Chapter 15 Adaline
Adaline
I slam my bedroom door a little harder than necessary and immediately regret it.
My chest is tight, my throat feels hot, and I’m pacing in the small stretch of carpet between the bed and the window like there’s a finish line I can reach if I just walk fast enough.
He said no.
Not— no, let’s talk about it.
Not— no, I’m worried about Aunt Jane.
Just—
No. Flat. Cold. And final.
And what makes it worse is that two hours earlier, he’d been… not kind, exactly, but close enough that my brain still doesn’t know where to file it.
In his office, he’d looked at me like he’d made a decision, handed me the contract without the usual threat in his tone, raised my salary like it was nothing, like he wasn’t the same man who keeps reminding me I’m temporary, replaceable, a probationary problem he can erase.
He’d said that he was pleased with my work. And I’d believed him. I stop pacing and press my fingers to my temples. What happened between then and dinner?
I flop onto the edge of the bed and stare at the patterned quilt like it’s going to offer answers.
It’s not even that I need the fall festival. I’m not a child begging to go to a party. I’m a grown woman who wants two hours outside this mansion, two hours where my world isn’t measured in Hunter Rexon’s mood swings.
Rose Hills’ town square is twenty minutes away. Aunt Jane naps most afternoons. Mrs. Lane runs this household like a gentle dictator. Nothing will collapse if I’m gone for a couple of hours.
And I’m not exactly running off to join a circus.
I’m trying to learn the town. To breathe. To remember what it feels like to be around people who aren’t… him.
Which is ridiculous, because I’m thinking about him anyway.
His eyes at dinner when he said no. He didn’t even look conflicted. And the way his voice clipped the air like he was cutting a thread. I grab my phone off the nightstand before I talk myself out of it. The screen lights my face in the dim room.
HeartLines.
North.
My finger hovers for a second. I don’t want to be the girl who runs to her anonymous internet friend because her boss hurt her.
But I also don’t have anyone else to say this to without it becoming a conversation about Connor or the hospital or “maybe you should just come home.”
Home to what? A city full of memories? I can't cry my heart out to Racheal.
I open the chat.
Wind: How do you handle people's mood swings around you?
Ten minutes go by. Then…
North: Depends. Do you want to deal with their mood swings? Do you care about the person?
I blink at that, my throat tightening in a way that annoys me.
Wind: It’s complicated.
North: It always is.
North: Sometimes, people have a lot going on, and they take it out on someone they care about.
My eyes burn a little, and I hate that too.
Wind: I am not sure they care about me. And if they did care, why would they use me as a punching bag?
And then, I just say it.
Wind: I can’t stand my boss.
North: Then do what feels right. Do what makes you happy.
My stomach flips. I stare at the ceiling, phone heavy in my hand.
Wind: I want to breathe.
North: Then breathe.
I let out a long, shaky exhale I didn’t realize I was holding, and for a moment, the tightness in my chest eases.
I go to bed still annoyed and still hurt, but calmer, like North took some of the jagged edges off my thoughts. Like he reminded me who I am beneath the whiplash.
Still, I lie there staring at the dark until my heart settles and my brain finally gives up.
Hunter’s face is the last thing I see before sleep.
And that is a problem.
Morning arrives like it always does in this mansion, quiet and suspiciously perfect. I wake up with stubborn determination humming beneath my skin. I am not going into the kitchen. I am not letting him ruin my morning with one look that says,— Remember your place.
So I stall.
I brush my teeth. I tie my hair up. I reorganize my things on the desk for no reason. I pretend my ankle needs extra massage even though it barely aches.
By the time I finally leave my room, the smell of coffee is already drifting up the hallway. I head downstairs and slip into the breakfast area where Aunt Jane and Mrs. Lane are already settled, sunlight spilling across the table like it’s trying to cheer me up against my will.
Aunt Jane looks up, instantly reading my face the way only women who have lived long enough to stop pretending.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says gently. “Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about last night.”
I force a smile. “I’m fine.”
Mrs. Lane makes a skeptical humming sound as she places a plate down. “That’s what people say right before they cry into their toast.”
“I’m not crying into anything,” I mutter, taking a seat.
Aunt Jane reaches across the table and pats my hand. “I know he was rude last night at dinner, but it's not you; something else is bothering him.”
Heat flashes in my cheeks. “It’s not important. I am not going to the fall fest. I have to prepare for my exam anyway.”
