Chapter 13 – Jennie
I wake up to silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The kind that’s thick with tension—heavy and suspicious.
The sheets beside me are cold. Adrian’s side of the bed is empty. After the beautiful date we had last night, I agreed he could spend the night with me if he stayed on his side of the bed. To my disappointment, he did. But right now, that side is cold.
I pull on one of the robes from the closet, not bothering with anything else, and slip down the hallway barefoot, calling his name softly. No answer.
He’s gone.
I search the terrace, the dining room, the library. Even the damn wine cellar. But nothing. Not a single guard knows—or maybe they’re just trained not to tell me.
I feel like a prisoner all over again.
It’s already morning, the sun high enough to flood the estate in golden light, but all it does is expose the hollowness inside me.
Last night, something shifted between us. He held me like I was something precious, kissed me like I was something more. And I let him. I wanted to.
But then Zalar interrupted. Adrian walked away. And just like always, he locked the doors to his thoughts and vanished.
I tried. God knows I begged him for answers. I know it’s about Adrian, I feel it in my bones, but Adrian did not confirm or deny.
“What is it?” I had asked. “What did Zalar say?”
His only response: “I’m not sure yet. I’ll tell you when I am.”
That was hours ago. Now he’s just…gone.
And I’m here pacing, alone, desperate, and half-certain something terrible is coming. Again.
I press my palm to the cold glass of the window overlooking the front gates.
I don’t know what scares me more—whatever that intel was last night…or the silence he’s left me in this morning.
I’m done waiting.
If Adrian won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll find out myself.
I slip down the east wing hallway, every step silent against the gleaming marble. There aren’t any guards around here. Not even Zalar. That alone makes me suspicious.
His office door is slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside.
It’s colder in here. Like even the air respects him.
The space is vast and pristine, everything in perfect order.
The dark wooden walls are lined with shelves full of leather-bound books I doubt he’s ever read.
A single painting—abstract, black, and crimson—hangs above a massive obsidian desk.
The curtains are drawn, muting the light.
The room smells faintly of sandalwood and smoke. Masculine. Intimidating. His.
I move slowly, scanning every inch of the room.
The silence is heavy, too heavy, like the walls are listening.
The first thing I do is circle the desk, looking for anything—papers, folders, files.
But there’s nothing on top except that sleek black pen and his closed laptop.
I touch the surface of the desk, fingers brushing the cool obsidian.
No dust. No fingerprint smudges. Adrian doesn’t just clean—he erases.
I crouch and open the side drawer. It’s locked. Figures. I try the next one. Empty. Completely, unnaturally empty.
I turn toward the shelves. They run floor to ceiling—lined with books, most of them looking pristine and untouched. I tug one free at random. Tolstoy. Another. Sun Tzu. I check behind them for hidden switches or storage, even run my hand along the shelf backs. Nothing.
My heart starts to pound harder with each passing minute.
I go to the sleek black cabinet near the corner. I pull at the handle. Locked again. I press my ear to it. Silence. No humming. No vibration.
I drop to my knees, peering beneath the couch that sits by the wide window. There’s nothing there. No loose rug edges, no safe embedded in the floor.
It’s too clean.
Too cold.
Too perfect.
Like it’s been wiped down with precision. Like he knew someone would come looking.
I walk back to the desk and sit in his chair this time. His place. The leather is still warm from last night, as if it holds his heat, his presence.
I spin once in the chair. Slowly. Scanning the room again.
The art. The arrangement. The symmetry. All meant to impress—or intimidate.
It doesn’t feel like a room meant for work. It feels like a room designed to instill fear.
And it’s working.
Because even surrounded by his silence, his absence feels loud. The whole room screams You don’t belong here.
But I ignore the chill crawling up my spine. I plant my elbows on the desk and drop my head into my hands.
Nothing.
No clue.
No answers.
Just me. And the echo of my own breath in Adrian’s perfect cage.
I return my attention to the locked side drawer again, figuring that since it’s locked, it must contain something important. I run my hand along the underside of the desk. No key taped there. I check under the drawers, behind the picture frames on the shelf, and even inside the pen holder. Nothing.
I almost give up.
But then I remember—Professor Marsh.
“Psychology isn’t just about what people say,” he once said, twirling a bent paperclip between his fingers during a lecture. “It’s about what they hide. And if you’re lucky, they’ll hide it behind a cheap lock.”
