her fingers curling into his shirt as if holding on for dear life. For those fleeting seconds, the world outside didn't exist—no flash drive, no danger, no ghosts of the past.
But then, just as suddenly, Adrian pulled back, his breathing heavy. His eyes searched hers, conflicted.
"We can't do this," he said hoarsely, stepping back. "Not until you decide if you can handle the truth."
Before she could answer, his phone buzzed sharply. He glanced at it, his expression darkening.
"They found us," he muttered, sliding the phone into his pocket. "We're leaving. Now."
"Who?" Ayla demanded, fear creeping into her voice.
Adrian didn't answer. He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the elevator.
As they stepped inside, Ayla's purse pressed against her hip—the flash drive still hidden inside. Her mind spun. Whatever was on that drive was dangerous enough to kill for… and she wasn't sure if Adrian was her protector or her captor anymore.
When the elevator doors slid shut, the penthouse lights flickered again. This time, the hum of the city outside went silent, swallowed by darkness.