POV Adrian
That kiss fucking destroyed me.
Not destroyed in the dramatic, romance novel way. Destroyed in the “my entire emotional operating system just crashed and I don’t know how to reboot” way.
I’ve kissed plenty of women. Models, socialites, ambitious corporate climbers who saw my last name as a golden ticket. Quick, strategic kisses at galas for photo ops. Calculated makeout sessions that served specific purposes.
But kissing Emilia in front of my family—with my mom watching like she’d just witnessed the second coming and my sister recording every second on her phone—was like getting struck by lightning while standing in a pool of gasoline.
The moment her lips touched mine, every wall I’ve spent years building just… crumbled.
My ice-cold, perfectly controlled heart turned into fucking molten lava, and suddenly I understood why people write terrible poetry and make catastrophic life decisions for love.
Which is exactly the problem.
I can’t afford to feel this. Can’t afford to want her the way I suddenly, desperately want her. This is supposed to be business. Clean, strategic, beneficial to both parties with a clear exit strategy.
So I did what Marlowe men do when emotions threaten to compromise the mission: I went nuclear on my own feelings.
The car ride home was torture. She kept glancing at me like she wanted to talk about what just happened, and I responded with the kind of professional coldness that would make Antarctica look tropical.
“Good performance tonight,” I said, eyes on the road, voice flatter than day-old champagne.
“Performance?” She sounded confused, maybe hurt. “Adrian—”
“The family loved you. Mission accomplished.”
I felt her withdraw, physically and emotionally. Felt the moment she rebuilt whatever walls I’d accidentally torn down with that kiss. But it was necessary. Better to hurt her feelings than to completely lose my shit over fake feelings in a fake relationship.
At home, I went straight to my room like a teenager avoiding awkward family conversations. Locked the door, poured three fingers of whiskey, and stared at my ceiling trying to convince myself I’d done the right thing.
It didn’t work.
For the next three days, I treated her like she was radioactive. “Good morning, Miss Hart.” “Please review these files, Miss Hart.” “The car will pick you up at seven, Miss Hart.”
Professional distance. Emotional ice age. The full CEO treatment that usually makes grown executives wet themselves.
Except instead of feeling better, I felt like I was slowly dying inside.
Every time she flinched at “Miss Hart,” every time she responded with matching coldness, every time she looked at me like I was a stranger—it was like someone was taking sandpaper to my internal organs.
I thought I was protecting myself. Turns out I was just being a coward.
Tonight was particularly brutal. She made dinner for herself—not us, just herself—and ate at the kitHicks island while I pretended to work in my office. I could smell whatever incredible thing she’d cooked, could hear her moving around, could feel her presence like a physical ache.
When I finally went to bed, I lay there staring at the ceiling, processing the uncomfortable truth that I’d rather fight with Emilia than ignore her. Rather have her yelling at me than treating me like a polite stranger.
Sleep comes and goes in fragments. At midnight, my stomach decides to stage a rebellion because I’ve been too emotionally fucked up to eat actual meals.
The penthouse is dark when I pad downstairs in pajama pants and nothing else, planning to grab whatever leftovers exist and retreat back to my self-imposed exile.
But she’s there.
Standing at the kitHicks island with a mug of tea, wearing an oversized white t-shirt that hits mid-thigh and nothing else that I can see. Her hair’s messy from sleep, legs bare, and she looks so goddamn beautiful it actually stops my heart.
We stare at each other across the kitHicks like we’re in some kind of midnight standoff.
She’s backlit by the under-cabinet lighting, all soft curves and dangerous territory, and my brain completely short-circuits. Every rational thought I’ve had about maintaining professional distance evaporates like smoke.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks quietly.
“Hungry.”
“There’s leftover pasta in the fridge.”
“Thanks.”
We’re being so fucking polite it’s killing me. Like we’re strangers instead of people who live together, who kissed in front of my entire family three days ago, who are fake-engaged and very real confused about what the hell we’re doing.
“Adrian.” Her voice is softer now, uncertain. “About the other night—”
“It was for show.” The lie tastes like poison. “My family expected it.”
“Right.” She looks down at her mug, and I catch the moment her expression closes off. “For show.”
Except it wasn’t for show, and we both know it.
I should walk away. Should grab whatever food exists and retreat to my room and continue this mature, professional approach to cohabitation.
Instead, I cross the kitHicks in four strides.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, and before she can ask what I mean, I’m lifting her onto the counter.
Her mug clatters to the granite surface, tea splashing, but I don’t care because she’s making this small, surprised sound that goes straight to places that have been on fire since our first kiss.
“Adrian—”
I cut her off with my mouth, hands framing her face like she might disappear if I don’t hold on tight enough. This isn’t a performance for anyone’s family. This isn’t strategic or calculated or beneficial to our respective corporate interests.
This is just me, finally admitting I’m completely gone for this woman who was supposed to be temporary.
She kisses me back with the kind of intensity that suggests she’s been thinking about this too, and suddenly nothing else matters. Not the fake engagement, not the corporate politics, not the careful emotional distance I’ve been trying to maintain.
Just Emilia, warm and real and kissing me like she means it.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, and I realize I’m completely, thoroughly fucked.
“This is a terrible idea,” she whispers.
“Probably the worst I’ve ever had.”
“We should stop.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moves. Her legs are wrapped around my waist, her hands tangled in my hair, and stopping feels about as likely as voluntary cardiac arrest.
“Emilia—”
“Don’t.” She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and serious and completely unguarded. “Don’t think. Don’t strategize. Don’t turn this into another business decision.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
She smiles, and it’s the first real smile I’ve seen from her in three days.
“Kiss me again.”
So I do.