Chapter 17 Adaline
Adaline
The kitchen smells like coffee and butter and something warm and familiar.
Hunter is already here when I step in.
He stands at the stove in a dark T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, movements precise and controlled as he flips eggs in a pan like it’s a task he can master if he does it perfectly enough. Toast pops from the toaster. A kettle hums quietly. Oatmeal simmers on the back burner.
For Aunt Jane.
Seeing him like this, calm on the surface, deliberate in every motion, makes something tighten low in my chest. This is not the man who stormed out of Aunt Jane’s bedroom last night.
This is worse.
I hover just inside the doorway, my courage thinning by the second. I almost turn around. Silence would be easier, safer, because once I speak, I might lose whatever fragile ground I still have here. But my chest feels too full, my conscience too loud.
He wishes me good morning in a distant way.
He doesn’t turn. I try to speak, he cuts me off, but I decide to stay. I start tidying up because my hands need something to do. Plates, counters, crumbs, it’s easier to straighten what I can see than face what I’ve just broken.
I’ve upset him, like we’ve both upset each other before, clashing because we’re wired so differently. But this time it cuts deeper, because whatever else he thinks of me, he believes I failed Aunt Jane.
I step farther into the kitchen, the tiled floor cool beneath my feet. The morning light pours in through the wide windows, pale and fragile, like it doesn’t want to disturb anything.
I start to apologize. His hand stills on the spatula. Then he turns. Slowly.
And just… looks at me.
No expression, no obvious anger. No softness either.
Just his eyes, sharp and unreadable, pinning me in place.
Seconds stretch.
Too many.
The silence presses in on my ears until it’s all I can hear. My palms grow damp. I can’t tell if he’s furious, disappointed, hurt, or something worse I don’t have a name for.
I shift my weight, nerves buzzing under my skin. “I would never intentionally put her at risk,” I add quietly. “You have to know that.”
He keeps staring. I feel like I’m standing in front of a verdict.
Finally, he exhales through his nose and turns back to the stove. When he speaks, his voice is calm, controlled, and emotionally sealed shut.
“You should keep your personal life separate from Aunt Jane’s care.”
The words land cleanly. Precisely.
I flinch anyway.
“If you want to go into town during your free time,” he continues, “that’s your choice. I’m not controlling where you go.”
He plates the eggs, movements efficient.
“But you inform me first,” he says, tone firm.
“So I can be home. So she’s never alone—because Mrs. Lane does her best, but she’s fragile herself. Emergencies are more than she can handle on her own.”
He sets the plate down harder than necessary.
“That’s non-negotiable,” he adds.
There’s no accusation in his voice. No raised volume. Which somehow makes it hurt more. This is a boundary. And suddenly I understand. He thinks I went to the fall festival for Connor.
He thinks I chose to meet my ex over staying with Aunt Jane.
“Oh,” I breathe before I can stop myself. “You think I went there for him.”
His jaw tightens just a fraction. No denial nor a confirmation. Then a thought flickers through me, this isn’t about jealousy, that's ridiculous. This is about trust. About consequences.
This is me failing when it mattered.
Still… the way his shoulders stay tense. The way he won’t look at me again.
It stings.
It stings because just a few days ago, we were something else entirely. Our quiet mornings. Shared coffee, a rhythm that felt earned. Fragile, but real. Now he feels like a stranger again.
Colder than before.
“I know I messed up,” I say softly. “And I understand if you’re upset with me.”
He doesn’t answer. I swallow hard. “I just— I hate that it feels like everything we were building vanished overnight.”
He slowly lets go of a breath and then gets back to making breakfast. Like he is telling me that's it. And it hurts worse than if he had yelled.
I leave the kitchen soon after, my chest tight, my thoughts tangled.
Upstairs, in the privacy of my room, the weight finally settles. I grab my phone and call Racheal, she knows all the pieces I’m trying to keep together.
“Rach?” My voice cracks the second she answers.
“Addie,” Racheal says instantly. “I was hoping you’d call.”
That alone tells me everything. She’s worried.
“I think he knows where you are,” she says, not wasting time. “And he’s angry.”
“He’s not just upset,” she continues. “He feels exposed," she says. " And men like Connor don’t handle that well."
“He was at the town’s fall festival yesterday. I don’t know what to do,” I whisper.
“You need to tell your new employer everything,” Racheal urges. “Before Connor spins the story his way.”
I close my eyes, leaning back against the headboard.
Tell Hunter.
Tell him about Connor. About the hospital, and the investigation he’s threatening to weaponize. The thought makes my pulse spike.
