Chapter Twenty-Six
Adrianna
By the time the private plane levels off somewhere above the Midwest, I still haven’t figured out how to breathe like a normal human being.
I’m buckled into a buttery-soft leather seat, wearing one of Nathan’s hoodies because my dress from last night is, well, somewhere in a sparkly heap inside my suitcase.
My hair is clean and braided.
My body is sore in places I haven’t felt in years.
And I’m replaying every sinful, careful, reverent thing Nathan Thorn—my rockstar husband—did to me last night.
It’s a lot.
Too much.
And yet, not enough.
God, last night—I don’t even know where to begin.
Maybe it was with the way he washed me in that enormous Vegas hotel bathtub, big enough to swim laps in.
Or how he held me on his lap while warm water cascaded along my sore thighs, kissing my shoulder, whispering things like he was afraid to let the silence have me.
Then again, it could be how he carried me to bed like I weighed nothing. How he curled around me afterward, all heat and strength and security, his arm locked around my waist like I’d disappear if he loosened his grip.
Every time I stirred, he kissed me.
Every time I sighed, he touched me.
Every time I doubted, he whispered my name like a vow.
I didn’t sleep much.
Neither did he.
And now, as New Jersey gets closer by the minute, all I can think is all of these unwanted thoughts.
Like what if this is temporary for him?
What if he jumps on a plane and just leaves tomorrow?
Because I know the truth—even if I want to lie to myself.
I never stopped loving him.
Not once.
Not for a single breath in sixteen years.
Not through the anger. Not through the hurt. Not through the heartbreak.
My heart might’ve scabbed over, but it never healed.
But Nathan?
He’s lived a hundred lives since we were teenagers.
Wild ones.
Successful ones.
Public ones.
Ones filled with glamorous people and glamorous places and glamorous… everything.
He can’t possibly want this forever.
A bakery girl.
A small-town house.
A niece with homework and a bedtime.
A mother-in-law who serves pasta, meatballs and sauce at 12 p.m. every Sunday.
A life that’s quiet compared to the roar of fame he’s used to.
And I’m terrified.
Because last night felt real.
All of it.
His hands, his voice, his kiss, his body—it felt like home in a way I’ve never let myself hope for again.
But what if it was just adrenaline?
Gratitude?
Old nostalgia wrapped in wedding-night lust?
What if New Jersey sobers him up?
What if he wakes up tomorrow and remembers he’s Nathan Thorn—someone whose normal is stadiums and red carpets and private islands?
He’s sitting across from me now, flipping through a folder of documents the lawyer gave us, looking annoyingly handsome in jeans and a white T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower.
Every now and then he glances at me, like he’s making sure I’m still there.
My heart lurches each time.
I stare out the window.
Clouds drift below us like soft cotton.
I tell myself not to overthink.
Not to get ahead of myself.
But the truth is sharp and lodged right in the center of my chest.
I didn’t just marry Nathan to protect Bella.
I married him because one look at him again, and every old feeling came roaring back like a wildfire.
And now? Well, now I’m terrified of getting burned twice.