Chapter 3: The Things We Keep

POV: Adrian

6:00

The safe clicked shut. Her sweater was inside. Safe. Mine.

My phone lit up. Master bedroom: Motion

She was awake.

I took the stairs two at a time. Not the elevator. I needed the burn in my legs. Needed something that wasn't her.

Stopped outside her door. 6:01

You'll learn to like it.

God, I am such a jerk for saying that.

I opened the door.

And forgot how to breathe.

She was sitting on the bed. Bare feet. Hair wild from not sleeping. And wearing-

Grey. Crew neck. Hanes. Size S.

The t-shirt.

My t-shirt. The one I'd left at 6:00 exactly, folded dead center on her pillow like a peace offering from a war criminal.

It fell to mid-thigh on her. Swallowed her. Not my kind of swallow. Hers. The kind that says I dress for comfort, not for you.

Her eyes snapped to mine. Defiant. Terrified. Alive.

Something in my jaw cracked.

"You didn't sleep," I said. Not a question. I'd watched cam 1 all night. She stared at the ceiling for 5 hours, 47 minutes.

She didn't answer. Just clutched the hem of that goddamn t-shirt like it was the only thing between her and me.

 It was.

I stepped inside. Slow. Hands where she could see them. Like she was a feral thing I'd caged.

I had.

"It fits," I said. My voice was gravel. I hadn't slept either. I'd spent the night memorizing the way her stitches looked under the safe light.

"How" she said. Broken glass in her throat. "How do you know my size? How do you know the brand?"

I could've lied. I wanted to, so she won't feel uncomfortable. Said Maria guessed. Said I had her measurements from the contract. But the selfish part of me wanted her to know I am very obsessed with her.

"Because I know you. Luch."

"You don't," she shot back. "You bought me. That's not knowing."

It hit lower than her fist would've. Because she was right. And she was wrong.

I looked at her - really looded. In that too-big t-shirt, bare feet, eyes like she'd been awake since the gala five years ago.

Since she was 16 and I was 20.

Since she smirked at me.

"I knew you before you were mine."

Her blood left her face.

"At the gala" she whispered. "You were there."

Relief punched through my ribs. She remembered.

"You remember."

"I smirked at you." Her words tasted like poison in her mouth. "I was 16. You were-"

"20" I finished. "And you looked at me like you'd burn me alive if I got too close."

"Like I dared you to get too close," she corrected. Her voice shook. "That smirk wasn't for the room. It wasn't for everyone. I do admire everyone, Adrian. I find the good in everyone. Except you. You, I didn't admire. You, I wanted. That smirk was only for you."

The world stopped.

*Only for you. *She said, My heart would've jumped out.

Five years. 3 years, 2 months, and 11 days of surveillance. Of knowing her coffee order and her GPA and the day her parents died.

And she'd wanted me first. At 16.

When I was 20 and should've walked away.

"Say that again." My voice wasn't mine.

She stood up. The t-shirt brushed her thighs. My t-shirt. On her skin. Because she chose it over silk.

"You’ve been watching me. Since then."

“Since that night at your scholarship dinner,” I said, hoarse. “When you walked on stage in that sweater. I was 22.”

Her favourite sweater. Three stitches. Currently in my safe.

“3 years, 2 months, 11 days,” she said.

“You were listening.”

“I always listen,” she said. “It’s how I survived.

”Of course she did. My girl. My girl.

“Why the t-shirt?”

I didn’t move closer. I didn’t trust myself.

“Because I watched you for 3 years, 2 months, and 11 days. I know you hate silk. I know you cry on October 12th. I know you take your coffee black because cream costs extra.”

I swallowed. My throat was sandpaper.

“And I’m a jerk, Lucy. But I’m not a monster. Not with you.”

Her eyes burned. She wouldn’t cry. Not for me.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t pretend this is kindness. You tore up my life.”

“I saved your life,” I said. “Your aunt was two weeks from selling your trust to pay her gambling debts. You would’ve had nothing.”

“I chose you,” I said. “Every day. For 3 years, 2 months, and 11 days. Since a 16-year-old girl dared me with her eyes and ruined me at 20.”

She went white.

"I was 22 when I decided I couldn’t live without you. And I’ve been yours since."

She wrapped her arms around herself. The cotton pulled tight. My cotton. On her body.

“Get out,” she said.

I nodded. Once. Because what else could I do? She’d just gutted me with the truth.

At the door, I stopped. Didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. If I looked at her again, I’d drop to my knees.

“The incinerator runs at 07:00,” I said. “Your things are gone. But that one’s yours. I won’t take it.” I lied.

Then I left.

Office. Feed up before the door even shut.

Cam 1.

She sank to the floor. Forehead to her knees. Still in the t-shirt.

Still wearing me.

My hands shook.

That smirk was only for you.

She fell first. At 16.

I was 20. A kid with too much money and no impulse control. And she’d looked at me like I was a god worth sinning for.

I should’ve walked away. Should’ve left her alone.

Instead I built an empire so I could buy her.

And now she knows.

Feed zooms. Her fingers twist in the hem. She’s not taking it off.

She’s cold. She’s angry. She’s mine.

And she wanted me first.

I admire everyone—but him, I wanted.

Christ.

I’m 25. She’s 21. The gap doesn’t matter anymore.

I hit record on the feed.

Lucy Adrian, in my t-shirt, keeping the one thing I gave her.

She thinks I’m building a cage.

She’s wrong.

I’m building a fortress.

Only for her.

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