He’d laughed, then showed us how to pick one using a paperclip and a steady hand. I never thought I’d actually try it.
I find a clip in the drawer with some spare notepads and straighten it out. I kneel down, press my ear close, and start picking.
Click.
Click.
Click.
It pops open with a soft snick, and what I see inside makes my blood freeze.
Photographs. Dozens of them.
All of me.
Some recent—me leaving the university library, grocery shopping, standing in front of my old apartment, even one of me laughing with Zoe.
Some older—me at the bookstore last winter, curled up on a bench in the park, talking to Logan outside the hospital.
I pick up one. It’s me in my old kitchen, pouring tea in an oversized hoodie. The window’s open behind me. I didn’t even know someone had been there.
They’re all carefully stacked, not a single one creased or torn. All black-and-white. Crisp. Clear.
I grab another handful and shuffle through them, my fingers trembling.
He’s been watching me.
For how long?
And why?
A chill runs down my back, thick and suffocating.
This isn’t just obsession.
This is surveillance.
This is stalking.
I stare at the photographs, my heart pounding so loudly I can hear it in my ears.
He told me.
He told me he’d been watching.
Told me he had bodyguards near me for protection. Told me he’d seen me before—wanted me ever since.
But it didn’t hit me then. Not like this.
Now, it’s real.
Now, it’s staring me in the face.
These aren’t just pictures. They’re evidence. Of every private moment I thought I owned.
There’s another one of me in class, head bowed over a textbook, biting the tip of my pen. Another from that night Maria and I went to a club—me in a black dress under flashing lights, laughing with a drink in my hand. I remember that night. I remember thinking I was safe.
Then it gets darker when I find pictures of me on dates. With Jacob. With Brody. With Milo. All guys who ghosted me after an amazing first date and acted like they didn’t know me after.
I feel sick.
How the hell did they even get that?
Everywhere. He’s been everywhere.
The club. The classroom. The street. My goddamn dates.
I press my hands to my mouth, trying to keep the gasp from ripping out of me.
I thought I was angry before.
I thought I understood what this life felt like.
But this….
This is something else entirely.
These photos span years. Not weeks. Not months. Over a year. Which means while I was laughing with friends, going on terrible dates, crying over exams, and trying to move on with my life, Adrian was always there. Watching. Recording. Waiting.
Was I ever truly alone?
Suddenly, so many things start to click. The date that ended early because the guy got a strange phone call. The apartment repairs that happened “coincidentally” right after I complained about a leak. The night I thought I was being followed, but chalked it up to nerves.
He was behind all of it.
He’s been in my world longer than I thought. Or wanted. Or allowed.
And he didn’t just watch. He interfered.
How many of those moments in my life weren’t mine? How many were his doing?
I back away from the drawer, my hands trembling.
I don’t know if I’m more terrified of what I’ve found—or of the part of me that already knew. The part of me that felt it, deep down, the first time I saw him at my door.
The part of me that wanted to be wanted—just not like this.
Suddenly, the door opens and I whirl, my eyes widening.
Adrian stands in the doorway, tall, unreadable, a shadow slicing through the low light of his office.
His eyes fall to the open drawer. Then to the photos in my hand. Then to me.
For a moment, nothing moves. Not the air. Not him. Not me.
My heart is slamming against my chest like it wants out. Like I want out.
He takes one step in. The door shuts behind him with a soft click that sounds more like a warning than anything else.
“I see you’ve been busy,” he says, voice low. Controlled. Dangerous.
I don’t back away. I won’t.
The hurt is too sharp. Too real.
I grab a fistful of the photos and throw them at his chest. They scatter in the air like broken pieces of trust.
“Tell me!” I snap. “Were you the reason every guy I dated ghosted me? Every time a guy started getting close, they’d vanish. No calls. No texts. Just—gone.”
He doesn’t flinch when the pictures hit him. Doesn’t even look down as they float to the ground.
But he’s silent.
And that silence is an answer on its own.
I feel heat rise to my face—rage, humiliation, disbelief. “So you were behind it. You were the reason I thought there was something wrong with me. That I wasn’t interesting enough. Pretty enough. Worth enough.”
Still, he says nothing. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in that infuriating way he always does when he’s cornered.
