Chapter 8: The Door Left Ajar

I told myself it was just a box of old books. A stupid reason to go back. But as I stood in the marble-floored lobby of the Ashford Tower, my heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The doorman—a different one this time, thankfully—gave me a curt nod after I signed in. Adrian's penthouse was still under my name on the visitor list. A clerical oversight, I assumed. Or maybe he just hadn't bothered to delete me.

The elevator ride felt eternal. I clutched the handle of my empty tote bag, my knuckles white. I had spent three weeks crying into my best friend's couch cushions. Three weeks of telling myself that Adrian Cole was a monster, a liar, a man who had a fiancée hidden somewhere in his gilded life. And yet, here I was, sneaking back into his lair like a moth to a flame that had already burned me.

The penthouse door swung open with a soft click. The air inside was still. Stale. It smelled like him—sandalwood and cold rain—but muted, like a memory losing its color. I walked past the Italian leather sofa where we'd spent countless nights tangled together. Past the kitchen island where he'd made me breakfast once, shirtless, humming a song I didn't recognize. My chest ached with the weight of it all.

I headed straight for the guest bedroom, where I'd left a few things in my haste to escape. But as I passed the hallway, my footsteps faltered. There was a door—a door I'd never noticed before, tucked behind a massive abstract painting that had been tilted slightly to the side. It was ajar. Light spilled from the crack, warm and golden.

I knew I shouldn't look. I knew it was none of my business. But curiosity, that wicked little devil, tugged at my feet. My hand pressed against the wood, and the door swung open with a whisper of resistance.

The room was small. Intimate. A writing desk sat against the far wall, covered in framed photographs. Candles—half-melted, long extinguished—clustered around a single velvet armchair. And on the desk, a leather journal, open to a page filled with elegant, looping handwriting. But it wasn't the journal that made my breath catch.

It was the shrine.

A dozen photos of a young woman with laughing eyes and hair the color of spun honey. She looked so much like Adrian—same sharp cheekbones, same gentle curve of a smile that he rarely showed. In one photo, she was blowing out birthday candles. In another, she was holding a paintbrush, grinning at the camera. A silver locket sat on the desk, its chain coiled like a sleeping snake.

I picked up one of the photos, my fingers trembling. On the back, in Adrian's handwriting: *Sophie, age 19. The last birthday we spent together.*

My stomach dropped. Sophie. His sister.

I sank into the velvet chair, the photo still clutched in my hand. The journal lay open to a page dated four years ago. Adrian's words, scrawled in a shaky, desperate hand:

*She called me at 3 a.m. I was in a meeting in Tokyo. I ignored it. I thought it was just another excuse, another cry for attention. But it wasn't. It was the last time I'd ever hear her voice. She was gone by morning. Overdose. They said she accidentally mixed her meds with something stronger. But I know the truth. She was drowning, and I was too busy building an empire to throw her a rope.*

Tears blurred my vision. I flipped the page.

*I promised her I'd never let anyone get close again. If I don't love them, they can't die. They can't leave. The walls I built aren't to keep people out—they're to keep me from losing anyone else.*

A sob escaped my lips. I pressed my hand to my mouth, but it was too late. The sound echoed in the quiet room. The walls I built aren't to keep people out. They're to keep me from losing anyone else.

I had been so angry. So blind. I had seen a ruthless tycoon who hid his heart behind a wall of steel. But this—this was the true Adrian. A man so shattered by grief that he'd convinced himself love was a liability. His cruelty wasn't born of malice. It was born of terror.

I heard a sound behind me. The creak of the floorboards.

I spun around. Adrian stood in the doorway, his face pale, his jaw tight. He was in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his tie loose around his neck. His eyes—those cold, gray eyes—were fixed on the photo in my hand.

"Elena," he said, his voice raw. "You shouldn't be in here."

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. All I could think about was the little girl in the photos, and the man who had spent years punishing himself for a phone call he didn't answer.

"Is this why?" I finally whispered, my voice cracking. "Is this why you pushed me away? Because you were afraid?"

He took a step forward, then stopped. His hands hung at his sides, fists clenched. "I don't get to explain myself. Not to you. Not after—"

"After what?" I stood, the photo still clutched to my chest. "After I found out about your fiancée? You never mentioned her because you never had one, did you? It was a lie. A test. You wanted to see if I would stay."

His silence was answer enough.

"I would have stayed, Adrian," I said, my voice breaking. "I would have walked through fire for you. But you didn't give me the chance."

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he looked so young. So broken. "I know," he whispered. "And that's what I'm most afraid of."

I stepped closer, my heart pounding. "Then let me in. Let me see the man behind the walls. Not the tycoon. Not the mask. Just you."

He opened his eyes, and for the first time, I saw tears glistening there. "Elena, I don't know if I know how."

I reached out, my hand hovering inches from his face. "Then we learn together."

But before I could touch him, his phone buzzed sharply from his pocket. He flinched, glancing down. The screen lit up with a name I couldn't read, but I saw the tension snap back into his shoulders.

"I have to go," he said, his voice suddenly cold again. He turned, striding toward the door.

"Adrian—"

He paused, his back to me. "Lock the door on your way out, Elena. And don't come back."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the shrine of his grief, the photo of his sister still clutched in my trembling hands. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that whatever he was running to, it wasn't just business.

It was another lie. And I was about to find out what it was.