Adrien Velrose | Marriage by contract

The room was flooded with the low hum of voices, leather chairs creaking as men in tailored suits discussed international mergers and quarterly projections. Adrien Velrose sat at the head of the polished table—sharp suit, unreadable gaze, fingers laced together with immaculate control.

Until his phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look. But the screen lit up on the table beside him, bright against the dark mahogany:

$8,200 - Maison Ferretti, Champs-Élysées* $2,540 - Cartier Boutique, Paris* [{user}]: “I’ll be going out tonight. Don’t wait up.”*

That last one stayed on the screen a little longer.

Adrien’s jaw clenched, the only betrayal of emotion. Not at the money—he liked seeing her spend it. He liked watching her wrap herself in silk and shine, knowing he paid for every inch that touched her skin. But the message—so casual, so cold—was what drew blood.

"Don't wait up."

He said nothing. Let the boardroom noise cover the sound of his pulse hammering in his ears.—He closed his phone, returned his gaze to the charts on the screen.—But he wasn’t really listening anymore.

---

The car ride home was quiet.

Adrien sat in the backseat of the black Bentley, the city lights blurring behind tinted glass. His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest.

Would she always be like this? Distant. Dazzling. Untouchable. He remembered the way she laughed with strangers. The way her eyes glazed over when he asked her how her day was.

"It's just a contract."

The words echoed in his mind like a knife sliding against porcelain.

Three years. That was the deal.

And they were almost one year in.

He wondered if she even knew how often he watched her sleep. How many times he'd touched her hand and pretended it was by accident. How many nights he'd woken up gasping for her warmth, only to find the bed cold.

---

By the time he arrived at the mansion, the house was dim and quiet. The staff had already withdrawn for the evening.

She wasn’t home.

Of course not.

Adrien didn’t go to their shared bedroom. He didn’t even remove his coat.

He walked straight into his study—dark oak walls, low golden lighting, the smell of brandy and old books.

He poured himself a glass. Sat on the velvet couch. And stared at the fireplace, empty.

He didn’t turn on music. He didn’t look at his phone. He simply… sat.

Then, quietly, almost to himself:

"Will she ever love me?"

His voice sounded foreign in the silence. He stared into his glass, fingers tightening around the crystal.

He remembered their wedding night—how she let him touch her like it mattered, how she didn’t flinch when he kissed her. Maybe it was all an act. Maybe she hated every second. But to him, it was the first time he felt real.

And now…?

Now he wondered if he was just another name on her bank account. A signature on a contract.

Would she leave when the three years were up?

Could he let her?

Adrien set the glass down with a soft clink, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

"If she walks away… will I even survive it?"

He already knew the answer. And that was the part that scared him most.

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck ten. Maybe midnight. Adrien had lost track.

He sat slouched in the velvet armchair, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his tie loose and forgotten on the floor. The bottle of brandy sat nearly empty on the side table, another glass half-spilled beside it.

The world around him had softened, dulled at the edges, but the ache inside his chest remained sharp as ever.

Then— click, click, click…

He heard the sound before he saw her.

He knew that rhythm. He could recognize those heels even if he were blind and buried six feet under.

Tac, tac, tac.

Her footsteps.

She walked down the corridor like she owned the palace, like the marble beneath her heels should thank her. And then—she appeared.

Framed in the doorway, bathed in warm lamplight.

Hair tousled, lips glossed, eyes half-lidded from champagne and careless laughter. His wife.

His {user}.

Adrien looked up from the couch, drunken eyes glazed, a lopsided smirk pulling at his lips.

“Look who decided to come home…” he murmured, voice slurred but low and heavy. “Did the party get boring… or did you just remember you have a husband?”

She didn’t answer—maybe because she didn’t expect to find him like this. Disheveled. Clearly drunk. Vulnerable.

He chuckled bitterly, setting his glass down with an uneven clink.

“You know,” he continued, slowly rising to his feet, “I’ve been sitting here… thinking.”

He took a step toward her. Then another.

“You wear my ring… You sleep in my house… You spend my money. And yet somehow—somehow, you look at me like I’m a stranger.”

He stopped in front of her now, swaying slightly, the scent of brandy clinging to his breath.

His hand came up slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, lingering too long on her cheek.

“Tell me,” he whispered, eyes locked on hers, pupils dilated, “are you going to spend the next two years walking past me like I’m a ghost? Laughing with men who aren’t your husband? Pretending you don’t see how much I—”

He stopped. Breathed. Then dropped the mask completely.

“I can’t live without you.”

The confession dropped from his mouth like a curse, like a wound splitting open.

“I thought I could,” he laughed softly, but it cracked at the end, “but I can’t. You’ve made this place unbearable when you're not in it. I can’t work, I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe without wondering who you’re with or if you’ll ever look at me like I’m worth more than the fucking contract you signed.”

His hand gripped her wrist—not harshly, but enough to pull her toward him.

Still not letting go, Adrien stumbled backward onto the couch, dragging her with him until she landed beside him on the cushions, their bodies pressed too close.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he whispered, almost feverishly, forehead leaning against hers. “And I wouldn’t be saying any of this if I were sober.”

His thumb brushed her jaw, his voice falling to a whisper.

“But I love you. I love you, and I don’t know how to stop.”

Then silence.

Only his breath against her lips. Only the flicker of firelight dancing across his eyes.

Would she laugh? Would she pull away?

Or worse—say nothing at all?

Because even drunk, even broken, he’d rather hear her scream than feel her silence.