22. Eliana
Eliana
The moment I saw Adrian standing beside my father, every emotion I had spent the past few days trying to bury came rushing back.
Shock came first, followed by anger, then the familiar ache of seeing the man I had been trying so desperately to forget.
For one irrational second, I couldn't understand how he had found me.
Then my mind supplied the answer I didn't want to consider.
He had tracked me down.
I took a step forward, already preparing to demand an explanation, but Dad beat me to it with a cheerful smile.
"Eliana, you're home." He lifted one of the grocery bags from Adrian's hands. "Look who helped me out today."
I looked between them without saying anything.
"My truck decided to die on me halfway to town," Dad continued, completely oblivious to the tension hanging in the air. "I was standing there trying to figure out what to do when Adrian stopped."
Adrian's eyes remained on me.
He looked tired, as though he hadn't been sleeping much, but otherwise he appeared exactly as I remembered him.
His dark hair was slightly tousled from the drive, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his forearms. He looked so familiar that for a moment I hated how easily my mind remembered every detail.
"After he helped me get the truck off the road, we started talking," Dad continued. "When he told me his name, I realized he was Eleanor Ashford's grandson."
Adrian finally glanced toward my father. "Your father knows my grandmother?"
"Apparently." Dad laughed. "We've known each other for years through the charity events around here. Eleanor has always been generous with the community."
I forced myself to look away from Adrian.
Dad seemed delighted by the coincidence. "I invited him to lunch. I had no idea you two already knew each other."
"Neither did I," Adrian said quietly.
There was something about the way he said it that made me look at him again.
He wasn't smiling.
He wasn't trying to use my father as an excuse to get closer to me.
He simply stood there, giving me the choice of what happened next.
I stepped aside. "Lunch is fine."
Dad smiled. "That's my girl."
I said very little throughout the meal. I answered Dad's questions, complimented his cooking, and occasionally responded when he included Adrian in the conversation, but I never allowed myself to be alone with him.
Whenever Dad left the room, I found some reason to follow him.
When Adrian offered to help me with something, I politely declined.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
But he never challenged me about it.
That almost made it worse.
I had expected him to demand an explanation, to ask why I had blocked him, to tell me that I was being unfair. Instead, Adrian accepted every boundary I placed between us without complaint.
Over the next few days, he somehow became part of the household.
I still didn't understand how it happened.
One morning, I came downstairs and found him outside with a toolbox beside him, kneeling near the fence Dad had been promising to repair for months.
"What are you doing?" I asked from the porch.
Adrian looked over his shoulder. "Your father mentioned the fence was falling apart."
"So you decided to fix it?"
"Apparently."
He turned back toward the loose board.
I stared at him for a moment. "You know you're a billionaire, right?"
"I've been told."
"And you own companies that probably have people who fix things like this for you."
"Probably."
"Yet you're fixing my father's fence."
He glanced at me with the faintest hint of amusement. "It seemed faster than hiring someone."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, I crossed my arms and watched him return to his work.
There was something surreal about seeing Adrian Ashford kneeling in the dirt with a screwdriver in one hand and a toolbox beside him. He didn't look like the man whose name appeared on magazine covers or the billionaire who could buy half the street without noticing the expense.
He simply looked like a man helping someone.
Later that afternoon, I found him in the kitchen repairing one of the cabinet doors.
Dad stood nearby, giving instructions he clearly didn't know how to follow himself.
"I've been meaning to fix that for six months," Dad admitted.
Adrian tightened a screw. "I can see that."
"Don't judge me."
"I'm not."
"You are."
Adrian laughed, and Dad laughed with him.
I stood in the doorway unnoticed for several seconds.
Watching them together felt strangely natural.
That evening, Dad mentioned his back was bothering him after spending too much time working outside. Adrian immediately insisted on making dinner.
"You don't have to do that," Dad protested.
"I know."
"Then why are you?"
"Because you're injured and I can cook."
Dad looked at me. "He's stubborn."
I raised an eyebrow. "You only noticed?"
Adrian glanced at me, and for the first time that day, I caught something warm in his expression.
I looked away before he could see how much it affected me.
He made a surprisingly good dinner, although he managed to burn the first batch of vegetables and looked genuinely offended when Dad laughed at him.
"I run a multinational company," Adrian said.
"And yet you lost a fight with a frying pan," Dad replied.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Adrian looked at me.
For a second, neither of us said anything.
Then he smiled, and I quickly looked down at my plate.
It was moments like that that made everything difficult.
Every kind thing he did chipped away at the frightening image I had built from the diary, the paintings, and Ethan's warnings. I wanted Adrian to be exactly as dangerous as I had convinced myself he was because that would make leaving him easier.
But the man sitting at my father's kitchen table didn't look dangerous.
He looked like someone who cared.
That night, Dad and Adrian stayed outside with cups of tea while I sat near the kitchen window. Their conversation drifted inside whenever the wind changed.
They talked about books first, arguing over an old novel Dad had loved when he was younger. Then they moved on to business, with Dad asking questions about Adrian's work and Adrian answering without making the conversation feel like an interview.
Eventually, Dad began talking about Mom.
I stopped what I was doing.
He told Adrian stories I'd heard countless times before, stories about her restaurant, her terrible singing, and the way she used to sneak extra dessert onto my plate when Dad wasn't looking.
Adrian listened.
He didn't interrupt.
He didn't offer some empty statement about how sorry he was.
He simply listened as though every memory mattered.
I watched him through the window.
When Dad mentioned something funny about Mom, Adrian smiled. When he spoke about how much she had loved cooking, Adrian asked a quiet question. He remembered details Dad had mentioned days earlier and brought them back into the conversation naturally.
