Whispers Beneath The Sheets

The ballroom glitters like a diamond I can't afford. Chandeliers drip with crystals, champagne flows like liquid gold, and the air hums with the smug laughter of people who know they'll never have to check the price tag before buying.

And me? I'm the imposter in a borrowed dress and secondhand confidence.

I smooth the satin over my hips and force myself to keep my chin high, reminding myself I belong here. Not because of my last name, or because I was born into this endless parade of wealth, but because ambition has teeth and mine bites harder than anyone else's.

I repeat it like a mantra: I'm not here for pleasure. I'm here for the opportunity.

Still, my gaze flickers around the ballroom like a thief casing a mark. Glittering gowns. Cufflinks are worth more than my rent. A string quartet tucked neatly in the corner, bowing out an elegant waltz that feels like it belongs in a movie instead of real life.

I grab a glass of champagne from a passing waiter to have something to do with my hands. The bubbles sting my nose. One sip, and I already regret it. Too sweet, too sharp. Like everything else in this room, it doesn't belong to me.

"Relax," I murmur to myself. "Smile, network, leave. That's the plan."

Easier said than done.

I step toward the bar, weaving between glittering couples, and that's when it happens.

One second, I'm avoiding eye contact with a man in a tuxedo who looks like he eats assistants for breakfast. Next, my shoulder slams into something solid. My glass wobbles. A splash of champagne leaps over the rim and hits my wrist.

"Oh God......sorry, I wasn't......."

I stop.

Because the man I've just crashed into isn't someone. He's an entire storm wrapped in a perfectly tailored black suit. Broad shoulders. Sharp jawline. Dark hair brushed carelessly off a forehead that seems made for furrowed frowns and sinful thoughts.

And his eyes !! Dear God, his eyes are the kind of dangerous blue that makes you want to confess secrets you've never told anyone.

He steadies me with a hand on my elbow. Large, warm, firm. My pulse trips like it's forgotten how to beat.

"Careful," he says, voice low and smooth, like whiskey poured neat. "These floors are slippery when you're not watching where you're going."

Heat floods my cheeks. Embarrassment. Irritation. Something else I don't want to name.

"I said I'm sorry," I snap, pulling my arm free. "But maybe if you didn't stand in the middle of the walkway like a statue, people wouldn't "

My words die when his mouth curves. Not quite a smile. More like the devil considering a deal.

"Feisty," he says softly. "I like that."

I blink, caught between outrage and a very inconvenient flutter low in my stomach.

Who is this man?

Around us, the party hums on, oblivious. But in this little pocket of space, it feels like the air has thickened, turned electric.

I glance away, desperate to reset my brain. I planned to stay invisible tonight. Not to lock eyes with a stranger who looks like he could ruin women for sport.

But before I can move, he leans closer, just enough that I catch the faintest whiff of something dark and clean cedarwood and expensive cologne.

"You don't belong here, do you?" he asks.

The words hit me like a slap.

My spine stiffens. "Excuse me?"

His gaze lingers on me like he's reading a file no one else has access to. "You're not like them," he murmurs, chin tipping toward the cluster of glittering guests nearby. "You don't care about being seen. You're watching. Calculating. You'd rather be anywhere else."

The champagne glass trembles in my hand. He's too close to the truth, and I hate it.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, sharper than I mean to.

"Don't you?"

I meet his gaze again, and my chest squeezes.

Damn him. Damn his confidence. Damn the way my body leans an inch too close even as my brain screams danger.

"Who are you?" I whisper before I can stop myself.

His grin sharpens. "Adrian Blackwood."

The name lands like thunder in my chest. Of course, I've heard it. Everyone in the city has. The billionaire CEO. The ruthless dealmaker. The man who built an empire from shadows and steel.

And now he's standing in front of me, looking at me like I'm not just another nameless guest in a borrowed dress.

He tips his head, studying me. "And you are?"

I open my mouth. But before I can speak, a passing photographer snaps a photo. The flash blinds me.

By the time my vision clears, Adrian Blackwood is still watching me. Intense. Curious.

Like a predator deciding whether to pounce.

I swallow hard, acutely aware of his stare, like it's peeling me open layer by layer.

