The Widow's Price: Owned By Adrien

1

The air in the Holden estate smelled of lilies and expensive hypocrisy. Aurora Soto stood near the mahogany casket, her fingers gripping the velvet edge until her knuckles turned the color of bone. She was the widow. The intruder. The charity case Clark Holden had picked up from the gutter and tried to polish into a diamond before his Porsche wrapped itself around a tree. She was Mrs. Holden in the eyes of the law, though she'd stubbornly kept her own name-a small rebellion Clark had found amusing. In truth, their marriage had been a shield. Clark knew the Soto family's greed and had given her his name to protect her, tenderly promising they would make it real only after she had established herself at the ballet company. He never lived to see her first standing ovation.

"Drink this."

The voice was sweet, like syrup laced with arsenic. Aurora turned to see her sister, Chloe, holding out a crystal flute of champagne. Chloe's eyes were dry. Perfect makeup. Perfect grief.

"It will settle your nerves," Chloe whispered, pressing the glass into Aurora's hand. "Everyone is staring. You look like you're about to faint."

Aurora took the glass. She didn't want it, but she wanted Chloe to leave even less. She downed the liquid in one burning gulp. It tasted sharp, metallic, but the bubbles distracted her from the nausea churning in her stomach.

"Good girl," Chloe said, her smile not reaching her eyes.

Ten minutes later, the room began to tilt.

The heat didn't start in her head; it started in her belly. A heavy, coiling warmth that spread through her veins like liquid lead. The faces of the guests-Clark's business partners, his judgmental aunt Eleanor, the vultures from Wall Street-began to smear. Their voices stretched and warped, sounding like a record playing at the wrong speed.

Aurora blinked, trying to clear the fog. Across the room, three men she didn't know were watching her. One licked his lips. They looked like wolves circling a wounded deer.

Get out.

The instinct was primal. It screamed over the roar of blood in her ears.

She stumbled away from the casket, her heels catching on the thick Persian rug. She needed a door. Any door. She pushed through the crowd, ignoring the whispers that followed her like smoke.

"Look at her," someone hissed. "Drunk at the funeral."

Aurora hit the stairs. The mahogany banister felt slippery under her sweat-slicked palm. The second-floor corridor stretched out endlessly, the walls breathing in and out.

"Aurora?" Chloe's voice floated up from the bottom of the stairs. "Where are you going?"

Panic spiked in Aurora's chest. If Chloe found her like this-disoriented, flushed, weak-it would be the end. The headlines would write themselves. Widow disgraced.

She lunged for the nearest handle. Locked.

She tried the next. Locked.

Footsteps clicked on the stairs. Closer.

Aurora threw her weight against the heavy double doors at the end of the hall. The handle turned. She slipped inside, her breath hitching in a sob, and threw the deadbolt.

Silence.

The room was pitch black. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the afternoon sun. The air here was different. It didn't smell of lilies. It smelled of cedar, cold rain, and expensive tobacco.

Her legs gave out. Aurora slid down the doorframe, her black mourning dress pooling around her. The heat in her body was unbearable now. It felt like her skin was too tight for her flesh. She clawed at the high collar of her dress, popping a button. She needed air. She needed ice.

Click.

The sound was sharp, violent in the quiet.

A flame erupted in the darkness. Blue at the base, orange at the tip.

It illuminated a hand. Large, scarred knuckles, holding a silver Zippo. The light traveled up, revealing a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that were darker than the room itself.

Adrien Larsen sat in a leather armchair in the corner, a cigarette unlit between his lips. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't alarmed. He looked like a king sitting on a throne of shadows, waiting for an execution.

Aurora tried to speak, but her tongue felt swollen. A whimper escaped her throat instead.

Adrien didn't move. He just watched her. His gaze felt physical, a weight pressing against her feverish skin. He snapped the lighter shut, plunging them back into darkness, then flicked it open again.

Open. Shut. Open. Shut.

Outside, the handle jiggled.

"I know she came this way," Chloe's voice was muffled by the thick wood.

Aurora froze. She looked at the man in the chair, her eyes pleading. Please.

Adrien stood up.

He was massive. He moved with the silent, predatory grace of a large cat. In two strides, he crossed the room. He didn't go to the door. He came to her.

He placed one hand on the doorframe above her head, boxing her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could feel the cold radiating off him, a stark contrast to the fire burning her from the inside out.

The handle jiggled again.

