Stella's POV
I slid into the luxurious booth, trying to keep my expression calm, though my insides were in turmoil. The image of Grace wearing Adam's jacket kept flashing through my mind, making it almost impossible to focus.
"Stella, you're back already..." Samantha's voice trailed off as she studied my face, "What's wrong? Where's Adam?"
"It wasn't him," I lied, avoiding her penetrating gaze, "Victor's people must have been mistaken."
Victor, who had been leaning heavily on Sam's shoulder, raised his head to stare at me. His sharp eyes seemed to cut right through my facade, seeing the truth I was desperately trying to hide.
"Get off me," Sam pushed him, her voice full of irritation, "Your head is too heavy. Lean against the sofa instead."
"Sofa is hard," Victor answered simply, but reluctantly moved away.
Samantha's attention returned to me: "Don't lie to me. I can tell something's wrong. You've been off since you arrived."
My hands trembled slightly as I reached for my untouched water glass. His jacket. He gave her his jacket. The same one he gave me that night at the carnival.
"It has nothing to do with Adam," I deflected, forcing a smile that felt fragile on my face, "It's my grandmother."
I recounted the events at the Winston house—the staged birthday celebration, Lucy's academic troubles, my grandmother's manipulative request—finding that as I talked, my voice gradually stabilized. Discussing family drama was far easier than confronting what I had just witnessed downstairs.
"So they want you to use your university connections to help Lucy avoid expulsion?" Samantha summarized, her expression darkening, "After they've treated you like garbage for years?"
"Basically," I sighed, taking another sip of water.
"It's just Lucy! Who cares about her problems?" Samantha exclaimed, "Don't help them, Stella. They don't deserve it." She reached out to hold my hand.
I managed a more genuine smile: "You're right. I won't help them."
Throughout our conversation, Victor had been watching me with an unsettling intensity. His eyes, despite his supposed brain injury, were unusually clear and perceptive, following my every movement.
"Does Mr. Moore have something to say to me?" I finally asked, meeting his gaze directly.
"You should find a different man," Victor stated bluntly.
Sam dramatically rolled her eyes: "Ignore him. His brain still isn't working properly."
I looked away, Victor's words hitting closer to home than he could possibly know. Maybe he does know. Maybe he saw Adam and Grace too.
"I should go," I suddenly said, picking up my purse, "It's getting late."
"Leaving already?" Sam frowned, "We just got here."
"I know, but I'm really tired today." I stood up, avoiding her concerned gaze, "Call me tomorrow?"
Before Sam could protest further, I was already heading for the door, desperately needing to escape before my carefully maintained composure completely crumbled.
The hot water cascaded over my shoulders, and I pressed my forehead against the cool marble wall of the shower, letting the water mix with the tears I had been holding back since leaving Rouge.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I wondered. I should be angry. I should be pacing the bedroom, demanding explanations. Instead, I felt a strange, hollow resignation—as if some part of me had always expected this outcome.
The most surprising revelation wasn't that Adam might be reconnecting with Grace; it was my own reaction to it. Beyond the initial shock and hurt, what I felt most deeply was disappointment in myself.
Why do we crave what we know we cannot keep?
From the beginning, I had approached this marriage as a temporary arrangement, a business transaction with an expiration date. I had carefully guarded my heart, built walls, created escape plans. Yet somehow, without my permission, feelings had crept in—feelings that now made me vulnerable to this overwhelming sense of loss.
I turned off the water and wrapped myself in a towel, avoiding my reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror. I didn't want to see evidence of my weakness, the redness around my eyes that would betray my broken composure.
I knew this wouldn't last, I reminded myself as I put on my nightgown. I always knew.
I turned off the bedroom lights and crawled into bed, curling up on the side far from Adam's half. Since moving into Lancaster Manor, this was the first time I hadn't left a light on for him when he was out late.
Tonight, when he returned, I would pretend to be asleep. Tomorrow, I would begin rebuilding those walls that had somehow silently crumbled without my noticing.
I heard Adam enter the bedroom, his movements almost silent despite the wheelchair. I kept my eyes closed and my breathing steady, pretending to be asleep as he prepared for bed. When he slipped under the sheets, the mattress dipped slightly.
"Awake?" he asked softly, reaching out to touch my shoulder.
I shifted slightly, keeping my back to him: "You woke me up. I'm tired, Adam. I need to sleep."
I could feel his eyes studying my rigid posture, the unusual distance between us. "Did something happen at the Winston house? Did they upset you?"
"I'm just tired," I repeated, my tone flat. Don't ask about Grace. Don't make me say her name.
Adam hesitated, then moved closer, his arm sliding around my waist: "But I'm wide awake. What should we do about that, Mrs. Lancaster?"
I jumped at his touch, pulling away as if burned. I moved toward my side of the bed, deliberately keeping distance between us. The thought that he might have touched Grace with those same hands tonight made my skin crawl.
"Stella?" Confusion and concern mixed in his voice, "What's wrong?"
Several seconds passed before I trusted myself to speak without my voice breaking.
"Your...your cologne. There's a scent on you I don't like. Perfume."
Adam frowned; even with my back turned, I could feel his gaze: "There's no scent. I showered before coming to bed."
"It's there," I insisted, still not turning to face him, "I can smell it."
I heard him sit up, the mattress shifting with his weight: "I spent some time with friends tonight. Something might have transferred. I'll shower again."
I remained silent, my body tense beneath the covers. Just go. Please just go now.
"I won't disturb you tonight," Adam finally said, his voice deliberately neutral, "I'll go take another shower."
As he left the bed, I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself not to call him back, not to demand answers about Grace, about the flowers, about the jacket.
Don't be that person, I harshly told myself. Don't be that jealous, insecure wife.
I listened to the sound of water running in the bathroom, wondering how we had reached this point—me pretending to sleep, him taking a second shower to remove a scent that might only exist in my imagination.
I buried my face in the pillow, breathing deeply. Tomorrow, I would be stronger. Tomorrow, I would figure out how to protect myself from the inevitable pain when our arrangement finally reached its natural conclusion.
But tonight, I allowed myself this moment of weakness, this silent acknowledgment of the truth I had been avoiding: somehow, despite all my caution, despite all my walls, I had fallen in love with Adam.
Now I had to find a way to fall back out before it destroyed me.