"Amelia," I manage finally, my voice steady even though my insides aren't. "Amelia Hart"

He repeats my name slowly, like he's tasting it. "Amelia."

It's ridiculous, how intimate it sounds coming from him. I've heard my name a million times, but on his tongue, it's something else entirely.

"Nice to meet you, but if you'll excuse me," I turn toward the bar, praying my knees don't betray how unsteady they feel.

"Running already?" His voice follows, smooth as silk and sharp as glass. "I haven't even scared you yet."

I spin back, glaring. "You don't scare me."

The way his grin curves tells me he doesn't believe me. Worse, a treacherous part of me doesn't believe me either.

I push past him and slide onto a barstool, setting down my half-empty champagne flute with a little more force than necessary. The bartender approaches, and I order water just to give myself a reason to look away.

But I can feel him. I don't even need to check. Adrian Blackwood takes the seat beside me like he owns it, like he owns the entire damn room.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just sits there, elbow propped on the bar, watching me in that unnerving way.

Finally, I snap. "Do you have a habit of bothering strangers?"

His lips twitch. "Only the interesting ones."

I roll my eyes, but heat flares in my chest anyway. "Well, congratulations. You've had your fun. Now you can go... I don't know, brood in a corner and let me enjoy my night in peace."

"Enjoy?" His gaze sweeps me slowly, deliberately. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere but here."

He's not wrong, which only irritates me more. "You're very observant."

"It's a talent," he says smoothly. "I can tell you don't like champagne, either."

I blink. "How....??"

"You wrinkled your nose when you drank it."

Damn him. He notices too much.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," I mutter.

"Everything about you is my business right now."

The audacity. My breath catches, caught somewhere between outrage and an entirely different kind of heat.

I open my mouth to deliver a cutting remark, but he leans in just slightly, his voice dropping low enough that I feel it more than I hear it.

"Tell me, Amel, what are you really doing here?"

For a moment, the noise of the party fades. The string quartet. The clinking glasses. The polite laughter. All of it becomes background static under the weight of his question.

I should lie. I should tell him I'm just here for fun, or because a friend dragged me, or anything that doesn't reveal how badly I want to climb the ladder, how much I need connections like this gala offers.

But the way he's looking at me makes my throat dry. Like he'd know if I lied. Like he'd enjoy catching me in it.

So I go for the safest version of the truth. "Networking," I say flatly.

Adrian studies me. "You don't strike me as someone who settles for scraps of attention."

Scraps? I bristle. "Not everyone gets to waltz into a room and own it, Mr. Blackwood."

He smiles faintly. "Call me Adrian."

"No, thanks."

He chuckles, low and rich. "Stubborn, too. You're full of surprises."

"Maybe you should stop looking for them."

I grab my water and take a long sip, but it doesn't cool the heat building under my skin.

Adrian doesn't push, not directly. Instead, he signals to the bartender and orders something dark and amber, neat. His movements are fluid, practiced, confident, like he was born in this world of wealth and glass and power.

I tell myself to ignore him. To focus on my real purpose here. Find someone useful to talk to, make an impression, and leave before midnight.

But then he shifts closer, and my body betrays m,e every nerve suddenly aware of his proximity.

"You're not like them," he says again, softly, like it's a secret between us.

I turn to snap back, but he's already watching me with that intense, unreadable gaze. Blue eyes like storms over deep water.

My pulse skips. My throat tightens.

This is insane. I don't even know him. He's a stranger, a billionaire with a reputation sharper than a blade.

And yet, sitting here, it feels like he sees me. Really sees me.

I tear my gaze away, desperate for distance. "You should probably find someone else to charm, Adrian. I'm not interested."

His laugh is soft, almost disbelieving. "That's a lie."

I jerk my head back to glare at him. "Excuse me?"

He leans in, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne again. "You feel it, too. That pull. I can see it in your eyes."

My breath catches. Anger flares, sharp and blinding, but underneath it, dammit, there's truth. A magnetic, undeniable pull I don't want to admit.

I shove back my chair, heart racing. "You're arrogant."

"And you're tempted," he counters easily, not moving an inch.

Our gazes clash, and for a long, dangerous moment, neither of us looks away.

The noise of the party swirls back around us, but it's meaningless. All I can hear is the pounding of my pulse, all I can see is him.

