Adrian wasn't sure what possessed him to go.
Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was the heavy weight of his father's voice ringing in his ear like a gavel pronouncing sentence after sentence: Fix this. Marry her. Own it.
Maybe it was his own weakness.
The apartment Clara was staying in wasn't hers—it was one of her family's high-rise properties, secured to keep her out of the paparazzi's direct reach for now. Clean white walls, chrome finishes, glass everywhere like a showroom pretending to be a home. It looked exactly like how Clara lived her life: perfect, curated, hollow.
He stood at the door for three full beats before knocking.
And when it opened, he almost wished he hadn't come.
