Chapter 3

He looked like he hadn't slept — eyes red, hair a mess, collar of his white shirt hanging open. Still the Adrian I'd loved for three years. But looking at him across that long gallery, the wire I'd kept pulled tight inside me went, strangely, slack. It turns out that once you stop being afraid of losing someone, you can see them very clearly.

"Elena, we need to talk." He came over fast, dropping his voice like he was saying something that couldn't stand daylight. "About last night — what my uncle did — don't read into it. He just cares about appearances. The Hartwells couldn't have that scene fall apart in public, so he saved the family's face. You get that, right?"

"And?" I said.

"So keep the ring on for now. Once things settle, Celeste and I will make it official. Then you give the ring back, and this family won't leave you empty-handed." He reached to touch my hand. "Elena, you've always been the reasonable one. You have to understand the position I'm in."

Understand the position I'm in. Three years. Always those same words.

His birthday, when he flew to Paris to be with old friends of Celeste's family and left me alone at the restaurant I'd booked, the candles burning down to nothing — you have to understand the position I'm in. When, in front of his mother, he had me give up my seat at the head table to some other society girl, and I carried my own place setting back to a spot against the wall — you have to understand the position I'm in. Three years, I made myself smaller and smaller, small enough to nearly vanish, just to keep a palm-sized place that was mine in his world.

No one ever once asked: Elena, what about the position you're in?

I looked down at my own hands. These hands had knotted his ties for three years, memorized every dietary restriction of every client he did business with, arranged every plate to perfection under his mother's critical eye. They kept his life looking gracious and whole. And not once had they been handed a warm cup of coffee that someone poured for me.

Three years, I chewed the word understand into pieces and swallowed it, bit by bit. Swallowed it until even the resentment wore away to nothing.

I looked at him, and I laughed. "Adrian, I understood for three years. Yesterday, at the altar, you finally set me free of understanding. Thank you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" His brow furrowed, his voice climbing. "Elena, don't be stupid. Away from the Hartwells, you're nothing—"

"Adrian."

A low voice came from the far end of the gallery. Damien.

I had no idea how long he'd been standing there. Morning light fell across him. He held two cups of coffee, and he put one into my hand, like he'd known all along I'd be here. Steam rose off the rim and blurred half his face.

"She doesn't have to understand the position you're in," he said, setting the other cup down on the railing, not too gently, without so much as a glance at Adrian. "Because from now on, her business is mine to handle. You just handle your own — if you're still capable of that."

He turned to me, and his voice eased. "Coffee's no good cold. Let's go eat."

I took the cup — warm — and walked past Adrian.

"Elena." Behind me, he suddenly said my name. Low, the end of it unsteady, like he wanted to say something and didn't dare.

I didn't turn around.

On the railing, the coffee he never touched went slowly, slowly cold.