Adrian Blackwood. The man everyone whispers about. The man I should stay far, far away from.

So why does it feel like I'm already caught?

The music slowed, shifting into something deeper, sultrier. The kind of melody that lingered on the skin like heat. I made the mistake of looking toward the dance floor, at the swirl of gowns and tuxedos, before turning back.

He was already on his feet.

Adrian's hand extended toward me, steady and certain, as if my refusal had never been an option. "Dance with me."

I laughed, sharp and defensive. "Not a chance."

"Why not?" His voice was maddeningly calm, edged with amusement.

"Because I don't dance with strangers." I kept my chin high. "And I definitely don't dance with arrogant billionaires who think everything bends to their will."

His mouth tilted in something far too close to a smile. "You think the world bends for me?"

"I think you take what you want." My pulse betrayed me, quick and uneven. "And I'm not about to be taken."

Instead of backing down, his eyes darkened with intrigue. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And yet, you're still here, still talking."

Before I could deliver the cutting reply on my tongue, his hand moved closer, waiting. "Just one dance, Amelia. No strings. No promises. Just this."

I should have walked away. Every part of me screamed at me to put distance between us. But his voice curled around my name like a secret, and my hand betrayed me.

The moment our palms met, something sharp and electric jolted through me.

He led me into the crowd, the room parting easily around him. When his hand settled at the small of my back, steady and unyielding, my breath caught. Heat spread through my skin like fire racing across dry grass.

"This is a mistake," I whispered, hating how shaky I sounded.

"Probably." His lips brushed the edge of my ear, low and dangerous. "But the best ones usually are."

The music pulled us into motion. His steps were smooth, effortless, his body close to mine as if it had always known where I belonged. My hand rested against his shoulder, and despite every warning in my head, I fit against him too easily, like we had been made for this rhythm.

I tried to focus on anything else, the chandelier glittering overhead, the laughter nearby, but his thumb grazed against my spine, and my eyes snapped back to his.

The look he gave me stole the ground from beneath my feet. Heat. Hunger. Certainty.

"You're trembling," he murmured.

"I am not," I lied.

His soft laugh made my pulse stumble. "Brave little liar."

I should have pushed him away. Instead, I let him guide me deeper into the music, every brush of his hand unraveling something carefully bound inside me. My breath shortened, my chest rising against his with every step, and then the strings swelled.

Adrian's head lowered.

"What are you....?!"

His mouth claimed mine before I could finish.

The world stopped.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was bold and searing, the kind of kiss that took without asking, that left no room for denial. My body went rigid and then melted, betraying me completely as his lips moved against mine.

I tasted heat, spice, danger. I felt his hand tighten against my back, pulling me closer until the air between us ceased to exist. A soft sound escaped me, half protest, half surrender, and his mouth curved against mine like he'd won something.

When he finally broke away, I was breathless, dazed, and trembling.

"That," he said, voice low and steady, "won't be the last time."

My hand lingered on his chest, my palm rising and falling with the thrum of his heartbeat. Then sense snapped back like a whip. I shoved lightly against him, stumbling away, breath ragged.

"This was a mistake," I whispered, though the words rang hollow.

"Maybe," he said smoothly, eyes burning into mine. "But you'll think about it tonight. And tomorrow. And every time you walk into a room and wonder if I'll be in it."

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

Because he was right.

I turned on my heel and forced myself to leave the dance floor, weaving through the glittering crowd, desperate for distance. But even as I fled, my lips burned, my body ached, and my mind betrayed me with the truth: I already knew I'd never forget the way Adrian Blackwood kissed me.

The city never slept, but Amelia wished she could.

Her reflection in the window of her apartment mocked her-cheeks flushed, lips still tingling as if the kiss had branded her. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass and whispered his name like a curse.

Adrian Blackwood.

He wasn't supposed to affect her this way. He was supposed to be a headline in the papers, a rumor whispered at work, a man admired from a safe distance. Instead, he had become an ache she couldn't soothe, the spark that lingered even after the fire should have died.

One kiss. That was all. And yet it felt like everything had shifted.