Aurora trembled, her body betraying her. She reached out, her fingers clutching the lapels of his suit jacket. She didn't know who he was. The drugs had stripped away names and faces. She only knew he was solid, and he was cold.

"Quiet," he breathed. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in her chest.

The footsteps outside hesitated, then faded away.

Aurora let out a shaky breath, her head falling back against the wood. The relief was short-lived. The drug surged again, a tidal wave of sensation. She pressed herself closer to him, seeking the coolness of his shirt, her cheek rubbing against his chest.

Adrien's hand moved. He gripped her chin, his fingers strong and unyielding, forcing her to look up at him.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Aurora blinked, her pupils blown wide, swallowing the irises. She couldn't focus. She saw a blur of darkness and intensity.

"Clark?" she whispered, the name falling from her lips like a prayer.

Adrien's jaw tightened. The pressure on her chin increased, almost painfully. A flash of something cold and violent sparked in his eyes, a brief glimpse of the monster beneath the suit. He didn't just look dangerous; he looked like he was one breath away from breaking something.

"Wrong answer," he said, his voice a low, threatening growl.

---

2

Adrien looked down at the woman melting against him. She was a mess of grief and chemicals, her body burning up, her mind gone. Disgust curled in his gut-not at her, but at the situation. At the vultures outside who had done this to her.

He should throw her out. He should open the door and let Chloe Soto drag her sister through the mud. It would be cleaner. Easier.

Aurora whimpered, her hands sliding up his chest, tangling around his neck. She was seeking an anchor.

"Fuck," Adrien muttered.

He bent down, sweeping an arm behind her knees and hoisting her up. She weighed nothing. She felt fragile, like a bird made of hollow bones and sorrow.

He carried her across the suite, kicking the bathroom door open with his boot. The room was all marble and chrome, cold and unforgiving. Just how he liked it.

He didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the walk-in shower and set her down on the tiled floor. She looked up at him, dazed, a small smile playing on her lips as if she expected a kiss.

Adrien reached for the handle and cranked it all the way to the right. Cold.

The water hit her like a physical blow.

Aurora screamed. It was a sharp, ragged sound that bounced off the tile walls. She scrambled back, slipping on the wet floor, her hands flailing.

"Stop! Please!" she gasped, coughing as the icy spray soaked her black dress, plastering it to her skin.

"Stay there," Adrien ordered. He stepped into the spray, his expensive Italian loafers soaking up the water, unbothered. He grabbed her shoulders, pinning her under the stream.

"Let me go!" Aurora fought him, her nails digging into his wrists. The shock of the cold was doing its job. The haze in her eyes was clearing, replaced by sharp, terrified clarity.

She looked up, blinking water out of her lashes, and finally saw him. Really saw him.

Adrien Larsen. The man who had allegedly nearly beaten his own father to death. The man Wall Street whispered about in fear.

Aurora stopped fighting. She shrank back against the tiles, her teeth beginning to chatter violently. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hide.

"A-Adrien," she stammered.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," he said flatly. He turned off the water.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the dripping of her dress and the ragged sound of her breathing.

Adrien looked her over. The black dress was ruined, heavy with water, clinging to every curve of her body. It was transparent in places it shouldn't be. He felt a stir of heat in his blood, unwanted and irritating. He killed it instantly.

He stepped out of the shower and grabbed a thick white towel from the rack, throwing it at her face.

"Dry off. Take the dress off."

Aurora pulled the towel down, her face pale. "W-what?"

"You can't walk out of here like that," Adrien said, turning his back to her. He walked to the sink, checking his reflection. His hair was damp. "Unless you want everyone downstairs to see exactly what you're wearing underneath."

Aurora looked down. The wet silk left nothing to the imagination. Shame flushed her cheeks, warring with the cold.

"I... I don't have anything else," she whispered.

Adrien sighed, the sound impatient. He walked out of the bathroom. A moment later, he returned and tossed a white dress shirt at her. It landed on the wet floor.

"Put it on."

Aurora stared at the shirt. It was his. It smelled like him.

"Turn around," she said, her voice trembling.

"Don't test my patience, Aurora," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Just put the damn shirt on. Or would you prefer I help you?" But he turned around anyway, crossing his arms over his chest.

He listened to the sound of wet fabric peeling off skin. The rustle of dry cotton. His imagination supplied the visuals he was refusing to look at. He clenched his jaw.

"I'm done," she said softly.

Adrien turned.

