21. Adrian
— ? —
Adrian
The fallout is swift and merciless.
Overnight, Newport rewrites the story: Vivienne Lockhart, cancer charity champion, threw champagne at the woman who was quietly paying a cancer patient’s bills - at her own gala.
She’s finished. Not because she was cruel; this town forgives cruelty.
Because she was stupid about it, in public, with witnesses.
And in her place, the whisper networks have a new favorite tragedy: Nina Moretti, the billionaire’s wife who gave it all up for a dying man. Tragic. Romantic. Wrong in every particular - but the truth has never once stopped Newport from telling a good story.
***
The farmers market is crowded when Nina and I arrive.
Nina is breathtaking in the ordinary light of a Saturday morning. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater, nothing special, but she moves through the market with the easy confidence of someone who has stopped caring what Newport thinks.
“Three pounds of the honeycrisp,” Nina says to the vendor.
He’s younger than I expected - thirty, maybe, with the kind of easy smile that belongs on a magazine cover. Sun-bleached hair. Farmer’s tan. The casual arrogance of a man who’s never had to work for female attention.
He doesn’t weigh the apples. He just grins at her.
“For you? On the house.”
“That’s really not-”
“I insist.” He leans across the table, bag extended, his eyes never leaving her face. “I’ve been watching you for weeks. You always pick the best ones.”
“I just look for the ones without bruises.”
“See? An eye for quality.” His grin widens. “I’m Joseph, by the way. In case you ever want to discuss apple varieties over coffee.”
My jaw tightens. I step forward, putting my hand on Nina’s back. “She’s married.”
“Oh, I know.” Joseph doesn’t look remotely deterred. His eyes flick to me, then back to her, dismissing me in a single glance. “Everyone knows. But word around town is the marriage has been... evolving.”
I am going to feed this man his own apples.
Nina’s spine goes rigid under my palm.
“The word around town,” she says coolly, “is wrong about a lot of things.”
She takes the bag. Turns away. Doesn’t look back.
Joseph shrugs at me like we’re sharing a joke.
I want to explain - in detail, with my fists - exactly how wrong he is.
I want to wipe that smug smile off his face.
I want to make it abundantly clear that my wife is not available, has never been available, will never be available to men who flirt over produce like it’s a sport.
Instead, I follow my wife.
Because that’s what I do now. Follow. Wait. Prove.
The jealousy burns in my chest like acid, and I swallow it without a word.
***
Nina
I should not find his restraint attractive.
I walk through the market with Adrian’s silent presence at my back, and I keep my eyes forward, and I absolutely refuse to acknowledge the heat spreading through my chest.
He wanted to hit that man. I saw it in his eyes - the flash of fury, the way his hand tightened on my back, the barely controlled tension in his jaw. The old Adrian would have done it. Would have made a scene, thrown around the Moretti name, reminded everyone within earshot exactly who I belong to.
But he didn’t.
He stood there. Swallowed it. Followed me without a word.
I should not find that attractive.
But God help me, I do.
We walk in silence a while, weaving between stalls of fresh bread and artisanal cheese and handmade jewelry. I can feel him behind me - his presence, his restraint, the weight of everything he’s not saying.
“You didn’t say anything,” I observe finally, not turning around.
“What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know.” I stop at a stall of winter squash, pretending to examine the butternut. “You looked like you wanted to throttle him.”
“I did.” His voice is carefully neutral, controlled in a way that makes something low in my belly tighten. “But that’s my problem, not his.”
“Your problem?”
“Jealousy.” He steps up beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne.
Close enough that the heat of him reaches me through the cool morning air.
“I’m jealous. Of the apple vendor. Of anyone who looks at you like you might be available.
Of the whole damn story Newport is telling about you and Cole.
” He picks up a squash, turns it over in his hands without seeing it.
“But I forfeited the right to act on any of that when I packed a suitcase instead of asking a question.”
I stare at him. At the rigid line of his jaw. At the way his knuckles have gone white around the squash.
Stop, I tell myself. Don’t do this. Don’t find this attractive.
“So you just... stand there and take it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because this is what I did to you.” He sets down the squash.
Turns to face me fully, his eyes dark and serious.
“For weeks, you had to endure the whole town thinking you were unfaithful. Everyone believing a story that wasn’t true.
And you couldn’t defend yourself because you were keeping Cole’s secret. ”
“Adrian-”
“Now I know what it feels like.” He shrugs - a small, defeated gesture that shouldn’t make my heart clench the way it does.
“When the whole world writes your story without asking you. When everyone thinks they know what’s happening in your marriage.
When you have to stand there and smile while people assume the worst.”
I should not find this attractive.
But I’m looking at my husband - this man who used to fill every room with his presence, who used to solve problems by throwing money or influence at them - and I’m watching him choose humility instead. I’m watching him sit inside the discomfort he created and refuse to escape it.
I’m watching him become someone I might be able to trust.
Damn him.
“You’re learning,” I say softly.
“I’m trying.”
“I know.” I reach out and take his hand. His fingers close around mine immediately, desperate and gentle at the same time. I squeeze once and let go. “Come on. I want to look at the flowers.”
We walk on together, and I pretend my heart isn’t racing. I pretend I don’t notice the way he positions himself between me and the crowd. I pretend I can’t feel the heat of his body every time he accidentally brushes against me.
I should not find his restraint attractive.
I refuse to find his restraint attractive.
But when a woman I barely know stops me to comment on Cole’s recovery - how devoted I am, how romantic the whole thing seems, how lucky Cole is to have someone who loves him so much - and Adrian just stands there, silent, letting the wrong story exist without correction...
Something in my chest shifts.
I smile at the woman. Nod politely. Say nothing to correct the narrative.
And when I turn back to Adrian, I see it in his eyes. He understands. Not just intellectually. Not just as a lesson he’s memorized.
He understands in his bones what he put me through.
“Now you know what it feels like,” I say quietly. “When the whole world writes your story without asking you.”
He looks at me - this man I almost lost, this man I’m not sure I can trust - and I see something crack open in his expression. Grief, maybe. Or understanding. Or the particular pain of finally comprehending a wound you’ve inflicted.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I know.”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
“I know that too.”
I don’t tell him that I’m starting to believe it.
I don’t tell him that watching him swallow his jealousy made me want to kiss him right here in the middle of the market.
I don’t tell him that his restraint is doing something to me I can’t quite name - something dangerous and hot and entirely inconvenient.
Instead, I pick up a bouquet of late-season dahlias and turn toward the register.
“Pay for these,” I say. “And then take me home.”
His breath catches. I hear it. I don’t look back.
“Home?” he asks carefully.
“The cottage.” I glance over my shoulder, letting him see something in my eyes I haven’t let him see in months. “We need to talk.”
About the baby. About the future. About what happens next.
About the fact that I’m starting to want things I swore I wouldn’t want again.
Adrian pays for the flowers without looking at the price. Follows me to the car without a word.
And the restraint - the beautiful, maddening, infuriating restraint - continues all the way home.
I should not find it attractive.
But I do.
Damn him.