Chapter 45 THE PROPOSAL UNDER PRESSURE
POV: Selena
The ring box is already open when I realize what Adrian is doing, and my first instinct is to step back.
I am standing in the De Luca library, still smelling faintly of antiseptic from the hospital, my phone clenched in my hand because I have not stopped checking it all day. Every hour brings another message from a lawyer, another update from the foundation, another reminder that nothing is stable. Adrian is in front of me, jacket abandoned on a chair, sleeves rolled up like he has been fighting paperwork instead of people.
I want him to stop.
I also want him to finish.
My chest feels tight, not from surprise but from pressure, like the room itself is leaning in to watch what I will do next.
“Adrian,” I say, and my voice is already strained. “We said we would talk about this, not do it like this.”
“I know,” he says. His hands are steady, which scares me more than if they were shaking. “But if I wait, I will talk myself out of it. Or someone else will.”
I look at the ring. It is simple. Too simple for a family that owns half the city by reputation alone. No stones that scream legacy. No engraving that ties it to a name older than mine.
This is not a romantic gesture.
This is a move.
The knowledge sits heavy between us.
Outside the tall windows, the estate grounds are quiet. Too quiet. Security has doubled since Thornton’s announcement. The press is circling like they smell blood. Every choice now feels like it comes with witnesses, even when the room is empty.
“You are proposing because of the will,” I say.
He exhales slowly. “I am proposing because I want you. The timing is ugly. The reason is ugly. That does not make the feeling fake.”
I fold my arms, not to close myself off but to hold myself together. “If this were just about the foundation, you could marry Diana and solve three problems at once.”
His jaw tightens. “I would lose myself.”
“And if you marry me,” I say, “you could lose everything anyway.”
“That risk exists no matter what I do,” he replies. “At least this way, I do not lose you.”
I hate how easily that lands. Hate how part of me wants to say yes just to stop the weight in my chest from growing heavier.
I turn away and pace, my shoes soft against the rug. The portraits along the wall follow me with their painted eyes. Generations of choices made under pressure. Deals disguised as duty.
“I will not be your shield,” I say quietly. “I will not be the woman people point to and say she trapped you.”
Adrian closes the distance between us. Not touching. Just close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.
“I want to marry you because I love you,” he says. “Not because of a clause written by a man who thought control was the same thing as care.”
I swallow. My throat feels dry.
“Then do not propose like this,” I say. “Propose to me again when this is over. When there is no will hanging over our heads and no enemy waiting to twist it.”
He does not interrupt me. He waits, which is its own kind of restraint.
“And I will say yes,” I finish. “Without hesitation.”
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.
Finally, he nods. “A courthouse wedding,” he says. “Quiet. Legal. Enough to satisfy the clause.”
“And nothing more,” I add.
“For now,” he agrees.
He closes the ring box but does not put it away. Instead, he places it on the table between us, like a promise neither of us is ready to touch.
We tell the lawyers that afternoon.
The reaction is immediate and chaotic. Calls overlap. Someone asks about prenuptial terms. Someone else warns about optics. Marcus argues with a foundation trustee on speaker while Bella types furiously on her tablet.
No one asks how I feel.
That part hurts more than I expect.
Adrian squeezes my hand under the table when voices get too loud. Not to reassure me, exactly. More like a reminder that I am not alone in this room full of people deciding my future.
By evening, the plan is set.
Next week. A courthouse across town. Two witnesses. Paperwork filed before anyone can block it.
I nod along, answer questions, keep my posture straight. I am good at this now. I know how to look composed while my thoughts race.
When it finally ends, Adrian insists on walking me home. Security trails at a distance. The city looks normal in a way that feels wrong, like it has not noticed that everything important is on fire.
“You do not have to stay tonight,” I tell him as we reach my building. “You have meetings at dawn.”
“I want to,” he says. “Even if all we do is sleep.”
I almost laugh at that. Almost.
Inside my apartment, everything looks exactly as I left it. The couch. The lamp by the window. The framed photo of my parents that I keep meaning to move but never do.
I kick off my shoes and lean my head back against the door once it closes.
“This feels unreal,” I say.
“It is,” Adrian replies. “But we will survive it.”
He steps closer, brushing a thumb along my knuckles. The touch is gentle, careful, like he is afraid to ask for more.
I let myself lean into him. Just for a moment.
Later, when he leaves, I lock the door behind him and stand there longer than necessary, listening to the quiet.
I shower, change into an old T shirt, and curl up on the couch with my phone. Messages keep coming. Some supportive. Some invasive. One anonymous account sends a single line.
You are playing above your level.
I block it without replying.
Sleep does not come easily. Every sound outside makes me tense. Every passing car feels like a threat my body has learned to expect.
When I finally drift off, it is shallow and uneasy.
The noise wakes me.
Not loud. Scraping. Like something dragged across concrete.
I sit up, heart pounding, and peer through the window.
At first, I do not understand what I am seeing.
Then I do.
Spray paint glistens wetly under the streetlight, letters uneven and angry across the wall below my balcony.
GOLD DIGGER.
The word hits like a slap.
Below it, another line.
You will never be one of them.
My hands start to shake. Not from fear exactly. From the sudden clarity of it.
This is not about money.
This is about erasing me.
I grab my phone and take photos, my breath shallow as I document every letter. Somewhere inside me, a colder part takes over. The part that knows evidence matters. The part that refuses to shrink.
By the time security arrives, the paint is already drying.
I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the wall, the words burned into my vision.
If this is the cost of standing beside Adrian, I realize, then this is only the beginning.
And whoever did this wants me to know exactly where I stand.
I straighten my shoulders.
They picked the wrong moment to remind me.