Chapter 25 The Idea Of Her Leaving
Adrian's POV
The office is quieter after everyone leaves.
Not silent there is always the low hum of the city filtering through the glass, the faint vibration of systems still running but it is controlled. Predictable. The kind of quiet I have always preferred.
I should still be here.
There are documents waiting on my desk, numbers that need reviewing, decisions that require precision. The acquisition alone should be enough to hold my attention for the rest of the evening.
It isn’t.
I’ve read the same page three times.
Each time, the numbers blur into something meaningless halfway through.
I set the file down.
For a moment, I just sit there, my fingers resting lightly against the edge of the desk, my gaze unfocused.
This has never been a problem before.
Work has always been the one place where everything aligns. Clear. Structured. Within reach. No uncertainty, no variables I can’t account for.
Now
my attention shifts without permission.
To a quiet living room.
To the sound of someone humming.
To the way Hazel settles faster when she’s not in my arms, but someone else’s.
I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly.
This is exactly why I avoid complications.
Because once something settles into your life something that doesn’t belong to the structure you’ve built it doesn’t stay contained.
A knock sounds against the door before I can follow that thought further.
“Come in.”
Daniel steps inside, already holding a folder.
“I thought you’d still be here,” he says.
“I have work.”
He glances at the untouched files on my desk, then back at me.
“Right.”
I ignore that.
“What is it?”
“The preliminary numbers for the acquisition,” he replies, placing the folder down. “Everything is moving as expected.”
I nod once, opening it without much interest.
“And your mother,” he adds.
That gets my attention.
“What about her?”
“She’s not letting this go,” Daniel says. “She’s been making calls. Quiet ones, but not quiet enough.”
I closed the folder again.
“What does she want?”
“You should reconsider your current… arrangement.”
The pause is intentional.
I don’t react immediately.
“She doesn’t get a say in that.”
“She believes she does.”
“That’s not new.”
“No,” Daniel agrees. “But this time, she’s focusing on the girl.”
The wording is deliberate.
Dismissive.
And I don’t like it.
“Darcy,” I correct.
Daniel nods slightly. “Darcy.”
There’s a brief silence.
“She’s asking questions about her past,” he continues. “Where she grew up. What her family situation looks like. Anything that could be used to question her presence here.”
I feel something tighten, not sharp, not sudden, but steady.
“She’s a nanny,” I say. “That’s her role.”
“And yet your mother doesn’t see it that way.”
I don’t respond.
Because I know exactly what he means.
Nothing in my world stays simple once it’s noticed.
“Handle it,” I say finally.
“I am,” Daniel replies. “But if she finds something she can use, it won’t stay private.”
It never does.
I nod once.
“Then make sure there’s nothing to find.”
Daniel studies me for a moment.
“There’s always something to find,” he says.
The statement is quiet.
Certain.
And uncomfortably true.
He picks up the folder again.
“Get some rest,” he adds before turning toward the door. “You’re not thinking as clearly as you usually do.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what this looks like.”
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t need to.
He leaves anyway.
The door closes behind him.
And the office feels different again.
Not controlled.
Not entirely.
I glance at my phone.
Still nothing.
No messages.
No updates.
No reason to be checking it again.
And yet
I do.
By the time I leave the building, the city has already shifted into evening.
Lights replace daylight, reflections stretching across glass and pavement in ways that blur the line between movement and stillness.
The drive back is quiet.
Too quiet.
I don’t turn on the radio.
I don’t take calls.
I just drive.
And think.
About things I shouldn’t be thinking about.
About how easily she fits into spaces she was never meant to occupy.
About how quickly Hazel responds to her.
About the way the penthouse feels different when she’s not there.
It doesn’t make sense.
It shouldn’t.
By the time I step inside, I expect everything to feel as it always has.
Controlled.
Familiar.
Instead
I stop.
Because she’s there.
Standing near the living room, not moving, not doing anything in particular. Just… there.
Like she’s been waiting.
Or deciding something.
I’m not sure which.
“You’re back,” she says.
It’s simple.
But there’s something behind it.
“I am.”
I set my keys down, my attention still on her.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then I ask, “How is she?”
“Sleeping,” Darcy replies. “She had her medication. No fever.”
I nod once.
“That’s good.”
Silence settles again.
But it doesn’t feel empty.
It feels… aware.
“You left earlier,” I say.
“I had something to do.”
I studied her for a moment.
“You didn’t say where.”
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
“You don’t,” I agree.
But something about it doesn’t sit right.
Not because she owes me an explanation.
But because I wanted one.
The realization is quiet.
Uncomfortable.
She shifts slightly, her fingers brushing against the strap of her bag.
“I went to see a daycare,” she says.
That wasn’t the answer I expected.
“A daycare?”
“Yes.”
The word settles between us.
Simple.
But not insignificant.
“For work?” I ask.
She nods.
“Something more stable,” she adds.
The same word from before.
Stable.
Something tightens in my chest.
“You already have a job,” I say.
“I do.”
“Then why look for another one?”
Her gaze meets mine.
Calm.
Steady.
“Because this isn’t permanent.”
The answer is immediate.
Clear.
And it lands harder than it should.
I don’t respond right away.
Because I don’t like what it implies.
“You’re planning to leave,” I say.
It’s not a question.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
There’s no apology in it.
No uncertainty.
Just the truth.
And for some reason
that doesn’t sit well.
“You just got here,” I point out.
“And I didn’t plan to stay long.”
“Hazel is attached to you.”
The words come out sharper than intended.
Her expression softens slightly.
“I know.”
“Then why would you—”
I stop myself.
Because I already know the answer.
Because she’s right.
This was never meant to be permanent.
And yet
“Because this isn’t my world,” she says quietly, finishing the thought I didn’t.
The words settle.
Heavy.
Honest.
I hold her gaze for a moment longer than I should.
“And you think you don’t belong here.”
“I know I don’t.”
The certainty in her voice is what does it.
Not the words.
The certainty.
Something shifts.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… there.
“You belong where you decide to stay,” I say.
She shakes her head faintly.
“That’s not how your world works.”
My world.
There it is again.
The line.
Clear.
Defined.
And suddenly
I don’t like it.
Later that night, after everything has quieted, I find myself standing outside Hazel’s room.
The door is slightly open.
Inside, Darcy is sitting beside the crib, her head resting lightly against her hand as she watches Hazel sleep.
She doesn’t notice me.
And for a moment
I don’t move.
Because something about the way she sits there
like she already belongs
makes it harder to accept that she doesn’t think she does.
And for the first time
I find myself wondering
if letting her leave
is something I’m actually willing to do.