She was drowning in his shirt. The cuffs hung past her fingertips. The hem hit her mid-thigh. The top two buttons were undone, revealing the hollow of her throat and the frantic pulse beating there. She looked small. Defeated. And dangerously appealing.

A heavy knock pounded on the main door of the suite.

"Housekeeping! We had a report of a leak?"

It was a lie. Chloe's minions.

Adrien crossed the space between them in a second, crowding her against the sink. He put a finger to her lips. His eyes were hard, promising violence if she made a sound.

"Not a word," he hissed. "If they find you here, wearing my shirt, your life is over."

Aurora nodded, her eyes wide. She stood on her tiptoes, pressing back against the cold mirror, trapped between the hard surface and the harder man.

"Why?" she whispered against his finger. "Why are you helping me?"

Adrien pulled his hand away. He didn't answer. He couldn't tell her that she was the only thing in this house that didn't make him want to burn it down.

"Check the hallway," he said to himself, pulling out his phone. As executor of Clark's will and the silent partner who owned half this estate's debt, Adrien's authority here was absolute. He sent a single text to his security, a team loyal only to him. Clear the West Wing.

---

3

Adrien cracked the suite door open. The corridor was empty, but the air felt charged, like the calm before a storm.

He walked back to the bathroom. Aurora was wringing her hands, the sleeves of his shirt flopping uselessly.

"Now," he said. He grabbed her wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, but it brooked no argument.

He dragged her out of the bathroom, past the bed she had almost collapsed on, to a narrow panel in the wall near the closet. It was a servant's entrance, designed for discretion.

"This leads to the garden level," Adrien said. "Stay off the main paths. Go to the parking lot."

Aurora nodded frantically. She was barefoot, holding her ruined heels in one hand. She looked like a runaway bride, or a mistress fleeing a crime scene.

She turned to go, but Adrien caught her shoulder. He spun her around.

"Your collar," he murmured.

Before she could react, his hands were at her neck. He flipped the collar of the shirt up, buttoning one more button. His knuckles grazed her skin-cold against warm. For a second, he didn't pull away. He stared at the pulse point on her neck, his thumb brushing over it.

Aurora held her breath. The moment stretched, taut as a wire.

Then Adrien stepped back, his face a mask of indifference. "Go. Don't let anyone see your face."

Aurora didn't wait. She pushed through the narrow door and ran.

The stairwell was dim and smelled of dust. She took the steps two at a time, her bare feet slapping against the concrete. Pain shot through her soles as she hit the gravel at the bottom, but she didn't stop.

She burst out into the cool evening air. The sun had set, leaving the sky a bruised purple. She was in the rear gardens, a maze of manicured hedges and stone statues.

The wind bit through the thin cotton of Adrien's shirt. She hugged herself, shivering. She felt exposed. Naked.

She ducked behind a row of hydrangeas, trying to orient herself. The parking lot was east. She just needed to cross the koi pond clearing.

Flick. Click.

The sound of a lighter froze her blood.

Ten yards away, under the shadow of an oak tree, a man was leaning against the trunk. Pierce Montgomery. The biggest gossip in the tri-state area.

Aurora dropped to a crouch, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Pierce turned his head. He squinted into the gloom.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice slurring slightly. He was drunk.

Aurora tried to scramble back, but her foot snapped a dry twig. Crack.

Pierce's eyes widened. He saw a figure. A woman. Long dark hair. A man's white dress shirt. Bare legs.

He let out a low whistle. "Well, well. Looks like the funeral wasn't so boring after all."

He took a step toward her.

Aurora didn't think. She bolted. She sprinted away from the parking lot, deeper into the garden, toward the koi pond.

"Hey! Wait up!" Pierce laughed, but he didn't follow. He didn't need to. He had a story.

Aurora reached the edge of the pond and stopped, gasping for air. Her lungs burned. She looked down at herself. The white shirt was a beacon in the darkness. Even if Pierce hadn't recognized her face, he had seen the shirt.

And now, voices were drifting from the terrace.

"She went this way! Pierce said he saw someone running!"

It was Chloe. And Ingrid.

Aurora looked around wildly. There was nowhere to hide. The hedges were too low. The wall was too high.

She looked at the pond. The water was murky, green with algae and mud.

She looked at the pristine white shirt.

If they found her like this-clean, wearing a man's shirt-she was a whore.

But if she was a victim of an accident...

Aurora made a choice.

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