She tried to reason with herself as she changed into pajamas and brewed chamomile tea. She told herself it had been the champagne, the heady atmosphere of the gala, the way music and laughter blurred into something intoxicating. But the truth pressed heavily in her chest: Adrian had looked at her like she was the only one in the room, and when his lips touched hers, she had kissed him back.

Amelia groaned into her pillow, rolling over to block the thoughts. Sleep eventually claimed her, restless and thin.

By late morning, her phone buzzed relentlessly. Claire.

Claire: Brunch. Eleven. Don't you dare flake.

Amelia dragged herself out of bed. Maybe some girl talk would ground her again. By eleven sharp, she was tucked into their favorite café, tucked into a corner booth while the hum of espresso machines and soft jazz wrapped around her.

Claire swept in moments later, chic as ever in oversized sunglasses and a silk scarf. "You look like hell," she announced cheerfully, sliding into the seat opposite.

"Good morning to you, too," Amelia muttered, tugging at her sweater.

Claire arched a brow. "Something happened last night. I can feel it."

Amelia reached for her water. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, please. You've got that post-something glow. So...spill."

Amelia hesitated. Claire was her best friend, but she wasn't sure she could say it out loud. Once she did, there'd be no taking it back.

Claire narrowed her eyes. "Was it champagne? Or was it a man?"

Amelia bit her lip. "Both."

Claire's grin spread, but then realization dawned. Her expression dropped. "No. No way. Don't tell me...."

Amelia stayed silent.

Claire slapped the table, startling the waiter passing by. "Adrian Blackwood?!" she hissed. "You kissed Adrian Blackwood?"

Amelia buried her face in her hands. "Shhh!"

"Amelia!" Claire dragged her name out like a reprimand. "Do you have any idea what kind of man he is?"

"I didn't plan it. He kissed me," Amelia said defensively.

"That doesn't make it better! That makes it worse!" Claire leaned forward, lowering her voice but not her intensity. "He's dangerous. The man doesn't do relationships. He collects women like trophies and discards them the second he's bored. Don't you remember Serena? She swore he was different, and then he broke her heart so thoroughly she fled to Paris to lick her wounds."

Amelia remembered Serena vaguely-a socialite who had glowed for a season and then vanished from their circles. She'd never connected the dots to Adrian.

Claire wasn't finished. "Or what about Harper? She left her job, Amelia. Left her entire career after he tossed her aside. This isn't a man you flirt with, Millie. He's a black hole."

Amelia sipped her coffee to hide her trembling hands. The words should have been enough to snuff out whatever dangerous pull she felt. But instead, they only added fuel to the fire. Because she wasn't Serena. She wasn't Harper. She wasn't anyone else.

"I can handle myself," she said softly.

Claire caught her hand across the table, squeezing tightly. "Promise me you won't let him pull you under."

Amelia nodded, though her heart whispered otherwise.

Monday arrived with cruel efficiency. Amelia buried herself in spreadsheets and project notes, grateful for the distraction. But fate was unkind. Her firm had just signed a contract with Blackwood Enterprises, and by mid-morning, she was stepping into their sleek headquarters with her boss.

The lobby gleamed with glass and chrome, bustling with sharp-suited employees who carried themselves with the brisk efficiency of soldiers. Adrian's presence was everywhere, his initials engraved on elevator doors, his vision evident in every polished corner.

Amelia forced herself to breathe. It was just work. That was all.

But when the conference room doors opened and he walked in, she knew her resolve was about to shatter.

Adrian Blackwood filled the space effortlessly, commanding attention without a word. His eyes found hers immediately, and the faintest smirk curved his lips, as though the rest of the world was irrelevant.

"Good morning," he drawled, his voice like velvet wrapped in steel.

Her boss beamed, exchanging pleasantries with him. Amelia lowered her gaze, focusing intently on her notes. But she could feel Adrian's gaze like a hand on her skin, lingering, deliberate.

The meeting dragged on, but Amelia barely registered the numbers and projections. Every time she dared glance up, his eyes were waiting. She fumbled her pen twice and nearly spilled water across the table. Her boss didn't notice, but Adrian did. His smirk deepened.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Amelia bolted for the door. She needed air. Distance. Anything to steady her pounding heart.

But a voice stopped her in the hallway.

"Miss Hart."

