Chapter 2
ADRIAN
Ipace the length of my apartment for the twelfth time in an hour. Pacing is not something I do. Ever. It's inefficient, lacks purpose, and accomplishes nothing.
Yet here I am.
The will sits on my glass coffee table, corners aligned with the table edge. I've reviewed it repeatedly, searched for alternatives, and found none. The document is legally sound. Unorthodox, but binding.
My loft stretches before me—exposed brick walls, minimalist furniture, everything in its exact place. The river glitters beyond the glass, the city skyline a jagged silhouette against the sky. I should find the view calming. I don't.
I've loosened my tie. Rolled up my shirtsleeves. Both rare occurrences, particularly at 5:52 p.m. on a weekday. I'm not even normally home at this time.
My coffee cup sits on the kitchen counter—black, no sugar—now cold and forgotten. I check my watch: Emmy should arrive in exactly eight minutes, assuming she's punctual. Something tells me punctuality isn't her strength.
Jesus Christ, what am I doing?
I wipe my palms on my slacks, annoyed at the physical reaction. This is a business meeting. Nothing more. And yet I'm acting like a teenage boy asking a girl out for the first time. Except I don't do that. Never did.
Violet's words echo: "She needs someone who won't give up on her when she's stubborn."
I argued against the clause for forty-five minutes. Violet had simply smiled—that same smile that reminded me so much of my mother, Caroline. The same quiet confidence. The warmth.
"Adrian," she said, smiling softly, "sometimes the most logical people make the most illogical decisions about love."
I stop before the windows, hands clasped behind my back. The objective remains clear: Emmy needs to meet the will's requirements. She needs the library—I saw it in her eyes when I read the clause, that flash of devastation. I've analyzed her reaction a dozen times this week.
The thing is…
I require something too.
Judith Morrison's words from yesterday's partner meeting replay in my mind: "Adrian, your work is impeccable, but managing partner requires balance. Yes, even though your father's name is in that logo outside. The partners need to see you're human, not just a legal machine."
Then there's my promise to Violet. Three separate visits to her estate, conversations in that remarkable library. Each time she'd look at me with those hazel eyes—so like Emmy's—and say, "You remind me of my granddaughter. Both brilliant, both hiding from life."
I disagreed. I wasn't hiding. I was focused.
Violet died two days after our last conversation. I'd promised to look after Emmy, without fully understanding what that entailed.
Now I do.
I straighten my tie again, then catch myself. Stop.
Emmy has occupied more of my thoughts this week than is appropriate.
I've replayed our confrontation over and over: the fire in her eyes, the tremor in her voice when she realized what Violet had done.
I noticed details I shouldn't have—how her hands shook with anger, the way she pressed her thumb against that vintage brooch.
My solution is unorthodox, maybe unethical by traditional standards. But I've analyzed it from every angle.
First, Emmy needs to meet the will's requirements or lose something irreplaceable.
Second, I need to demonstrate work-life balance to secure the managing partner position.
Third, I made a promise to Violet.
The doorbell rings. This is it. No backing out now.
I straighten my tie again, realize what I'm doing, and stop. This is a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial solution. Nothing more.
I cross to the door and open it.
The ground underneath me shifts.
Emmy stands in the hallway, looking exhausted.
Dark circles underline her red-rimmed eyes.
Has she been crying? Her hair escapes from a messy bun, framing her face.
An oversized burgundy cardigan slips off one shoulder, revealing the strap of a black tank top beneath.
Worn jeans, ankle boots, that messenger bag slung across her body.
For a second, my mind goes blank. This keeps happening around her, and it's both unusual and concerning.
I'm never the type to stutter or lose focus. Yet I find myself needing to concentrate fully just to form a coherent sentence in her presence.
Why does she affect me like this?
"This better be important, Adrian. I'm not in the mood for more bad news about Violet's estate."
Her voice sounds tired, defensive. She walks past me into the apartment, and when her shoulder brushes my chest, I stiffen. That brief contact has my blood rushing down south. Fuck, this is so not the time.
Struggling to keep my heartbeat within normal range, I close the door and turn to find her surveying my living space, her expression a barely concealed judgment.
I see my apartment through her eyes: too sterile, too cold, too much like me.
The Italian leather sectional, untouched.
