Chapter 11
ADRIAN
Icranked the treadmill up another notch. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I kept pushing. Faster. Like I could outrun the thoughts circling my brain like storm clouds.
Nothing worked.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Love Week.
There were so many moving pieces already.
Adding a fake engagement seemed like a terrible idea, but we needed something drastic to change the focus of the media coverage.
Instead of questioning the Blackwell brothers’ ability to keep the company on top, people were asking who the gorgeous girl was.
Who had finally tamed one of the Blackwells, fashion’s most notorious bachelors? Who was the sweet-looking woman, so different than the models Adrian was usually surrounded by?
I punched the speed up again and pushed myself to the point of almost losing step and sending my body flying across the room. I caught my balance at the last second, just barely saving myself from embarrassment.
I was all messed up. It wasn’t the engagement, and it wasn’t just Love Week. The problem was the sheer scale of it. Five shows in eight days across four cities. Thousands of moving parts, any one of which could fail. And if even one thing went wrong, it would reflect on all of us.
On Dad’s legacy.
My brothers all seemed infuriatingly calm about the whole thing.
Sebastian was treating it like an extended vacation with stops at fancy parties.
Dash was in full logistics mode but unruffled, like coordinating international fashion shows was no more complicated than ordering lunch.
Even Briggs, who worried about everything, seemed confident.
Only I was jumpy. Jumpy as a kangaroo in a bouncy house, which was a ridiculous image but unfortunately accurate.
It came with being the face of the company.
I hadn’t asked for that role. We were all equal partners but I was the eldest, so they had named me the official CEO.
So I was the one the media always turned to for quotes and soundbites.
But if I fucked up, it was a huge black stain on all of us, not just me.
I was happy to carry that weight. Honored to even. Dad had built something incredible, and I’d be damned if I let it crumble on my watch.
But fuck me, the weight was heavy.
And this whole thing with Elizabeth was supposed to make it lighter. That was the entire point. Shift the narrative, get people invested in the romance, and take the pressure off the shows themselves.
Instead, she’d become another complication.
No, that wasn’t fair. Elizabeth was trying.
She was doing her best in an impossible situation.
The problem was that she made me feel things I didn’t want to feel.
My sexual appetite before Dad died was pretty ferocious.
After his death, I didn’t have time to think about women or sex.
I’d gone celibate. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sex.
That had to be why I was having such a visceral reaction to Elizabeth. It was the close proximity. And the boobs. Damn, the woman had a nice rack. She was making me think things I shouldn’t be thinking.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the small gasp she’d made when I’d touched her jaw.
How badly I’d wanted to pull her closer and press all those soft curves against my body.
I was half-tempted to tell her we needed her to model bikinis, but I just couldn’t think of a good enough excuse.
Bikinis in the fall weren’t really a thing.
I cranked the treadmill higher. I was in an all-out sprint.
Yesterday I had to leave the studio before I did something monumentally stupid. When Sebastian sent me photos later of Elizabeth looking absolutely natural and gorgeous after I’d left, it had only twisted the knife deeper.
She could do it. She just couldn’t do it with me.
The treadmill beeped. Ten miles. I slammed the stop button and stood there panting, sweat dripping down my face, no closer to peace than when I’d started. I checked the time and headed for the shower.
Sunday dinner at Mom’s house was a Blackwell tradition that had survived even Dad’s death. Every Sunday at six, we were all expected at the family brownstone in the Upper East Side unless we were out of the country. No exceptions.
I arrived exactly on time to find Dash already there, sprawled on the couch in the living room with a beer.
“You look like hell,” he observed cheerfully.
“Thanks. You look like you.” I grabbed a beer from the bucket he’d brought and collapsed into an armchair.
“Long run?”
“Ten miles.”
“And you’re still wound tighter than a watch spring. Maybe try meditation next time.”
“Maybe try minding your own business.”
Sebastian breezed in moments later, looking infuriatingly relaxed in jeans and a cashmere sweater. “Brothers! I come bearing wine.” He held up two bottles. “Both overpriced and pretentious, just how Mom likes it.”
“She doesn’t like pretentious wine,” Briggs said, following him in with a bakery box. “She likes good wine. There’s a difference.”
“Spoken like a true snob.”
Mom appeared in the doorway to the dining room, silver hair pulled back in an elegant twist, wearing a simple black dress that was designer but meant to look basic.
At sixty-five, our mother was still striking, with those same blue eyes Dash had inherited and a presence that commanded attention without demanding it.
She raised four boys with an iron fist but a gentle hand. She didn’t let us get away with shit—unless she was involved. Then she was the best co-conspirator.
“My boys,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite hide the sadness that still lingered a year after Dad’s death. “All here. Good. Dinner’s ready.”
We filed into the dining room, taking our usual seats at the massive table that could easily fit twenty. The five of us clustered at one end, leaving vast stretches of empty chairs. Back in the old days, on special occasions, those chairs were filled with Dad’s friends and their families.
Those families grew up, people passed away, and life moved on. And now those seats were empty, just like Dad’s at the head of the table.
Now it was just us.
Mom said grace, a tradition she’d maintained despite none of us being particularly religious. Then we dug into the spread. Roasted chicken, vegetables, potatoes, all prepared by Mom’s cook but served family-style, just like when we were kids.
“So,” Mom said, passing the green beans to Briggs. “How are the preparations coming?”
“Right on schedule,” Briggs said immediately. “All venues confirmed, all contracts signed, all teams briefed. We’re in good shape.”
“The London venue is going to blow people’s minds,” Sebastian added. “We got that manor house I told you about, the one with the fountain with the naked people.”
“Tasteful,” Mom said dryly.