Her body froze. She turned slowly. Adrian leaned casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, every inch the predator disguised in elegance.

"We need to talk," he said simply.

"There's nothing to talk about," she shot back, sharper than she intended.

His smile was infuriatingly calm. "You kissed me back."

Heat flared across her cheeks. "It was a mistake."

"Was it?" He stepped closer, his eyes locked on hers. "Because I can't stop thinking about it. And I don't believe you can either."

Her breath caught. "Stay away from me."

Adrian tilted his head, studying her like she was a riddle he had every intention of solving. "That's not going to happen."

The words hit her like a blow. She spun on her heel and stalked away, but his voice lingered, low and certain, echoing in her chest all the way home.

That night, Amelia sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop glowing against the darkness. Work deadlines loomed, but she couldn't focus. All she could hear was Adrian's voice, confident and unyielding. All she could feel was the ghost of his touch.

Claire's warning rang in her ears. Adrian Blackwood was dangerous. He was a storm, and she was already caught in the winds.

And yet, despite every reason to stay away, Amelia knew the truth she didn't dare admit. She was already falling.

The week blurred into one long tug-of-war. Amelia poured herself into work, determined to smother every lingering thought of Adrian beneath tasks, reports, and endless coffee. But he was everywhere. His company's logo stared at her from files, his name echoed in meetings, and sometimes-just sometimes-she caught herself looking for him when she walked through the glass corridors of Blackwood Enterprises.

She hated herself for it.

Claire's warning lived in her mind like a siren. Don't let him pull you under. But temptation was a tricky thing. It didn't knock politely at the door-it seeped in through the cracks, whispering at odd hours, curling around her heart until resistance felt less like strength and more like denial.

By Wednesday, she was frayed. The project required her presence at Blackwood headquarters again, this time without her boss. She told herself she could handle it. She would march in, present the updates, and march out with her dignity intact.

The conference room was empty when she arrived. Good. She arranged her notes, steadied her breathing, and repeated her silent mantra. Professional. Detached. Untouchable.

The door opened.

Her pulse betrayed her instantly. Adrian stepped inside, alone, his suit tailored to perfection, his dark hair slightly tousled as though he'd run a hand through it impatiently. His eyes found hers, and the corner of his mouth curved in that maddening way that always made her knees weak.

"Miss Hart," he greeted smoothly, his voice lower than the hum of the air conditioner.

"Mr. Blackwood," she returned, forcing her tone into something cool, businesslike.

He chuckled softly, as if he knew exactly how hard she was trying. He sat across from her but leaned back in his chair, studying her like she was far more interesting than any presentation she could give.

"Tell me," he said, "do you always look so determined when you walk into a room, or is that expression reserved only for me?"

Amelia kept her gaze on her notes. "This is a business meeting. I'd prefer if we kept it that way."

"Of course," Adrian replied, but the amusement in his voice betrayed him.

She began the presentation, her voice steady at first, outlining projections and proposed strategies with practiced precision. But he didn't make it easy. He listened, yes, but his eyes lingered on her too long, his fingers tapped slowly against the table as though he was biding his time. Every so often, when she glanced up, she found him watching her with an intensity that made her throat go dry.

Halfway through, she stumbled over a word. Then another. Adrian didn't comment-he simply leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, eyes glittering with quiet satisfaction.

When she finished, he clapped once. "Impressive. Truly. But tell me, Amelia...... do you always speak as though you're afraid someone might hear what you really want to say?"

Her breath caught. "Excuse me?"

"You're precise. Polished. Controlled," he said, rising from his chair. "But there's more beneath the surface, isn't there?"

He moved closer, slow and deliberate. Amelia forced herself not to shrink back, though her body screamed at her to run.

"This isn't appropriate," she whispered.

"Neither was the kiss...... yet here we are."

His words settled between them like smoke. He was close now, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of his cologne-something dark and clean that made her dizzy.

"Stop playing games with me," she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

Adrian's lips curved. "You think this is a game?" His hand brushed against hers on the table, the contact fleeting but electric. "No, Amelia. This is inevitable."

The room was silent except for her heartbeat, pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it. She pulled her hand back, clutching her notes like a shield.

"I should go," she said, rising to her feet.