“I know you do, dear, but you need a break from work and studying and go enjoy yourself,” she says, eyes twinkling. “You grew up in the city, and this is a great chance to experience small-town fun.”
I give them a smile for their support.
Mrs. Lane’s mouth tightens, and she glances across the table. Aunt Jane’s brows lift, and for a split second, she looks less like a sweet elderly woman and more like someone you do not want to cross.
“Well,” Aunt Jane says brightly, as if deciding the universe is optional, “you’re going.”
I blink. “I… what?”
“You’re going,” she repeats. “ You’re new. You need to see the town's traditions.”
“Aunt Jane, he… ”
Hunter is in the city today,” she says, waving a hand. “He won’t be back until later.”
I hesitate, then let out a slow breath. “I just… if I go to the fall festival, I’m going to spend the entire time worrying you’ll forget your shoulder needs rest, and try to carry something heroic.”
Aunt Jane reaches for my hand with her good arm and squeezes gently. “Oh, sweetheart. I promise I’ll rest this afternoon. No gardening. No lifting. No pretending I’m twenty-five again.”
I study her face, scanning for pain, for fatigue—anything I might have missed. “Okay,” I say slowly. “But we’re still doing physical therapy after breakfast. And I’m checking your vitals before I leave.”
She smiles at me, proud and soft all at once. “That’s my girl,” she says. “Keeping me alive and in line.”
Mrs. Lane nods, sliding coffee toward me. “Everything here will be fine. Jane will nap. I’ll be here. The world will keep spinning.”
I stare at them. “You’re both… enabling me.”
Aunt Jane’s eyes sparkle. “We’re rescuing you.”
Mrs. Lane leans in, lowering her voice like she’s about to share something scandalous. “Besides, that festival is practically a tradition. When I was young, you didn’t go for the pie.” She glances at Aunt Jane. “You went to get seen.”
Aunt Jane giggles. “Oh, yes. It was the place to meet your future husband.”
I choke on air. “Okay, no.”
“Oh, darling,” Aunt Jane says, delighted. “Men from nearby towns show up. They act all charming, buy you cider.”
Aunt Jane winks at me. “You never know. Maybe you’ll meet someone nice.”
I laugh, because if I don’t laugh, I might scream. “I’m not looking for anyone.”
Mrs. Lane smiles knowingly. “That’s usually when the universe sends them.”
Aunt Jane pats my hand again. “Go. Enjoy yourself. Let your heart remember what fun feels like.”
And something in me softens, maybe just a little. Because they aren’t asking me to be perfect. They aren’t judging me for wanting air.
They’re giving me permission to be me.
So I nod, slowly. “Okay. I’ll go.”
Aunt Jane claps once like a victorious general. “Good. Put on something cute.”
“I will put on something warm,” I correct.
Mrs. Lane chuckles. “Warm can be cute. Liam will stop by, you should just hitch a ride with him to the festival.”
I finish breakfast with a lighter chest. I even catch myself smiling when Aunt Jane starts listing festival must-dos like she’s writing a battle plan.
By the time I arrive at the town square with Liam, the world feels, briefly, simple.
“I’m going to go join my friends. Are you going to be alright by yourself?” he asks. I nod and send him off to join a bunch of teens hanging out further by the rides.
I walk around enjoying the view. There are strings of lights, booths selling caramel apples, and kids in fuzzy hats running with candy hands. Music drifts through the air, and the smell of cinnamon and fried dough makes my stomach rumble.
Aunt Jane wanted cute, so I compromised.
Jeans, knee-length boots, a burgundy off-the-shoulder sweater, and simple hoops.
Effortless. Comfortable. I’d hoped to disappear into the small-town crowd, but as I move through the festival, I catch a few lingering looks anyway.
So much for invisible. Mrs. Lane’s joking lecture about husband-hunting drifts back to me, and I almost laugh.
That’s the last complication I need right now. I’m here for air, not attention.
The tension in my shoulders loosens as I blend into the crowd, my breath finally steadying.
I drift from booth to booth, sticky fingers dusted with sugar, watching families laugh like nothing bad ever happens in small towns.
After an hour, the thought of heading back nudges at me.
Maybe I can hitch a ride back, Liam is deep in festival chaos to notice if I slip away.
I let myself enjoy it for a few more minutes, telling myself I can stay… just a little longer.
And then—I see him.
Connor.
My entire body goes cold so fast it’s like someone dropped ice water down my spine.