By the time Adrian and Clara returned to the penthouse that night, the air between them was strained but fragile, like glass balanced on the edge of breaking.
The public statement had gone out brief, polished, and firm. "Mr. Adrian Cole and his assistant, Ms. Clara James, are not romantically involved. Any insinuations otherwise are false."
It should have been enough to end the gossip. But of course, it wasn't.
New articles had appeared within hours, spinning the denial into more fuel: He's protecting her. He's hiding something. The chemistry is obvious.
Clara read them in silence, her throat tight, while Adrian paced across the living room like a restless shadow.
"I told you," he muttered, "the more you fight it, the louder they get."
"You don't seem very upset about it," Clara said, struggling to keep her voice steady.
He glanced at her, the faintest twitch in his jaw. "You think I'm not? This is my life, Clara. My every day."
She didn't answer. She could see exhaustion behind his defiance the kind that no amount of fame or fortune could hide.
He raked a hand through his hair. "I can handle them tearing me apart. I've built armor for that. But when they drag you into it…" His voice trailed off, rough and low.
Clara froze. It was the first time she'd heard emotion in his tone that wasn't anger. "I can handle myself," she said quietly.
He turned to her fully, his eyes dark but honest. "Maybe you can. But you shouldn't have to because of me."
For a long moment, they just stared at each other the arrogant superstar and the steady assistant, two people from opposite worlds connected by something neither could name.
Finally, Adrian exhaled and collapsed onto the couch. He gestured toward the open piano by the window. "You ever play?"
Clara blinked. "A little. When I was younger."
"Then sit," he said, motioning toward the bench.
"I don't think"
"Please." The word slipped out softer than he intended.
It caught her off guard. Adrian Cole didn't say please.
Cautiously, Clara sat. Her fingers brushed the keys, uncertain. "What should I play?"
"Anything," he murmured. "As long as it's not one of mine."
She smiled faintly, then began to play something simple and slow a melody half-remembered from her childhood. The soft notes filled the space, washing over the tension. Adrian leaned back, watching her quietly, the sharp lines of his face softening with every passing second.
When she finished, silence hung between them. Then he spoke, his voice low. "My mother used to play."
Clara turned slightly. He wasn't looking at her now, just staring at the city lights. "Before all this," he continued, "before the tours and cameras, she'd sit at a piano like that every night. Said it was the only thing that kept her sane."
"What happened to her?"
"She left." His tone was flat, but his hand tightened around the edge of the couch. "When things got too big. Too loud. My father… wasn't exactly the type to make staying easy."
Clara's heart ached. "I'm sorry."
He shrugged, but the gesture was empty. "Don't be. Everyone leaves eventually. I learned that early."
She wanted to say something something that would reach through the wall he'd built. But instead, she just said softly, "Maybe not everyone."
He looked at her then, really looked. The flicker of something vulnerable crossed his eyes—fear, maybe, or hope. But before it could take root, he stood abruptly, the wall slamming back into place.
"It's late," he muttered. "You should get some rest. We've got another early start tomorrow."
Clara rose slowly, feeling the air shift again, the warmth replaced by distance. She nodded, heading toward her room, but paused at the door. "Goodnight, Adrian."
He didn't answer.
But after she disappeared down the hall, Adrian stayed standing by the piano, staring at the keys she had just touched. The melody lingered in his head, looping endlessly, refusing to let him go.
He sat down and pressed a single key, letting it echo through the stillness. His voice, when he finally spoke, was barely a whisper.
"Maybe not everyone," he repeated to himself.
For the first time in years, Adrian Cole felt something he couldn't sing, couldn't hide, couldn't control hope.