My rehabilitation program overseas was supposed to last three years.
That was the original plan.That was what my doctors insisted on.
I made it two.
Not because my hand had healed faster than expected—but because I refused to wait any longer.
Every time the pain became unbearable, every time my fingers trembled so badly I could barely finish a scale, I told myself the same thing:
Adrian is still in New York. He's waiting for me.
That thought carried me through the worst days.
I pushed my doctors to compress the schedule.They warned me.I signed the papers anyway.
I wanted to come home sooner.
What I didn't know was that while I was forcing my body forward,he had already begun learning how to live without me—quietly, carefully, without meaning to.
----
After I returned, I closed the house to visitors.
No social calls.No dinners.No explanations.
At the same time, I had someone discreetly look into Lily Wright.
Adrian called again and again.
I didn't answer once.
Eventually, he came to the house himself.
My mother let him in.
She came upstairs afterward and knocked softly on my door.
"Adrian is here," she said gently. "He came in person."
I didn't respond.
She waited, then continued in the calm, measured tone she used when she believed reason would prevail.
"He's the Pierce heir now. You're engaged. Whatever happened outside, he's already lowering his pride by coming to make peace."
I sat on the edge of the bed, silent.
"In families like ours," she added, "as long as interests align, a marriage is stable. That's what matters. Everything else is noise."
I understood the logic.
That didn't make it hurt less.
----
I had always believed Adrian and I were different.
When I first met him, he hadn't been acknowledged by the Pierce family yet.
At our private school, he was the exception—the transfer student who arrived mid-term, tuition covered by a scholarship that came with whispers.
A Pierce by blood.A nobody by status.
He wore his uniform too neatly, spoke too little, and never joined conversations that weren't necessary. Teachers loved him. Students tolerated him.
I noticed him because he never looked up unless spoken to.
The first time I talked to him was after class.
I'd asked a question I already knew the answer to—just to keep him there a little longer.
He answered carefully, eyes lowered, as if expecting to be dismissed the moment he finished speaking.
"Does that make sense?" he asked.
"It does," I said. "Can you explain it again?"
He blinked. Then nodded.
That was how it started.
One question became many.Many afternoons became habit.
I brought him coffee on cold days. He pretended not to notice, but always drank it slowly, like it mattered.
Once, when someone made a joke about where he came from, I snapped before I could stop myself.
"He got here on merit," I said. "What did you get here on?"
He didn't thank me afterward.
But the next day, he waited for me by the piano room.
"Don't do that again," he said quietly.
"Why not?"
"They don't matter," he replied. Then, softer, "You do."
Back then, I had everything.
He had almost nothing.
And somehow, we met in the middle.
----
When his mother fell ill, it happened suddenly.
Hospital rooms. Late nights. Unanswered calls.
I went with him without telling my parents where I was going.
I sat beside him while machines beeped and time stretched thin.
He never cried.
But once, in the hallway, he pressed his forehead to the wall and stood there, breathing like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
I took his hand.
He held on like he was afraid I might disappear.
"Claire," he said then, voice breaking for the first time I'd ever heard,"if I ever betray you…"
He swallowed.
"…I deserve whatever happens to me."
I squeezed his hand and told him not to say things like that.
At the time, I thought love made people braver.
I didn't know it could also make them forget.