bChapter /bb165 /b

ADRIAN’S POV

I turned off the tap that had been running for far too long. The sound of water sshing against the sink, once calming, now just got on my nervesb. /bEven small things were beginning to irritate metely, like a dripping water or the ticking of a clock. Things I used to ignore now seemed louder, heavier. Unbearable.

I reached for the towel hanging beside me and slowly dabbed my face, trying to wipe off more than just water. Maybe if I rubbed hard enough, I could erase the exhaustion written all over me. The dark circles under my eyes had deepened–silent witnesses to my countless sleepless nights.

I stared at myself in the mirror for a while. Longer than necessary.

The man who looked back at me felt unfamiliar. There was a time when my reflection radiated confidence, purpose… even power. Now bit /bjust looked hollow. Worn. Like I was barely holding myself together with an invisible thread.

I let out a long breath and hung the towel back on the rack. The soft clink of the metal hook echoed in the bathroom and disappeared into silence. That’s what this house had betely–a quiet, sterile ce. A home filled with echoes instead ofughter. A mansion haunted by everything that once was.

I stepped out of the bathroom and walked back into the bedroom, the thick carpet muffling my steps. I sat on the edge of the bed, then fell backward onto it, staring nkly at the ceiling.

People on the outside look at me and see a billionaire. They see the mansions, the cars, the sess–and they assume that I must have everything. That I’m living the dream. If only they knew.

“If anyone sees me, they’d think, ‘He’s a billionaire. He doesn’t have problems. And even if he did, money could fix themb,/b” I muttered, my voice low and tired.

But not all wounds can be bought off. Not all pain can be healed with luxury.

People wish they could be in my shoes, to live my life. But they have no idea about the storm I walk with every day–the ghosts that whisper at night, the memories I can’t escape. Money can buy you anything, they say. But it can’t buy you peace.

It’s been five years since Olivia died.

Five yearster, and I still see her in my dreams. Still hear her voice when I close my eyes. Her stubborn little scowls, the way she called me out on my bullshit when no one else dared to.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m just stuck–frozen in time while the rest of the world moves on. People say I should let her go. That I’m holding onto the past too tightly. Maybe they’re right. But how do I let go?

1 tried. God knows I tried.

I’ve been on more blind dates than I care to count. Each one worse than thest. Women smiling at me like they already had their ws bin /bbmy /bwallet. Conversations that felt scripted. Forcedughs. Fakepliments. And each time I sat there, pretending to be interested, I’d hear bOlivia’s /bbvoice /bbin /bbthe /bback of my mind, mocking the performance I was putting on.

But the problem isn’t them. It’s me. I can’t trust anymore.

Not after what Dora did.

I wasn’t in love with Dora. But she was part of my childhood–my history. I trusted her. I believed in her loyalty. I chose her over Olivia when bshe /bbtold /bbme /bbshe /bwas pregnant, and that single choice bbecame /bthe biggest regret of my life.

bI /bstill remember that day–how she looked me in the eyes, trembling, and told me bshe /bwas carrying my bchild/b. How my world tilted bjust /bba /bbbit/b, bhow /bbI /bfelt bthe /bground shift beneath me. I panicked. I was so desperate to do the “right” thingb. /bAnd in that moment, I did bthe /bbplete /bbopposite /b

The truth bcame /bbter/b. Ugly and devastating.

b1/3 /b

All those years I’d known Dora, I never once imagined how far she’d go to get what she wanted. I thought her desperation was bharmless/bb–/bbjust /bbemotional /boutbursts and immature games. But nothing prepared me for what she actually did.

I knew that she was desperate to get my love, I thought the worst act of desperation she could do was when she drugged me and made it blook /bblike /bbwe /bhad sex

I forgave her for that.

I truly did. I thought maybe–just maybe–she had changed. That she’d grown past the desperate girl who once clung to a love that was never truly hers to have. I wanted to believe she was different, that the fire behind her actions had softened into maturity. But that was my mistake–thinking people like Dora ever change.

And maybe I would’ve lived with my choice if not for one thing: the child.

I wasn’t a coward. When she told me she was pregnant–carrying my child–I didn’t run. I stood my ground like any man should. I brought her into bmy /bhome. I took responsibility, even if my heart remained locked in a coffin six feet deep, buried. I didn’t love her, not even close, but a child changes things. Or so I thought.

But people don’t always operate with the same principles.

She manipted me–for months. Every smile, every craving, every fake doctor’s appointment–lies, all of it. And the worst part wasn’t just that she lied. It was what she lied about. A life. A child. A chance at something pure in the middle of my emotional wastnd.

How could she lie about something so sacred? About creating life? About being a mother?

And then it all began to make sense. All those nights she came to me, dressed in silk, eyes gleaming with fake innocence, brushing her fingers across my chest, trying to kiss me. At first, I thought maybe pregnancy hormones were making her clingy. But no–it was desperation. She knew the lie couldn’t bst /bforever. So she tried to make it true. She wanted to trap me again, this time with something real.

If she could just get pregnant before I uncovered the truth, she could spin it. Manipte the timeline. She nearly seeded.

I let out a slow, bitter sigh, rubbing my temples as I leaned forward in the dim bedroom light. The memory still made me feel sick.

But she’s gone now. That’s the only relief I can cling to.

When I found out the truth, I didn’t yell. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even break anythingb. /bI simply looked her in the eye and said, “Leave.” And when she begged, I turned my back and walked away.

I had my men pack her things. I instructed security never to allow her within a hundred feet of my property again. It should have ended there.

But it didn’t.

That was five years ago–and yet, she stilles back.

Sometimes she waits at the gate for hours. Other times she tries to sneak in through the side entrance, trying to bribe bnew /bguards or im she left something behind. I’ve changed staff countless timesb, /bbut she finds a way

And that’s when I realized something: what she feels for me isn’t love.

It’s obsession.

Love doesn’t linger like a shadowb, /bwing bat /bthe past, refusing bto /brelease. Love doesn’t bignore /bbrejection /bfor bhalf /bba /bdecade and still bhope /bfor ba /bbdifferent /b

answerb. /b

p

How bcan /byou still chase someone who cut you offb, /bwho never loved you–not bfor /bbone /bsecond?

Even after 5 byears /b

bit’s /bbpathetic/b.

b2/3 /b

And yetb, /beven

with ball /bthat behind me, the

pain

still haunts me. Not because I miss her–but because bof /bwhat she brepresented/bb. /b

A reminder.

A reminder that I will never

be the man I once was. That I no longer know how to

trust. That

maybe

Olivia was my

Now, the only thing that fills this house is silence. The kind of silence that speaks. That echoes. celebrates love, and you

sit alone

on your throne of wealth and regret.

That gnaws

at your

chest when the world boutside /b

A