Stella's POV
Morning light slipped through half-closed curtains, painting golden streaks across the rumpled sheets. I lay there, my body buzzing and sore—last night, Adam had claimed me like a beast, every thrust desperate, like he wanted to carve himself into my bones. It wasn't a tender goodbye; it was a wild brand.
So, that was it.
I turned my head to him. His sleeping face softened, losing its usual edge, lashes resting against his cheeks, handsome enough to stop my heart. Even asleep, Adam radiated that innate authority—power never left him. My fingers itched to trace his jaw, to memorize him one last time, but I held back. Lingering would only make that day harder.
His eyes snapped open, alert like a startled wolf, green gaze locking onto mine. "Morning," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep.
I didn't answer, just stared, soaking in details I would soon have to forget.
He rolled toward me, his arm snaking around my waist, pulling me close. His hard-on pressed against my thigh, intent clear as day.
"Adam," I pushed weakly, "I can't—"
"You can," he murmured in my ear, his hand already roaming, finding my body betraying my words. "And you will."
It was a blur after that—his lips crashed into mine, his tongue forceful, his hands igniting everywhere. My traitor body leaned in, pleasure hitting like waves, drowning me till I nearly forgot who I was.
"Say it," he demanded, slowing just as I was teetering on the edge.
"What?" I gasped, desperate for release.
"You know," his voice steel wrapped in velvet, "call me like you used to."
I bit my lip, refusing that intimacy on the brink of divorce.
He dragged it out, torturously slow. "Say it, Stella," he ordered, "or I won't let you finish."
"Please," I mumbled, lost in the haze.
"Say it," he pressed, owning the moment.
"Honey," I caved, the word bitter-sweet on my tongue, "please."
His smug grin was the last thing I saw before pleasure swallowed me, stealing my breath, wiping out divorce, Grace, everything—leaving just Adam and my damn addiction to him.
The last time I'd call him that.
When I came to, my eyes stung. I turned away, hiding the weakness.
Too late. His fingers tilted my face. "Tears?" His tone was unreadable.
"Just a reflex," I lied, blinking them back, "happened sometimes."
He studied me, something flickering in his eyes, then the mask slipped back on.
"Time to dress," I said, escaping his warmth.
Reality called. The dream was over.
I sat on the bed's edge, rigid, fully guarded.
"Let's go to the registry," I broke the heavy silence.
Adam, in crisp clothes Taylor had dropped off, checked his watch, unfairly gorgeous. "They're closed."
"Then prep the divorce papers," I pushed, clinging to my resolve.
He eyed me, calculating. "Lawyers would draft it. You'd hear when it was ready."
"I wanted nothing," I said firmly, "no property, no money, keep it simple."
"Were you worried I'd back out?" His tone was light, his eyes cold.
I met his gaze steadily. "I just wanted it done. A clean break."
"Got it," he said, lifting his whiskey glass, "I'll get the papers moving now."
"Thanks." I stood, needing space. "I'm showering."
"Running again?" he teased softly.
"Washing it all off," I corrected, heading to the bathroom without looking back.
It clicked now. Mr. Lancaster didn't torment women—he kept his word, even in a breakup. With GT's legal team, those papers would be ready by tomorrow.
As I shut the door, glass shattered, followed by a muffled curse. My hand paused on the knob, tempted to check, then Taylor's voice cut in, summoned by the noise. I relaxed. Adam had people.
I didn't.
That's how it should have been.
Hot water scrubbed away last night's traces, but not the memories burned in my head. I pressed my forehead to the cool tile, letting myself crack for a second before facing him again.
Get through tonight. Tomorrow, you'd be free.
I stepped out in a towel, finding Adam by the window, his right hand wrapped in a blood-stained handkerchief.
"What happened?" I asked, reflex kicking in.
"No big deal," he shrugged, turning, "Your clothes are dirty. Wear this." He offered his tailored trench with his good hand.
I shook my head. "No need. Someone's bringing me stuff."
He raised a brow. "Who?"
A knock saved me. Adam opened the door to Rouge's night manager holding a garment bag.
"Miss Winston, your clothes," he said, barely glancing at Adam.
"Thanks," I took it, "You drove?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Great. Can you give me a lift when I'm ready? Won't take long."
He nodded, stepping into the hall to wait. I turned, catching Adam's layered look.
"What?" I challenged.
"Nothing," he said, his lips twitching—admiration or bitterness, hard to tell. "Just realizing you're not the fragile thing I sometimes pictured."
I slipped into jeans and a cashmere sweater fast, dodging his eyes. The clothes felt like armor, rebuilding the walls Adam had torn down.
"You'll let me know when the papers are ready?" I paused at the door.
He nodded, his face shut off. "Not curious about my hand?"
"What's the point?" I replied softly, "We were done, Adam. Your hand, like everything else, wouldn't be my problem soon."
I closed the door gently, followed the manager to the elevator, no glance back. In the lobby, I noticed I was trembling.
"Miss Winston, you okay?" he asked, professional concern clear.
"Fine," I lied, squaring my shoulders, "Take me to Sam's."
Sam was waiting at the campus apartment, her eyes widening at my state.
"God, Stella," she gasped, pulling me in, shutting the door, "What's wrong? Your neck… those are…?"
I touched my neck, realizing I had skipped a mirror. "Adam," I said simply, "breakup sex."
Sam's face shifted—shock, worry, fury. "That bastard! Did he hurt you?"
"Not like that," I assured, heading to the bathroom, "I need another shower."
Under harsh lights, I saw what rattled Sam—red marks scattered on my neck and shoulders, Adam's final claim. I grazed one, wincing at the sting.
Primal possession. So him.
"Want me to stay tonight?" Sam called through the door, "I can ditch my meeting."
"I'm good," I shouted back, shedding clothes, "Really."
But stepping into hot water again, I wasn't sure I bought my own line.
Sleep came in fits, haunted by Adam—his hands, his voice, the shadow in his eyes when I called him "honey." I woke tangled in sweaty sheets, checking the clock, begging for dawn.
When daylight cracked through, I dragged myself up, feeling unrested. My body ached, my head throbbed, my chest was heavy for no reason. But I had classes to teach, a life to piece back. No time for pity.
"You look rough," Sam said as I shuffled out, "Take a sick day?"
"I'm fine," I insisted, pouring coffee into a travel mug, "Just need this."
She was skeptical but let it slide. "Call if you need anything, yeah?"
I nodded, grabbed my lecture notes, and headed downstairs, instinctively scanning for Adam's black Bentley—a fixture outside lately. The spot was empty.
He was really gone.
It should have felt like relief. Instead, there was a hollow ache as I walked to the lecture hall.