The glass coffee table displaying nothing but her grandmother's will.
The Eames chair, where I sometimes read legal briefs.
The kitchen appliances that look unused, because they are.
Well, I do use them sometimes, I console myself.
Something about her assessment bothers me. I ignore it.
"Would you like coffee?" I ask.
She looks surprised at the offer but nods. "Yes, thank you."
I move to the kitchen area. "Black with one sugar, right?"
Her eyebrows rise. Her head tilts. "You remember how I take my coffee?"
"You mentioned it. Once." I don't add that I've noticed it four separate times—twice during probate meetings, once at the funeral reception, once during the will reading.
I pull out a paper bag from Sip O'Clock, her regular coffee shop. I've seen her there twice, both times when she didn't notice me. She always ordered the same things.
Her phone rings as I prepare the coffee. She checks it, sighs. "I should take this. My agent. Do you mind?"
I gesture toward the living room. "Not at all."
As I measure coffee beans, I can't help overhearing snippets of her conversation.
"I know, Soph... I've tried everything..."
"No, I can't just hire someone, he'd see right through it..."
"I can't let the library go, I just can't..."
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest. I grip the counter edge, processing the feeling. She sounds desperate, broken.
My resolve solidifies: I'm making the right call.
She ends the call and returns, walls back up. I hand her the coffee, and our fingers brush. Ah, fuck. Here we go again. She pulls back—she notices the electricity when we touch. I noticed she noticed. Her gaze drops to my mouth for less than a second, then away.
My pulse jumps, and to avoid making things more awkward, I hold out the pastry bag. "Croissant or chocolate twist?"
"No way. From Sip O'Clock? How did you know I like it there?"
"I noticed. You ordered the same thing during our second meeting."
She takes the chocolate twist, doesn't comment further. Good thing she doesn't ask why I'm creepily noticing things I shouldn't, because honestly, I have no answer. I've been asking myself the same question.
We sit—Emmy on the sectional, me in the Eames chair. The physical distance is intentional. The farther I am, the better I can think.
The will remains on the coffee table between us.
"I've been thinking about your situation," I say.
Emmy tenses, her posture defensive.
"I have a solution. Unconventional, but logical." I pause. "I'll pose as your boyfriend."
For a few seconds, we just stare at each other, and I can almost see her debating whether she thinks I'm joking... or a psycho.
Then, Emmy puts down her coffee. Deliberately. She doesn't move but chuckles. "You can't be serious."
"I am serious."
"We hate each other, Adrian."
"We don't hate each other. We have different communication styles and worldviews."
"So we're incompatible. Great foundation for fake dating. Not!"
"On the contrary. Our antagonism makes the eventual relationship more believable. I believe enemies-to-lovers is a popular trope. But of course, you'd know that better than me."
She stares at me. "Did you just reference a romance trope?"
"I've done my research."
"Did you read any of my novels?"
"I tried, couldn't finish them."
"Harsh, but... thank you for that vote of confidence."
"It's just not for me, okay? I don't like fiction in general."
"Okay, so let me get this straight. You don't read my books, we have nothing in common, and we can't even talk without raising voices." She narrows her eyes. "Why would you want to help me?"
"In my defense, you're the only one who ever raises your voice.
" I take a deep breath and massage my temples, already feeling the start of a headache.
I've prepared for this question. "I knew Violet well.
I understand what she would consider an authentic relationship.
I'm already professionally connected to your family. The arrangement benefits both of us."
"Both of us? What could you possibly get out of this?"
I meet her gaze steadily. "The firm is considering me for managing partner."
"And, so—?"
"Judith Morrison thinks I'm too isolated, too focused on work. She believes I lack the interpersonal skills to manage people effectively."
Emmy snorts, "Shocking. She's not wrong, though."
I ignore that. "She's been encouraging me to develop a life outside the office. A serious relationship demonstrates work-life balance."
"So I'm just a box to check on your career advancement plan?"
"That's reductive."
"Is it? What's in it for you besides a promotion?"
I hesitate. This part is more difficult to articulate. "Also, Violet was important to me."
Something in Emmy's expression shifts.
"My mother died when I was twelve."
Her eyes soften. I didn't expect that. Then again, maybe I should have. Emmy seems to be the type of person who'll cry if a dog from the rescue center doesn't get adopted.