I didn't know what to do with that version of him.
More than once, I caught Adrian looking at me when he thought I wasn't paying attention.
There was no impatience in his gaze.
No demand.
He never looked at me as though he expected me to forgive him simply because he had shown up.
He only watched for a moment before looking away.
He never asked me to talk about the cottage.
He never mentioned the paintings.
He never asked why I had blocked his number.
He gave me exactly what I had demanded.
Space.
And somehow, that quiet patience hurt more than an argument ever could.
Because every time Adrian respected the distance between us, I remembered the man I had loved.
The man who had once made me laugh without trying.
The man who had held me when I cried.
The man whose secrets had frightened me enough to run.
I didn't know which version of Adrian was real.
Maybe that was what frightened me most.
One evening, I walked onto the porch and found him sitting alone, looking out toward the fields.
He noticed me but didn't speak.
I stood near the doorway, unsure whether I should go back inside.
After a moment, Adrian said quietly, "Your father makes very strong tea."
I glanced at his cup. "He says it builds character."
Adrian smiled faintly. "I believe him."
I almost laughed again.
Instead, I folded my arms and looked toward the darkening fields.
Neither of us said anything for a while.
Then Adrian stood, placed his empty cup on the railing, and stepped aside so I could pass without coming close to him.
That small gesture stayed with me long after I went inside.
He was giving me room.
He was waiting.
And I hated how much a part of me wanted to close the distance.
* * *
The sun was beginning to disappear behind the trees when I found Adrian sitting alone on the porch. It was the day he was leaving, and somehow knowing that made my heart ache.
The summer evening was warm, and the fields beyond the house were glowing beneath the last light of the day. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas hummed through the tall grass, filling the silence between us.
Adrian looked up when I stepped outside.
He didn't ask me to sit beside him. He simply left enough room for me on the bench.
I sat down.
For a long time, neither of us spoke. We watched the sunlight slowly fade from the yard, and for once, Adrian didn’t try to fill the silence with explanations I wasn’t ready to hear.
Eventually, he looked at me.
"I've been thinking about what I want for you," he said.
I turned toward him.
"Not what I want from you. What I want for you."
His gaze moved toward the horizon.
"I want you to have a life that feels like yours. I don't want you spending every day trying to solve a past you don't remember or wondering whether you're supposed to love me because someone tells you that you once did."
His voice was quiet, but there was something painfully sincere beneath it.
"I want you to be happy, Eliana. Even if one day you decide that happiness means leaving me behind."
I looked at him.
He gave a faint, humorless smile.
"That doesn't mean I want you to leave."
The honesty of it made me look away.
"I want you more than I have ever wanted anything," he continued. "There are days when every instinct in me tells me to take your hand, put you in my car, and bring you somewhere no one can hurt you or confuse you again."
His eyes returned to mine.
"But you're not mine to keep."
He paused.
"I can love you fiercely without making you a prisoner of that love."
Something in my expression must have changed because his voice softened.
"I won't chase you down the road. I won't stand between you and the life you choose. I won't make you stay because I can't imagine breathing through the loss."
He swallowed before continuing.
"But don't mistake my restraint for indifference. I am holding myself back because I love you, not because I don't care."
My eyes burned.
"I want you to choose me," he said. "Not the man you remember. Not the man your father might tell you about. Me. The man sitting here in front of you now."
He reached into his jacket and placed a small envelope on the table.
"I know I've asked you to trust me when I haven't given you enough reasons to."
I looked at the envelope.
"I should have told you more. I should have understood that protecting you from the truth doesn't give me the right to decide what you deserve to know."
His fingers rested briefly against the envelope.
"I'm sorry."
The word was simple, but it carried years of regret.
"I don't expect you to forgive me tonight. I don't even expect you to believe me."
He pushed the envelope slightly toward me.
"Read this only when you're ready. There are things inside that I couldn't say without risking making your choice for you."
I stared at him.
"Why give it to me now?"
"Because I'm leaving."
My eyes lifted.
"I won't keep showing up and asking you to choose me when you're still afraid of what choosing me might mean."
He stood slowly.
"But if there is ever a day when you look at me and want me beside you again, I will be there."
His expression softened.
"And if that day never comes, I will still want you safe. I will still want you to laugh. I will still want you to build the life you dreamed about."
He hesitated.
"I just hope that somewhere in that life, there is still a place for me."
I couldn't answer.
Adrian gave me one last look before walking toward his car.
I watched him cross the yard without calling him back.
He opened the driver's door, paused, and glanced toward me once more.
There was no anger in his face. Only the quiet acceptance of a man who wanted something desperately but understood that wanting it did not make it his to take.
Then he got into the car.
The vehicle disappeared slowly down the country road.
I remained on the porch long after the sound of the engine faded.
I told myself this was what I had wanted.
Distance.
Answers without pressure.
The freedom to decide what came next.
So why did watching Adrian leave feel like losing something I had already lost once before?
I wiped away the tears gathering on my cheeks and looked at the envelope resting on the table.
I didn't open it.
I couldn't.
A few minutes later, Dad stepped onto the porch.
He didn't speak immediately. He sat beside me and looked toward the road where Adrian had disappeared.
Then he looked at me.
His expression changed when he saw my face.
"I've waited long enough," he said gently.
I turned toward him.
"For what?"
Dad took my hand and held it carefully between his.
"To tell you something you should have known a long time ago."
I frowned.
He looked toward the empty road again, and when he spoke, his voice carried a sadness I had never heard from him before.
"The man you just sent away..."
He paused, as though even now he was struggling to say the words.
"...has always been the love of your life."
I stared at him.
Dad tightened his hand around mine.
"You and Adrian were already in love in the past."