Chapter 8 8

Inside the penthouse bathroom, Adrian ripped off the stained trousers. He scrubbed his leg with a wet towel, scrubbing until the skin turned red.

Get it off. Get it off.

It wasn't the coffee. It was the touch. The unexpected, grabbing sensation. It felt like the wreckage. Like the biting cold of twisted metal and the memory of a hand going limp in his...

He squeezed his eyes shut. Stop.

He changed into a spare suit he kept in the closet. When he walked back out, Spencer was packing up the papers.

"Congratulations," Spencer said dryly. "You legally own a wife."

Adrian poured himself a drink. "Shut up."

"You overreacted," Spencer said. "She's just a scared kid. She didn't mean to touch you."

"She's a liability," Adrian muttered, downing the scotch. "She's clumsy. She's loud."

"But she's exactly what you wanted," Spencer pointed out. "Think about Georgiana's face when she meets her. A Brooklyn girl with a criminal brother and a cheap coat? Your mother is going to have an aneurysm."

A dark, cruel smile touched Adrian's lips. "That is the only reason she is here. Nothing disgusts my mother more than poverty."

"You're a sadist, you know that?" Spencer zipped his bag. "Though... calling her 'Sister-in-law' is going to be fun."

"Don't get attached," Adrian warned. "One year. Then she's gone."

Cinthia hid in the stairwell on the 14th floor. It was the only place without cameras.

She cried for five minutes. Quiet, efficient tears. Then she stopped. Crying didn't pay the bills.

Her phone buzzed. She blocked Carter's number without reading the text.

She walked back to her desk.

There was a steaming mug of hot chocolate sitting on her keyboard. Beside it, a sticky note with a smiley face.

She looked up. Kamren Newton, the Marketing Manager from down the hall, was watching her from his office door. He gave her a small, warm wave.

Cinthia's heart squeezed. Kamren was everything Adrian wasn't. Kind. Warm. Safe. He had asked her out for coffee three times. She had always said she was busy with Casey.

Now, she was married.

She couldn't even smile back. She looked away, guilt washing over her.

"Ms. Wise?"

Cinthia jumped. Miles was standing at her desk.

The low buzz of office chatter around them didn't stop, but a new kind of silence fell over the immediate area as heads subtly turned their way. Giana leaned over her partition, pretending to look for a paperclip.

"Mr. Clemons requires you downstairs," Miles said, his voice a low murmur meant only for her. He gestured discreetly toward the elevators.

"Downstairs?" Cinthia whispered, confused. "For what?"

"A car is waiting," Miles clarified, his expression unreadable. "You are to relocate to the Estate. Tonight. Please gather your personal effects quietly."

Giana gasped, a small, choked sound that was audible in the sudden quiet. Relocate? To the Estate?

The whispers started before Cinthia had even pushed her chair back. She didn't need to hear the words to know what they were saying. She grabbed her bag, feeling the heat of dozens of eyes on her back as she followed Miles to the elevators.

"Did you see her coat?"

"Sleeping her way to the top..."

"I bet she's pregnant."

Downstairs, the Rolls Royce was waiting.

Cinthia climbed in. Adrian was reading a file. He didn't look at her.

"Drive," he said.