Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Adrien
“I can’t.”
Two words—soft, almost apologetic—yet they split something in me open.
“We should’ve used a condom.” Not caution—distance.
I apologized. She brushed it off, said she was on birth control, that it was fine, that it was what we should have done. But the subtext lingered: you came too close.
Watching her gather herself, I felt her vanish in increments—the closing of a clasp, the whisper of fabric sliding over skin, the distance forming with every deliberate motion.
The woman who’d just come undone beneath me was gone.
Not regret—defense. Replaced by the professional—calm, contained, unreachable.
She’d agreed to stay the night. Then she didn’t. My fault—too much, too soon. And the way she left… no kiss, no backward glance, her steps soft, quick, final.
My pen taps against the desk, an impatient metronome keeping time with regret. I’ve commanded boardrooms, steered acquisitions worth millions, but I can’t stop fixating on the sound of her heels fading.
After Monaco, I told myself the connection was fantasy. The perfect weekend, the perfect woman. Gilded memory. Lust painted over with longing. But now she’s back—real, tangible, breathing the same New York air as I am.
I know her name now. I know where she lives. I could find her if I wanted. But what would that accomplish?
I used to pride myself on simplicity. No entanglements. No emotional risk. Relationships were convenient arrangements, easily concluded. But with her…simplicity feels like fiction.
I close my eyes. I can still smell her on my skin—amber and something faintly floral, like a memory that refuses to fade.
I see flashes of her—blue eyes against the night, the tremor in her breath when I touched her, the way she softened for a heartbeat before she shuttered herself again.
She’s in my bloodstream. My control—my discipline—is unraveling.
A month ago, the idea of anything long-term with an American woman would have made me laugh. Now I can’t even define what I want—only that it’s her.
Yes, I spend half the year in New York, but my life is flight paths and transatlantic calls. I belong more to the sky than to any city. If I pursue her—if I break through those walls she rebuilds the second they crack—what would that give us? What would it cost her?
There’s no denying I lust after her. I swear to God she’s everywhere and she has been for years.
When I see a blonde on the street, I think of her.
When I order a croissant, I wonder what she’d choose.
I sit here at my desk, supposed to be reviewing financial reports and staff notes, yet my body betrays me—half-hard, restless, remembering the sound of her moan.
When I close my eyes, I see her irises—blue and devastating. She’s got me completely off balance.
I lean back, exhaling, the leather creaking beneath my shoulders. I should be focused on strategy, not the ache she left behind. But the mind is a weak steward when desire has taken the reins.
Madame Vassante’s voice returns, smoke and prophecy in the air of her Paris flat. The Fool. Death. The Tower.
Three cards, drawn in a room scented with mysticism and age. “Major upheaval,” she’d said, tapping the Tower. “Everything you think you know will be challenged.”
I’d smiled politely, paid, kissed both her cheeks. A bit of Parisian theatre, I’d thought. But the older I get, the more I wonder if she wasn’t reading the cards so much as me.
The Fool—new beginnings, leaps of faith.
Death—transformation, not loss.
The Tower—destruction that clears the way for truth.
At the time, it was superstition. Now, with the club under threat and Brie back in my orbit, it feels like prophecy.
What if her draw was indeed genuine? Is it a sign that this irrational lust will lead somewhere? Or that my investment is about to implode? That striking out on my own will lead to a blowback on my sister and father?
A knock interrupts the thought. The traitor enters—lazy charm, practiced ease, blissfully unaware that I know what he’s done. The gold cross at his neck glints under the recessed light, a saint’s token worn by a sinner.
“Good weekend?” he asks. It’s Thursday, but in our world of endless work, the question passes for polite.
“Good. You?”
“Bella had a dance competition that took all of Sunday. Should’ve been called a marathon.”
He’s complaining in the way he does, about everything and anything.
If he didn’t complain about the length of his kid’s competition, it would be the temperature outside, the idiot broad who effed his breakfast order, or the blooming traffic and the fucking idiots who scheduled road construction during rush hour.
“Did she win?”
“Nah,” he shrugs his shoulders. “There’s no real winning. Got a ribbon. You know, participation kind of thing. Judges gave feedback. Maybe someone won, but it wasn’t her.”
Perhaps I should feign interest, mirror small talk, but I can’t make myself perform civilly. Eddie and I were never close, so my detachment shouldn’t raise suspicion.
