I agreed to Adrian's press conference proposal.

He approached this "collaboration" with obsessive perfectionism—nothing but the best would do.


The PR director mentioned they'd started my speech two months earlier. "The content was so crucial," she gushed, "our entire team worked around the clock to finish a year ahead of schedule."

I froze, processing this information.

Two months ago? No—two years ago. The same time as our "mistake."


Had they been planning this all along?

A disturbing thought flickered through my mind, but I lacked the energy to chase it.


Adrian initially sought my input, but when I showed zero interest, he took over completely, arranging everything to his exacting standards.

He booked the Metropolitan Museum of Art, curated the guest list, dictated media coverage requirements…

For a fake partnership, he was investing an awful lot of effort.

The scale of the event was staggering.

I couldn't fathom why Adrian insisted on this elaborate charade, or why his "artisan representative" had to be me specifically.

But it didn't matter. I didn't need to understand him—I just needed him to keep his word about this being our final interaction.

The day arrived, and Adrian came for me early.

He arrived in a bespoke suit that probably cost more than my rent, trailing an entourage of staff and media. He commanded the center of attention like a star gone supernova—almost painfully bright to look at.

With no family or friends to accompany me, my entrance was necessarily simple. Still, Adrian insisted on protocol—my hand tucked into his arm as we walked the red carpet. His grip was warm and firm, yet sent ice through my veins.

My former critics were notably absent—Adrian had likely ensured no one would spoil his perfect production.

I glanced at the program card and couldn't help a small, bitter smile.

I looked up to find Adrian watching me with laser focus.

"Happy?" he murmured, voice pitched for my ears only. "Eager for your freedom?"

"Yes," I smiled directly into his eyes. "I can hardly wait."

Through the car window, the city blurred past. My mind drifted to last night's phone call.

Selina had called.

Her laughter had been shrill and cutting. "I can't believe Adrian's still bothering with a failed barista like you."

"God, I hate you, Clara. From the moment we met, I knew you were exactly the kind of woman I despise."

"You act all serene and above-it-all, but we both know how twisted you really are inside."

"You've always wanted Adrian, haven't you? You should thank me for that drink—it gave you the chance you'd been dreaming of."

I'd always known Selina drugged that cocktail. If Adrian hadn't intercepted it, God knows which random guy would've been in my bed the next morning.

Or men, plural.

"Selina, I've never done anything to hurt you. Not intentionally."

"You stole Adrian from me! How dare you say you've done nothing wrong?"

"If you hadn't drugged that drink, Adrian and I would never have happened. Ever."

"But Adrian LOVES you!" Selina shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. "How could he love YOU? What do you have that I don't? Why you and not ME?"

I gripped the phone, struck speechless.

"Are you really that blind? Don't tell me you still think he hates you! He's obsessed with you! He's defying everyone—EVERYONE—to hold this stupid press conference with you. If that's not love, what is it?"

"If drugging Adrian were that easy, don't you think I'd have done it years ago? He was trained to resist drugs since childhood—normal aphrodisiacs don't affect him at all. That drink was meant for YOU!"

I hung up. The world went silent around me.