Chapter 7

Isabella's POV

When I stepped out of the registry office, the morning fog over London had begun to lift.

"From here, we just need to wait out the one-month notice period before we can come back for the ceremony."

Adrian glanced over at me as he eased the car into the morning traffic.

"Isabella—are you truly set on having the ceremony here, at the registry office? I'd genuinely like to give you something grander. A wedding you'll remember."

"That's very thoughtful of you, Adrian."

But I shook my head without hesitation. "You were the one who told me we don't need to perform for people who aren't on our wavelength. So why would we spend a fortune just to impress people who don't care about us in the first place?"

"You're right." He said it without a pause, the smile in his eyes deepening into something unguarded and warm—an indulgence he made no effort to hide.

Then he lifted one hand from the wheel and tapped the inside of his jacket.

"In here. Would you reach in and take it out for me?"

I leaned over with a skeptical look and slid my hand into the inner pocket pressed against his chest.

My fingers brushed warm fabric, and the back of my hand grazed his chest before I could avoid it. Through the thin weave of his shirt, I felt it clearly—a steady, unhurried heartbeat, and the warmth of him beneath.

A flustered self-consciousness crept up my arm.

I held my breath without thinking, afraid that any careless movement might disturb his concentration on the road.

"Did you find it?"

He turned his head slightly toward me.

"Mm…" I gave some vague sound of acknowledgment, and my fingers finally closed around something cold and square.

I drew it out.

A deep-blue velvet box—understated and a little worn, without a single ornament on its surface.

"Open it," he said.

I took a breath and lifted the lid.

A ring lay inside, perfectly still.

Not the bold, attention-commanding sort—this was a vintage diamond in an antique cut, its central stone encircled by a band of smaller diamonds, the setting etched with intricate engravings that could only have come from another era.

I stared.

"Don't look at me like that, Isabella. I didn't buy this to keep up appearances. I simply believe an engagement ring isn't something that can be skipped—so this once, will you let me have my way?"

My face went warm. I managed a quiet apology.

The truth was, I'd already caught something during the notice submission earlier. Adrian had told the registrar he'd been staying at a hotel his client had booked for him the week prior.

Which meant that expensive bottle of water most likely came from the hotel's complimentary minibar—

Not, as I'd assumed, from some impulse to project wealth he didn't have.

But I was so conditioned to read other people through the lens of my own circumstances. That reflex—that almost instinctive leap to judgment—left me genuinely ashamed of myself.

What unsettled me more, though, was Adrian himself. He hadn't explained. Hadn't corrected me. Not once.

Since last night, the phrase I'd heard most from him was simply: "You're right."

His patience was almost incomprehensible to me.

I still remembered the few brief crossings we'd had as children—he had been guarded almost to the point of feral, always retreating to the darkest corners of the estate, curling away from people like a young animal that hadn't yet decided whether to bolt or bite. Those eyes of his had carried a wolf's wariness, cold and perfectly still, regardless of who came near.

I couldn't imagine what kind of years it had taken to sand down all those edges—to turn that boy bristling with silent defenses into the quietly composed man beside me now.

The traffic light ahead turned red, and Adrian brought the car to a stop.

He took the ring from the box, reached over, and took my left hand in his. Carefully, deliberately, he slid it onto my ring finger.

"I'm only returning an expensive ring to the person it was always meant for."

The metal was cool against my skin, and yet something behind my eyes went unexpectedly warm.

Especially when he told me the ring had belonged to his mother—gone far too soon.

The air inside the car seemed to thicken.

He leaned toward me, his breath warm at my ear.

Then his lips found mine—gentle, unhurried, and thorough in a way that made my heart pound so hard I could feel it in my fingertips. My hands curled into the front of his shirt without my permission, and for a moment the whole cramped space was nothing but his warmth and the scent of him.

The car stopped at last in front of an old apartment block near the hospital.

My flat. Six hundred pounds a month, which was the most I could manage—which was why I shared it with two other women.

I stared at the flaking plaster on the exterior wall, and felt something tighten in my chest.

I didn't want Adrian to come up.

That bedroom where there was barely room to turn around, the damp smell that clung to the stairwell and never quite left—if he saw any of it, whatever remained of my composure would be stripped away entirely.

"I don't have much." I cleared my throat and tried to sound casual. "Just a few clothes. I can bring them down myself."

Adrian seemed to read the situation without needing it explained. He said nothing about it. The smile in his eyes simply deepened a little. "Alright. I'll wait for you down here."

I nodded—relieved in a way I hoped wasn't too obvious—and pushed the car door open.

The stairwell closed around me: a blend of cheap perfume and leftover takeaway that hit the moment I stepped inside.

In the living room, my flatmate Juliet was live-streaming in front of a ring light propped on the table. The door to the other bedroom stood half-open, and from inside came sounds that made it very clear Hannah was occupied with her new boyfriend.

Juliet spotted me and pulled out one earbud.

"Hey! Isabella! Is that guy in Armani outside your boyfriend? He's been there a while. I'd get in there if I were you—before Hannah catches sight of him and decides to make him her next project."

Boyfriend?

I blinked, then moved quickly toward my room and pushed open the door.

Julian was standing inside. His brow was drawn tight, and the distaste on his face was entirely undisguised.

The room was small—the walls had gone a little yellow with age—and my bed, though I kept it as tidy as I could manage, registered in his expression as something barely salvaged from a rubbish heap.

He had never been here before today.

"You actually live here?" He looked around slowly, then fixed his gaze on me with the particular condescension he'd long since stopped bothering to soften. "God, Isabella. I really ought to put in a word with the administrative team to make sure you're getting double the disinfectant ration."

He looked down at me the way he always did—as though height were a form of authority.

"Where did you disappear to last night? None of us could reach you. Don't tell me you actually left with my uncle—the useless one."