“Last night’s show was a hit,” he says. “Members are already asking for another.”
“She’s unforgettable,” I reply, meaning Brie, not Miley Cyrus. “Everything in order for Saturday’s event?”
He gives the expected report. Everything’s handled. Always handled. And yet, I can’t help staring, wondering how long he’s been siphoning secrets beneath my nose. I’d once admired his competence. Now I study him like a contagion that’s already spread.
“Do you have any priorities I should address?”
It takes me a beat to process. My mind’s already written his obituary. He’s a liability I can’t excise yet.
My phone rings. It’s my personal cell, a number I give out to few, and I glance at the screen and read Alicia Morgan’s name.
“I’ve got to take this,” I say to Eddie.
“Will you be at the marketing status this afternoon?”
“Plan to,” is what I say, but he knows that I like to pop in to those meetings and not stay for the duration.
“I’ve got a meeting this afternoon so I might miss it.”
He’s up and close to the door. He glances back, looking for permission he doesn’t need. I don’t micromanage, and after three years, he’s well aware, but when he glances over his shoulder at me, I sense he’s looking for a response.
“If anything’s awry, I’ll let you know.”
I find myself thinking of the Tower card again. Structures built on false foundations always fall—the question is whether you’re crushed beneath them or whether you’re smart enough to step aside.
I lift the phone to answer, and Eddie gestures at the door. “Open or closed?”
“Closed.” Like you found it dies on my lips.
I answer the call, but wait until the door clicks closed to say, “Alicia.”
“Is this a good time?”
“As good as any.”
“KOAN has eyes on your building,” she says. “If Eddie leaves, we’ll know.”
“He’s got a meeting this afternoon. Location unknown.”
“Good.”
I frown. “How is that good?”
“Because if he spent his days and nights inside your buildings, this could take a while. A guy like that’s too smart to email from his work email, if he makes any phone calls to clients it’ll likely be from an untraceable source—one we can’t monitor.”
“And if he meets with anyone within the walls of The Sanctuary, it won’t look suspicious. He knows everyone. That’s his job.”
“Exactly.”
I stand and pace. “Alicia, I can’t let this go on indefinitely. I can give it a couple of days tops. Then I need to kick him out and clean house. I agreed to let—”
“Patience,” she says, calm, unflappable.
Madame Vassante’s voice echoes again: The Fool rushes in where angels fear to tread.
“Alicia, this leak could end everything. If this breaks—”
“Then you want answers first,” she cuts in. “Because if this leaks and you don’t know who he’s working with, you’ll be fielding chaos from every member on your roster.”
She’s right. The Sanctuary’s secrets aren’t only sexual—they’re financial, political, personal. Discretion is our currency. And Eddie’s theft is an act of war.
I glance again toward the street below. Cars nose into tight spaces. The city breathes its usual chaos. And somewhere out there, Brie might be watching—surveilling, waiting. The image strikes me like a pulse.
“I refuse to believe he’s been selling information for years,” I say. “If he had, someone would’ve come forward. Crawford did, and within a week, you had me in your office.”
“Yes, but Crawford’s situation was unique,” she says. “Most of what Eddie sells isn’t intimate footage—it’s intel. Meetings, mergers, trades. The kind of information that destroys portfolios, not marriages.”
“Insider trading,” I murmur. “So that’s your other client.”
“Give it time, Adrien.” Her tone suggests patience is a luxury I’ve yet to afford.
“Just remember,” I tell her, voice low, “if this leaks, I become your highest priority. That was the deal.”
“Understood.”
If this leaks to the membership, I might as well hand Eddie matches and watch my investment burn.
My gaze drifts back to the window. From up here, every parking space is full.
The street below hums with anonymity. Is she down there?
Sitting in one of those cars, eyes on my door, waiting for Eddie to move?
The idea of her out there—alone, observing through glass—does something to me I can’t name.
Lunch?
I send the text before I can stop myself.
If she’s nearby, maybe she’ll come in. Maybe she’ll step out from behind her work and see me instead of the assignment.
Every thought, every breath, every instinct leads back to her. I used to think obsession was weakness. Now I understand—it’s the mark she left on me. The space she occupies.
The tower hasn’t fallen yet.
But I can already feel the cracks.