“I can’t,” I say finally. “Things are starting to feel… stable. I can’t invite that chaos in again.”
Racheal sighs. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise,” I lie.
In the afternoon, I check Aunt Jane’s vitals like I always do.
She’s resting comfortably, humming softly to herself as I wrap the blood pressure cuff around her arm.
“Oh!” she says suddenly, eyes bright. “I almost forgot to tell you. There’s the fundraiser ball next weekend. In Briarwood.”
“I’d love for you to come with me,” she says, squeezing my hand. “I do look forward to it every year.”
My heart sinks. I force a smile. “That sounds… lovely.”
My stomach knots as Connor’s name flashes through my mind, his voice, his threat, the way exposure always follows him. If Connor shows up. If he lies. If Hunter hears any of it, I’ll be fired. Immediately.
But beyond that, something else hurts more. This job isn’t just a hiding place anymore. I’d started imagining a future here, caring for Aunt Jane long-term. Belonging.
Now the most painful loss isn’t security.
It’s Hunter’s trust.
Because I care about Aunt Jane beyond obligation. And for the first time in years… I felt like I was part of something. I just don’t know how to get that back.
Aunt Jane is smiling when I look up. She looks… fine. Better than fine, honestly, color back in her cheeks, eyes bright, energy returning like last night never happened. Which should make me feel relieved.
It does.
But it also makes the guilt worse, because it means the consequences I’m carrying aren’t in her vitals. They’re in the way Hunter looked at me this morning, like he’d shut a door and decided not to open it again.
Aunt Jane adjusts her shawl and tilts her head. “So it's decided,” she says, voice light, “you’re coming with me to Briarwood next weekend.”
I blink. “To… the fundraiser ball?”
“Of course.” Her smile widens like she’s revealing a surprise she’s been saving. “It’s the whole thing, music, dinner, dancing, speeches I pretend to listen to. It’s tradition.”
I force my smile to stay in place. “Aunt Jane… are you sure it’s important for me to attend?”
She looks genuinely startled by the question. “Important? Darling, yes. You’re with me. You’re part of my team.”
Team. The word lands softly in my chest and makes something ache.
“I just…” I hesitate, choosing the safer truth. “I don’t even have anything to wear to a fundraiser ball. I didn’t pack for… fancy.”
Aunt Jane’s eyes sparkle like I’ve handed her the best excuse in the world. “Oh, that’s the easiest problem you could’ve given me.”
She reaches out and pats my hand with absolute authority. “I’ve already planned everything.”
“Everything?” I repeat, suspicious.
“Yes,” she says, delighted. “I do this fundraiser every year. I know the organizers, the schedule, the seating chart, which desserts are worth eating, and which ones are just pretty. But this year will be different.”
“Why?” My voice comes out small.
“Because you’re coming,” she says simply, like that explains the whole universe. “It will be special. More fun. More laughter. Someone to boss around besides Mary.”
Mrs. Lane, who is fussing with a blanket near the foot of the bed, snorts. “Good luck bossing me around, Jane.”
Aunt Jane waves her off. “You know what I mean.”
Her excitement is so sincere. For a second, I let myself imagine it, dressed in a real dress, my hair done, Aunt Jane glowing in her element, a night that isn’t about Connor or threats or survival.
A night that feels… normal.
Then the bedroom door opens, and normal shatters. Hunter steps in like he owns the air.
Which he does.
He’s dressed like he’s come straight from business, clean, sharp, controlled. His expression is unreadable, and somehow that’s worse than anger.
He looks at Aunt Jane first. “How are you feeling?”
“Perfectly fine,” she answers, too brightly, like she’s trying to soothe him. “And I was just telling Adaline about the fundraiser.”
His gaze shifts to me. A brief pause, just long enough to make my skin prickle.
“She’ll attend,” he says.
My head jerks. “Hunter—”
“If you can’t,” he continues, voice flat, “then you should apply for a leave of absence. I’ll make other arrangements.”
The words hit me hard. Leave of absence.
Heat rushes to my face as if I’m a temporary inconvenience he’s already planning around. As if my place here is so fragile that it can be replaced with a phone call.
“That’s not— I didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“Good.” He doesn’t soften. “Then it’s settled.”
Aunt Jane frowns. “Hunter, sweetheart—”
He doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t look at me either. He looks past me, like detachment is something he can physically hold in his hands.
“We need consistency,” he says, still professional, still impersonal. “Reliability.”
Reliability. Like a pointed reminder. A quiet accusation that I am not that.