Chapter 2
Adrian's POV
I found her.
Two years of searching, and there she was, standing in a flower market wearing a simple blue sundress. She looked thinner than I remembered, with shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there before. But Jesus, she was still the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.
"Handsome Uncle! It's you!" The little girl's voice snapped me back to reality. Rosie, the kid from the beach yesterday.
She was holding Alice's hand.
I stood up slowly, trying to keep my hands from shaking. I couldn't mess this up. Couldn't let her run again.
"Hello," I managed to say, keeping my voice level. "Rosie, right?"
"Yes! And this is my mommy!" She pulled on Alice's hand with that bright, innocent smile. "Mommy, this is the nice man who got my balloon!"
Alice's face drained of all color. Her grip on Rosie's shoulder tightened, protective and almost panicked.
Why did she look so terrified?
Alice had a daughter. She'd moved on, found someone else, had a child, while I'd been stuck in that godforsaken penthouse torturing myself with memories.
"Alice," I said quietly. I'd whispered her name a thousand times over three years, alone in the dark, but saying it now while she stood in front of me felt like surfacing after being underwater too long.
She swallowed hard. "Adrian." Her voice came out barely audible. "What are you doing here?"
What was I doing here?
*Six years ago, Le Bernardin, Manhattan.
I was closing a deal with investors over wine and the usual corporate bullshit, and then she walked in carrying a tray of appetizers.
Chestnut hair, amber eyes, and this gentle smile that seemed like it took effort. She reminded me of Isabelle at first glance, same coloring and delicate features. But there was something different about her, something raw and real. Isabelle had always been untouchable. This girl looked like the world had knocked her around and she was still trying to smile through it.
I couldn't look away.
After dinner wrapped up, I waited by the service entrance and watched her walk out in worn jeans and a thin jacket, counting her tips with trembling fingers.
"Excuse me."
She jumped and nearly dropped the cash. "Oh! Sir, did you need something?"
"Your name."
I've never been good at small talk or dancing around what I want.
"Alice. Alice Wilson." She looked worried now. "Is something wrong?"
"I have a proposition for you."
I laid it out straight. I needed someone to come home to, someone to make that cold apartment feel less empty. In return, I'd clear whatever debts she had, give her a monthly allowance, set her up with her own business.
Her face cycled through shock and confusion before landing on understanding.
"You mean kept," she said quietly. "You're asking me to be your mistress."
"If that's how you want to phrase it." I kept my tone businesslike. "I won't force anything physical. But I need someone there when I get home at night. Someone who..."
Makes me feel less alone. Makes that apartment bearable.
She bit her lip and stared at the bills in her hand. I could see her doing the math, weighing her options. Whatever hole she was in, it must have been deep.
Three seconds passed before she answered.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll do it."
I should have felt satisfied. Instead I felt this sick twist in my gut, like I'd just taken advantage of something precious.
The next three years were heaven and hell wrapped together.
Alice moved into the penthouse and started leaving lights on when I worked late. She'd cook dinner and wait for me on the couch with a book, and when I came through the door she'd look up with these soft smiles that got more genuine as time passed.
I bought her the flower shop like I'd promised. 'Alice's Garden'. She'd come home with dirt smudged on her cheek and tulips tucked behind her ear, talking about difficult customers and which arrangements sold best.
I memorized everything about her. Caramel macchiato with extra foam every Friday morning. How she tucked her hair behind her left ear when she was nervous. The way she hummed while arranging flowers. That she read mysteries before bed and always figured out the ending halfway through.
When she got the flu that winter, I drove her to the emergency room at two in the morning and didn't leave until they'd checked her over and sent her home with antibiotics.
But I never told her I loved her.
I thought showing her was enough. The coffee, the hospital visits, fixing that constantly leaking faucet in her shop's bathroom. I thought she'd understand what I couldn't say.
I was so damn wrong.
Then three years ago, the night I lost everything.
I came home and knew immediately that something was wrong. The apartment felt hollow in a way it never had before, not even back when I'd lived there alone.
Her closet stood empty. The bathroom counter was cleared of all her lotions and makeup. Every small piece of her was gone, the hair ties by the bed, the mystery novel with a bookmark halfway through, her slippers by the front door.
All that remained was a note on the kitchen counter.
"Thank you for these three years. I've found a better life. Don't look for me."
I read those words over and over until they stopped making sense. Then I tore through every room looking for something she might have left behind, some clue about where she'd gone.
Nothing. She'd been thorough about erasing herself.
The first three months, I convinced myself this was fine. She'd found something better, someone who deserved her more than I did. Good for her. I threw myself back into work, stayed at the office until midnight, avoided going home to that empty place.
But everything in the city reminded me of her. The coffee shop on Fifth where we'd gone every Saturday. The park where she'd dragged me to feed the ducks because she said I needed to relax more. The florist two blocks over where she'd spent an hour teaching me about the different types of roses.
A year after she left, I was standing outside 'Alice's Garden' in the pouring rain. Someone else owned it now, had repainted the sign and filled the window with roses instead of her beloved tulips.
That's when it finally broke through my thick skull.
I loved her. I'd been in love with her for years and never had the guts to say it.
I spent the next two years searching for her in every way I could without making a scene.
No private investigators, no social media stalking, nothing that would embarrass her if word got out. Just me taking detours whenever I traveled for business, checking the small coastal towns she'd mentioned wanting to visit someday.
Portland, Santa Cruz, Monterey, half a dozen others. Never a trace.
Then last week I came to Seaview for what was barely worth calling a business opportunity. A small development project I normally would have sent an associate to handle.
But I came anyway because it was another coastal town, another place she might have run to.
And yesterday on the beach, I met a little girl.
Today I found Alice in a flower market.*
"Business trip," I finally answered. "Development project. I had no idea you lived here."
Alice pulled Rosie closer to her side. "Well, now you know. Goodbye, Adrian."
She turned to walk away.
"Wait. Can we just talk for a minute? That's all I'm asking."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Alice, please." I took a step toward her and watched her flinch back. That small movement hurt worse than anything she could have said. "I just want to know you're okay. Five minutes."
Her eyes met mine for a brief second. Something flashed across her face, fear or anger or grief, I couldn't tell which. Then it was gone, replaced by a careful blankness.
"I'm fine. Better than fine, actually. I have a good life here." Her voice stayed level. "And I'd like to keep it that way."
"The girl," I said, glancing at Rosie who was distracted by a display of roses. "She's yours?"
"Yes."
"Is there a father around? Someone I should know about?"
"That's none of your business." Her tone went ice cold. "We're doing perfectly fine on our own."
Why the hell did she run?
Rosie tugged on Alice's dress. "Mommy, can we get the purple tulips? Please?"
Alice's whole face softened when she looked down at her daughter. "Okay, baby. Let's go pay for them."
She started to leave. Every instinct I had screamed at me to follow her, to demand answers, to not let her vanish again.
But I'd learned something during three years of regret and searching. You can't force someone to stay who's determined to run.
I stood there long after they'd gone.
This time she wasn't getting away from me. I didn't care how long it took or what I had to do. I'd spent three years living half-alive in that empty apartment, and I was done with that.
