CHAPTER 84: INTERRUPTING

The bell above the café door chimed softly, a gentle sound she usually associated with regulars picking up late-night pastries or tourists wandering in after hours, confused by the dimmed lights.

But the moment she heard it, a cold ripple danced along her spine.

Not because of the sound—but because of the feeling that followed it. That sense of being watched, of old ghosts dragging their feet across your doorstep.

She looked up from where she stood behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, the cleaning cloth pausing in her hand when she saw him.

Adrian.

Like a Chapter she thought she’d finally closed, standing there wearing that tailored coat and expensive watch, hair styled perfectly messy like he’d just walked off the cover of a lifestyle magazine. Still devastatingly handsome, still carrying that careless charm that used to unravel her in seconds.

But not anymore.

Not after everything.

Ella’s stomach twisted, but she forced herself to straighten her shoulders, gripping the counter like it was the only solid thing keeping her standing upright.

"We’re closed," she said flatly.

Adrian’s lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t prepared himself for her voice to be sharp. Maybe he expected soft. Awkward. Forgiving.

Wrong.

"I know," he said after a beat. "I—I saw the sign. I just... Can I talk to you?"

"No," she said without hesitation, picking up the cloth again, trying to keep her hands busy while her pulse did wild, unhelpful things in her throat. "Whatever you’ve got to say to me? I don’t want to hear it."

His brow furrowed, that same familiar crease between his eyes. The one she used to smooth with her thumb when they’d stayed up too late talking about nothing.

But that was before.

Before he broke her.

Before he left her when she was at her lowest.

Before he started dating Clara—her stepsister—the woman who’d stolen everything else from her, too.

"I deserve that," Adrian said softly, stepping closer, careful like he was approaching something fragile. "But Ella... I didn’t know where else to go."

She barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. "Not my problem."

"Please."

The word did something cruel to her chest. Not because she believed him—but because once upon a time, she would’ve done anything to hear that word fall from his lips.

Now? It felt like poison sweetened with nostalgia.

She dropped the rag on the counter. "What do you want?"

Adrian’s throat worked around whatever words he was swallowing, eyes scanning her face like he was searching for that girl he used to know, like he thought she might still be hiding in there somewhere.

"I shouldn’t have come here," he said quietly. "But I need you to hear me out."

Ella crossed her arms, chin tilting up defiantly. "So talk. And then leave."

God, he looked wrecked up close. Expensive coat, expensive shoes—but tired eyes. Not the Adrian she remembered, not really. That boy had been full of bad poetry and soft kisses behind the art building on campus. This man looked hollowed out, worn around the edges, like the guilt he carried was finally weighing more than his charm could hide.

"You were the best thing that ever happened to me," he blurted suddenly, voice raw, fingers curling into fists at his sides. "And I ruined it. I know that."

Ella’s jaw clenched so hard it ached.

"I don’t want your apologies," she said quietly, evenly. "Not now."

His eyes softened. "Ella..."

"Don’t," she snapped, stepping out from behind the counter. "Don’t say my name like that. You don’t get to say my name like that anymore."

The words sliced from somewhere deep and bitter, a place she didn’t like visiting but was all too familiar with these days.

"I begged you," she whispered harshly. "When my mother was in the hospital. When I couldn’t breathe from everything falling apart. And you—you chose her. My own stepsister. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

Adrian’s face twisted with pain, and good. Good.

"I didn’t plan it," he muttered helplessly. "I didn’t mean for it to happen that way—"

"Don’t insult me," she cut in. "You meant it. You chose it. You chose her."

Silence pressed between them, thick and bitter.

Finally, Adrian dragged a hand down his face, exhaling like the weight of his mistakes was finally suffocating him. "I didn’t come here to make excuses. You saw the news, the videos. About Clara. The scandal. The... pregnancy."

Ella blinked, caught off guard by the mention, and hated that it worked.

Pregnant. Of course she saw it. Clara would pull something like that.

Of course she would drag Adrian down with her again.

"Congratulations," Ella said bitterly. "You two deserve each other."

His head snapped up at that, frustration flashing behind his eyes. "I don’t love her."

"I don’t care."

"I still—" His voice broke. "I still love you."

That stopped her cold. Not because she believed it—but because it was cruel to say it now, after everything, when she was finally beginning to breathe again without tasting betrayal in the back of her throat.

"Don’t," she whispered, shaking her head. "Don’t you dare say that to me."

Adrian stepped closer, reckless now, wild. "I can’t stop thinking about you, Ella. I wake up thinking about you. Every time I see Clara’s face, all I think about is you. What I lost."

A hot, sharp tear slipped down Ella’s cheek, and she hated him for it.

"You lost me the moment you picked her," she hissed, voice trembling with rage she’d buried too long. "You don’t get to mourn something you killed."

Adrian froze, like she’d slapped him, breath ragged, shoulders caving inward slightly like defeat.

Adrian reached for her hand, and this time, she yanked it away like he’d burned her.

"Don’t."

"I’m sorry," he said, voice hoarse, eyes searching hers for something that wasn’t there anymore. "I am. You have to believe me—I never stopped thinking about you."

And then, before she could move, before she could breathe—he cupped her face.

It was instinct, muscle memory, reflex. That old familiarity of his palm against her cheek. And for half a second, her breath stalled—not from longing, but from shock.

His head dipped, his lips aiming for hers, closing the distance with terrifying certainty.

No. No. No.

Her body froze for a split second too long—and then—

The bell above the door chimed.

"Am I interrupting something?"

The voice wasn’t loud.

It didn’t have to be.

Silk over a blade. Calm, controlled—too controlled—and far, far more dangerous because of it.

Nicholas.