Chapter 14

The whiskey glass in his hand was almost empty, but he didn't care. The room was dark, save for the dim glow of his phone screen—the only light in the otherwise empty space. Adrian leaned back against the couch, scrolling through messages he'd never deleted.

Isabella: Don't work too late. I miss you. Isabella: We should go away for a while, just us. No business. No calls. Just us. Isabella: I love you.

His throat tightened. He had read these messages countless times in the past few days, but they always felt like a fresh wound. Because now, there would be no more messages. His grip on the phone tightened, his chest burning. She was gone. Not just physically, not just as a name in the papers, but in every way that mattered. She had erased him, and he had let her.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. No. He hadn't let her; he had driven her away, pushed her, betrayed her, lost her. His jaw clenched as he swiped to his photos, scrolling through memories he had once taken for granted: Isabella laughing on their honeymoon, her hair windswept and wild; Isabella curled up on the couch, lost in a book, unaware he had taken the picture; Isabella looking up at him at some charity event, her eyes full of something he hadn't understood then—love, trust, devotion. All of it—gone.

He shut his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. God, what had he done?

Celeste Laurent had never felt desperate before. But as she stood outside Adrian's penthouse, she knew she was running out of time. She had tried calling; he hadn't answered. She had sent messages; he had ignored them. Now, she had no choice but to force her way in. She smoothed down her dress, exhaled sharply, and knocked. No answer. She knocked again. Still nothing. Gritting her teeth, she swiped the security card Adrian had given her months ago, stepping inside before he could deny her.

The air inside was thick with silence. The apartment was a mess: empty whiskey bottles lined the table, papers were scattered everywhere. And then, she saw him. Adrian sat on the couch, shirt half-unbuttoned, phone in hand, staring at something she couldn't see. His expression was hollow. He didn't even react when she walked in. Her chest tightened.

"Adrian."

Nothing.

She took another step closer. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

Still, nothing.

Celeste's nails dug into her palm. She had waited for this moment, waited for Isabella to be gone, waited for Adrian to finally see her. But even now, with Isabella erased from his life, he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at ghosts.

"You have to move on," she said, forcing her voice to stay steady.

Adrian let out a quiet laugh. Move on? He turned his head slightly, finally acknowledging her. "Move on to what, Celeste? You?" His voice was rough, drained of the arrogance it once carried.

Her breath hitched. She swallowed. "I've always been here, Adrian. Always."

He stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. "No, you haven't."

Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

Adrian exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "You think just because she's gone, you can take her place?" He let out a bitter laugh. "Is that why you leaked the story?"

Celeste froze, then recovered quickly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Adrian's gaze darkened. "You wanted to ruin her."

Celeste tilted her chin up. "She ruined you first."

He let out a quiet breath. "No, Celeste. I ruined myself."

She clenched her jaw. "Adrian—"

"Get out."

Her heart pounded. "What?"

His voice was sharper now, colder. "I said, get out."

Celeste had never been rejected like this before. But as she looked at him—really looked at him—she realized something terrifying: he wasn't just grieving Isabella; he was still in love with her, even after everything, even after she walked away.

Celeste swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand tall. "You'll regret this," she whispered.

Adrian didn't even blink. "I already regret everything." Her chest tightened. But there was nothing left to say. She turned on her heel and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

The city lights blurred as Adrian sat in the darkness, phone in hand, heart heavy. He stared at Isabella's last message: Isabella: I love you. He never responded. And now, there would never be another message. His throat tightened, regret suffocating him. For years, he had controlled everything. Now, he controlled nothing. And worst of all, the woman he had spent his life searching for didn't even look back.

The hum of the jet engines was steady, filling the cabin with a quiet sense of finality. The past was behind her now, swallowed by the skyline she had once called home. Aria Laurent leaned back in her seat, her gaze fixed out the window as the clouds stretched endlessly before her. She had done it. She had won. And yet, a part of her still felt the weight of it all—not regret, not sorrow, just the heaviness of an ending.

Liam watched her from across the cabin, his sharp green eyes always too knowing, as if he could see through every layer she had built. He swirled the whiskey in his glass; the sound of ice clinking against the sides broke the silence.

"You're thinking too much again," he remarked.

Aria exhaled softly, shaking her head. "I thought you liked it when I think."

Liam smirked. "I like it when you scheme, not when you hesitate."

She shot him a look, but his words settled deep within her. Hesitation. Was that what this was? She had walked away from Adrian Marsden. She had left him in the ruins of the life he had taken for granted. So why did she feel like there was still something unfinished?

Her gaze flickered to her phone—the one she had just turned face down on the table, Adrian's final message now erased from existence: "I will love you until my last breath. And that is my punishment."

She had expected anger, desperation, one last attempt to pull her back into his world. But this? This was acceptance. And somehow, that made it feel even more final.