“For the record, I voted for a different venue,” I interjected. “Sebastian overruled me.”
“Because my theme is decadence, brother. You can’t have decadence without a few stone titties.”
Dash snorted into his beer. Briggs looked pained. Mom just sighed.
“Don’t say ‘titties’ at the table,” she said.
“Sorry, Mom,” Sebastian said.
“And Paris?” she asked, redirecting.
“We booked Versailles,” I said. “We locked that down six months ago, worked it all out with the French government.”
“Buck would have loved that.” Mom’s voice caught slightly on Dad’s name. “He always talked about doing a show there.”
“That’s why Briggs chose it,” Dash said. “Each show is a little tribute to Dad. New York is about legacy—Adrian’s hosting because he’s carrying the torch forward. London is about indulgence and luxury—Sebastian’s whole thing. Paris is romance—Briggs the romantic.”
“I’m not a romantic,” Briggs protested. “You all chose that theme without me.”
“And Milan?” Mom asked, cutting off the brewing argument.
“Seduction,” Dash said with a grin. “I’m going to make it hot enough to melt the opera house.”
“Please don’t actually melt a historic building,” I said.
“No promises.”
The conversation flowed easily. For a few minutes, I let myself relax, let the tension ease from my shoulders.
“And how is Elizabeth adjusting? I haven’t met her yet but she seems nice.”
The tension came roaring back. Mom knew about the fake engagement. To say she’d been apprehensive was an understatement. But she understood the reasons and just accepted it with her usual grace.
“She’s fine,” I said carefully. “Adjusting to everything.”
“The press conference went well,” Briggs offered. “She came across as genuine. Nervous, but in an endearing way.”
“The photos are getting great engagement on social,” Dash added. “People love her. The ‘girl next door wins the prince’ narrative is killing it.”
Sebastian was quiet, studying me over his wine glass. I tried to tell him with my eyes to shut his mouth, but Sebastian never listened.
“Adrian’s worried she’s not ready,” he said finally.
All eyes turned to me.
“I didn’t say that,” I protested.
“You didn’t have to. I can see it on your face.” Sebastian leaned back in his chair.
“The photoshoot was a disaster,” I admitted. “She was completely frozen. Every shot looked like she was afraid I was going to eat her.”
“She did fine at training yesterday,” Sebastian said mildly. “Once you left.”
I sat up straighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means she loosened up when you weren’t there. Got comfortable. We got some great shots, actually. She’s a natural when she’s not overthinking it.”
“Then why can’t she do that when I’m there?” I heard the frustration in my voice. “If she can pose and smile and look natural with you and a bunch of models, why does she turn into a statue when I’m in the room?”
“Maybe because you’re intimidating as hell?” Sebastian suggested.
“I’m not—” I stopped. Was I? “I’ve been nothing but patient with her.”
“Patient, yeah. But also intense. Critical. You watch her like a hawk, and she can feel it.”
“I’m trying to help her.”
“You’re making her nervous,” Sebastian corrected. “Look, Elizabeth is sweet. She’s trying her best. She’s doing you a favor, being your fake fiancée, jumping into this insane situation with basically no preparation. Maybe cut her some slack?”
“I’m not—” I set down my fork, suddenly not hungry. “I don’t hate her, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Then stop acting like she’s a problem to be solved.” Sebastian’s voice was unusually firm. He joked around so much, it was easy to forget he was as smart as any of us. “She’s a person. A nervous person who’s way out of her depth and needs support, not criticism.”
“I support her.”
“Do you? Or do you just see her as another thing on your to-do list that’s not performing up to standard?”
The accusation stung because it was partially true. I had been thinking of Elizabeth as a problem. That was why I’d tried to run right out of my top floor penthouse. She was a complication in an already complicated situation. I solved problems. It’s just what I did.
“You seem awfully invested in Elizabeth’s wellbeing,” I said coolly. “If you like her so much, maybe you should date her.”
The words came out more bitter than I’d intended. And I realized I sounded like I was twelve.
“Are you jealous?” he asked. “Oh my God, you’re jealous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You think I’m interested in Elizabeth? Your fake fiancée?”
I shrugged. “You’re defending her pretty vigorously.”
“Because you’re being an ass!” Sebastian laughed, shaking his head. “Adrian, I’m not interested in Elizabeth. She’s great, but she’s not my type. I’m just saying, she’s terrified of you.”
“She’s not terrified of me,” I growled.
“She literally told me she gets starstruck around you. Said she can’t think straight when you’re in the room. That’s why she freezes up—not because she’s bad at this, but because your presence overwhelms her.”
I stared at him. “She said that?”
“Yesterday. After you left. She made me promise not to tell you, but you’re being dense, so I’m telling you.
” Sebastian gestured with his wine glass.
“The problem isn’t Elizabeth, Adrian. The problem is you.
You make her nervous just by existing. So maybe figure out how to make her more comfortable, because right now, she literally can’t function when you’re around. ”
“Well, shit,” I said quietly.
“Yeah,” Sebastian agreed. “Shit.”
Mom was watching the exchange with interest, a small smile playing at her lips. “It sounds like you need to spend more time with this girl. Help her see you as Adrian, not the CEO.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Take her somewhere normal,” Briggs suggested. “Not a photoshoot or an office or anywhere associated with work. Just be two people getting to know each other.”
“We don’t have time for that.”
“Then you better make time,” Dash said. “Because if she can’t look comfortable with you, this whole fake engagement thing falls apart, and we’re back to square one with the PR narrative. They’ll be back to calling us jokers who can’t fill their Daddy’s shoes.”
I groaned and reached for my glass of wine. I’d been so focused on the logistics that I’d completely missed the actual problem.
Me.
I was the problem.