Hazel couldn't sleep again.
The house was dark and silent, the kind of silence that didn't comfort but instead pressed against your skin like a weighted blanket. She lay on Erin's—her—side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling while Adrian occupied the couch in the living room.
They hadn't spoken since his fingers brushed her cheek.
Not a word.
But that brief touch…
It haunted her.
She could still feel the warmth of his skin against hers, could still see the look in his eyes—the one that made no sense. That look didn't belong in a marriage built on contracts. That look didn't belong to a man who married her out of obligation.
Unless—
Hazel sat up.
Her heart raced.
She reached for the nightstand drawer and pulled it open. It wasn't neatly organized. There were receipts, old pens, a half-burned candle, a tiny notebook, and at the very back… a bundle of letters.
Tied with a dark green ribbon.
She stared at them.
They felt heavy in her hands. Personal.
Erin's handwriting danced across the first envelope.
To Adrian.
Hazel hesitated.
Her fingers trembled as she slid the ribbon free.
One letter.
Two.
Three.
Dozens.
None of them had been opened.
She swallowed.
Her eyes scanned the dates.
They were spaced out over years—birthdays, anniversaries, business trip departures. Some had doodles on them. Some had lipstick marks. Some were marked "read me when you're sad" or "open if you're mad at me."
All sealed.
All untouched.
Adrian never read any of them.
Hazel pressed the stack to her chest, feeling a sharp ache that didn't belong to just her. It belonged to Erin. To a woman who had, in her own flawed way, tried to reach him.
And failed.
Hazel set the letters down gently and walked to the door.
Down the hallway.
To the living room.
Adrian was there.
Sitting in the dark, only the streetlights casting long shadows across his face.
His jacket lay folded on the arm of the couch. His tie was loose. A book sat unopened in his lap.
Hazel stood quietly for a long moment.
Then stepped into the room.
He looked up.
Eyes tired.
Alert.
Guarded.
"I found the letters," she said softly.
He didn't react.
Didn't blink.
Hazel took a breath. "Why didn't you read them?"
Silence.
"You kept them. Every single one. But you never opened them."
Adrian looked away.
His knuckles tightened over the spine of the book.
Hazel's voice dropped. "Was she trying to fix things? Or were you too afraid to see what she wrote?"
A beat.
Then another.
And finally… his voice.
Low.
Rough.
Quiet.
"She stopped writing… after the last fight."
Hazel blinked.
It was the first time he'd spoken to her in days.
"She left the last letter on my desk," Adrian continued, staring ahead, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't open it. Told myself I would. One day. When I wasn't angry. When things felt less broken."
He swallowed.
"But that day never came."
Hazel moved to the edge of the couch and sat, her body turned toward him. She wanted to ask so many things. About that fight. About Erin. About the version of her he remembered.
But she didn't.
Instead, she asked, "Do you want to read one now?"
Adrian didn't answer.
But his eyes flicked to her hand as she offered him the top envelope.
To Adrian — for when you miss me but won't say it.
He reached out slowly.
Took the letter.
Stared at it.
But didn't open it.
Not yet.
Hazel let the silence stretch between them again. This time, it wasn't heavy. It wasn't empty. It was… tender. Wary. Like walking barefoot on broken glass.
After a while, Adrian spoke again. "You're not her."
Hazel flinched.
"I know," she said quietly.
"I mean… you're not acting like her. You don't look at me the way she did. You talk differently. React differently."
Hazel froze.
Her stomach dropped.
Was he starting to see through her?
Adrian's gaze was on her now. Direct. Clear.
"But I don't mind it," he said softly. "It's strange. But… quieter. Like the noise in the house isn't screaming anymore."
Hazel didn't know what to say.
Adrian looked down at the letter again. "Sometimes I think… maybe we both broke too early. Maybe there was never a way to fix it."
Hazel studied his face.
And in that moment, she didn't see the cold billionaire everyone else whispered about. She didn't see the man who married for convenience.
She saw a boy.
Lonely.
Lost.
Trying.
Failing.
And tired.
So very tired.
She placed her hand gently over his on the letter.
"You don't have to read it now," she whispered. "But you don't have to keep it sealed forever either."
Adrian didn't respond.
But he didn't pull away.
His thumb brushed against hers, barely a breath of contact.
And for the first time in a long time, Hazel felt like they were two people… not two strangers tied by paper and silence.
Two people.
Both hurting.
Both healing.
Maybe—just maybe—both hoping.
To be continued…