But he blocked her path, not aggressively, just standing there with quiet authority. His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. "You're scared...... but not of me. You're scared of yourself."

Amelia's breath hitched.

"I don't mix business with pleasure," she said, desperate to salvage control.

Adrian's smile deepened. "Then let's find another excuse."

She brushed past him, gathering her things with trembling hands. Her escape was graceless, but she didn't care. She had to get out. She had to breathe.

......

That night, Amelia replayed the encounter over and over. The way he looked at her, the way his voice dropped when he said her name. He was right. She was scared-not of him, but of what she might become if she let herself surrender.

Her phone buzzed. A text.

Unknown Number: You forgot something.

Her heart lurched. A picture followed: her pen, sitting neatly on the conference table. Then another message.

Unknown Number: I could return it. Dinner. Tomorrow.

Amelia's fingers hovered over the screen. She should delete the messages. Block the number. Pretend this never happened. But her body betrayed her, thrumming with a rush of anticipation she couldn't explain.

She typed one word before she could stop herself.

Amelia: No.

The reply came instantly.

Unknown Number: That's not a real answer.

She threw her phone aside, burying her face in her pillow. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? Why couldn't she leave him alone?

......

The following day, Amelia sat across from Claire at lunch, poking half-heartedly at her salad. Claire was animated, recounting a date with someone new, but paused mid-sentence when she noticed Amelia's distraction.

"What's wrong?" Claire asked.

"Nothing," Amelia lied.

Claire narrowed her eyes. "Millie...... don't tell me you're still thinking about him."

Amelia stayed silent. That was enough of an answer.

Claire groaned. "Oh my God. He's texting you, isn't he? You didn't block him?"

"I told him no," Amelia defended weakly.

"And?"

"He...... didn't take it as an answer."

Claire dropped her fork. "That's what he does! He pushes until you give in. Millie, you can't entertain this. He's like quicksand-the more you struggle, the deeper you sink."

Amelia forced a smile she didn't feel. "I'll be fine."

Claire leaned in, eyes sharp with worry. "Promise me you won't meet him."

Amelia opened her mouth... but the promise wouldn't come.

......

By Friday, she was exhausted. Her resolve crumbled with every step she took through the city streets. When she reached her apartment building, she froze.

A sleek black car waited at the curb.

And leaning against it, Adrian Blackwood.

He looked out of place in the quiet neighborhood, but he didn't seem to care. When his eyes met hers, that familiar heat sparked in her veins.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, approaching cautiously.

"Probably not," he admitted. "But I wanted to see you."

"Why?"

"Because you intrigue me."

She laughed bitterly. "I'm not one of your projects, Adrian."

"No...... you're not. That's what makes this different."

His honesty disarmed her, leaving her floundering. She wanted to scream, to demand he leave her life, but instead she whispered, "What do you want from me?"

Adrian stepped closer, his gaze steady. "The truth? I don't know yet. But I know I want to find out...... with you."

Amelia's chest tightened. Every instinct screamed at her to walk away, to protect herself. But another voice whispered, softer, more dangerous: What if he's telling the truth?

Before she could answer, his driver opened the car door. Adrian gestured. "Come. Just dinner. Nothing more."

Amelia hesitated on the edge of temptation, her heart pounding like a drum.

Claire's warning echoed again. Don't let him pull you under.

But when Adrian held out his hand, steady and sure, Amelia found herself reaching back.

......

The restaurant was quiet, tucked into a side street she'd never noticed before. The lighting was low, the atmosphere intimate without being ostentatious. Adrian guided her to a private table, every movement effortless, practiced.

Conversation flowed more easily than she expected. He asked about her work, her childhood, and her favorite books. He listened-truly listened-his gaze never wavering. It was disarming. Dangerous.

At one point, he leaned forward, voice softer. "You fascinate me, Amelia. You pretend to be ordinary, but there's fire beneath that composure. I can feel it."

Her breath caught. "You don't know me."

"Not yet," he said. "But I will."

The words lingered long after dinner ended, long after he walked her back to her apartment building and wished her goodnight with nothing more than a lingering look.

Amelia closed her door and leaned against it, her heart racing.

She should have felt safe. Instead, she felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff... and Adrian Blackwood was the drop.

And part of her wanted to jump.