“Say something!” I shout.
“I didn’t hurt them,” he says finally, voice quiet. Measured.
“That’s not the point!” I shake my head, laughter bubbling up, bitter and sharp. “You played God with my life, Adrian. And now I’m stuck in your house, in your bed, wearing your ring like I ever had a choice.”
“You had a choice,” he growls.
“No, I didn’t,” I spit. “Not when you kidnapped my brother. Not when you trapped me in this web you spent months spinning.”
His eyes burn into mine. “I did what I had to do to keep you.”
I take a breath that doesn’t steady me. “No. You did what you had to do to own me.”
That gets a reaction. His expression cracks—just a little. But enough.
“Okay, so what?” he asks calmly. “I made sure none of them came back after the first date,” he admits.
My breath catches.
He takes a slow step toward me, eyes unreadable. “I never touched them. I didn’t have to. I warned them. Paid a few off. Scared the others. Whatever it took. I didn’t want you out there with men who couldn’t protect you…who didn’t deserve you.”
“Protect me?” I shout, the word like acid on my tongue. “You stalked me! Meddled in my life! Controlled every second I thought was mine. And now you want to act like it was protection?”
His face tightens. “It was. You don’t understand—”
“I was safer with them than I’ll ever be with you!”
Something snaps.
In a flash, I’m against the wall. His hand slams beside my head, caging me in. His other hand catches my wrist as I push at him, and suddenly I’m trapped. Again.
“You really think they would’ve died for you?” he growls, voice low and burning. “You think any of those boys would’ve kept you alive when men like me came hunting?”
“I didn’t need anyone to die for me!” I shout back, heart racing. “I just needed someone who didn’t play with my life like it was a fucking chessboard!”
His jaw clenches. For a second, his grip tightens, his body too close, his breath brushing my cheek.
But then…he releases me.
Steps back.
“I did what I had to do,” he says again, quiet now. “I’d do it again.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. My hands are trembling at my sides, but I force myself not to back away, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
Adrian’s eyes are wild, burning with something that’s not just obsession—it’s possession. It’s the kind of want that consumes everything in its path. He steps closer, slow and steady, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt.
“You were mine the moment I saw you, Jennie,” he says, voice rough, jaw clenched. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
I don’t say a word. I can’t. My throat is dry, and my brain is trying to process everything all at once—every photo, every lie, every moment that now feels like it wasn’t my own.
“I hated seeing you with other men,” he goes on, and I can feel his breath against my skin now. “Every laugh you gave them. Every time they touched you. I couldn’t take it. I had to do something. So I did.”
I want to scream at him, but nothing comes out. My silence stretches between us, charged and dangerous.
“Do you hate me now?” he asks.
I still say nothing.
He gives a humorless chuckle, stepping in so close I have to tilt my head to keep looking at him. “You don’t. You want to, but you don’t. You feel it—this thing between us. You might call it sick, you might fight it, but it’s there.”
I suck in a shaky breath. My body is frozen, but my mind is spinning.
“You feel safe with me,” he says, softer this time, dead serious. “Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re scared. Some part of you knows I’d kill for you. Die for you.”
I shake my head slowly, whispering, “I don’t know what I feel anymore.”
And it’s the only honest thing I can say. Because I don’t. I should hate him—I should be running for the hills—but instead, I’m standing here, still, breathing in his darkness and feeling it wrap around me like a second skin.
The explosion comes out of nowhere.
One second, I’m staring into Adrian’s eyes—furious, confused, hurt. The next, the entire house shatters.
A thunderous BOOM tears through the estate like a scream from hell. The floor jolts beneath my feet, the windows rattle in their panes, and the walls seem to pulse. A gust of hot air slams into us, and somewhere far off, glass shatters—followed by chaos.
I flinch hard. My ears ring. My chest seizes.
Adrian is already moving. “Down!” he barks, grabbing me just before another shockwave hits, rattling the chandelier overhead.
I can’t move. I’m frozen.
His arm wraps tight around my waist. “Stay behind me.”
“What was that?” I gasp, but my voice is drowned by the sound of shouting—boots pounding against marble, radios crackling, orders being barked.
Adrian draws his gun in one smooth motion and reaches back for my hand. His fingers lock with mine like a vise.
“Come on,” he growls. “We’re under attack.”
And then we’re running.