Morning light at Cliffside Estate always came first through the floor-to-ceiling window on the eastern side. When Evelyn woke, Adrian was still asleep.

She turned onto her side and watched him through the narrow gap in the curtains. In sleep, the tension had left his brow, and he looked far easier to approach than he did during the day. By daylight, he was either in a meeting, looking at his phone, or arranging what color dress she would wear to which dinner the following month. Sometimes Evelyn thought Adrian Vale knew the shape of her life better than she did.

Three years.

She reached over and lightly touched his fingers. He did not wake, but his hand shifted on instinct and closed around hers. It was a small gesture, without any particular meaning behind it—the body's old habit answering for him. Evelyn paused, then left her hand where it was.

Ten minutes later, he opened his eyes. He looked at her, startled for a moment, then released her hand and sat up.

"What time is it?"

"Almost seven."

Adrian rubbed the bridge of his nose, then got out of bed barefoot and went into the bathroom. When the water started running, Evelyn rose as well. She tied her robe and went to the dressing room to take out the suit he would wear that day. Charcoal gray, with the dark blue tie—he had mentioned the previous week that he had a meeting with investors on Thursday, and that color would be more appropriate.

She never had to write these things down. Her husband's schedule, his preferences, whether she should stand on his left or his right at an event—after three years, all of it had settled into her bones.

By the time Adrian came out of the bathroom, he had shaved, though his hair was still damp. He took the suit from her and put it on with practiced speed, then adjusted his tie in front of the mirror. Evelyn stepped over and retied the knot for him.

"You tied it too tightly," she said.

"It won't shift if it's tight."

"Loosen it half an inch. It looks better that way."

Adrian glanced down at her. His gaze passed over her face as if checking whether an object had been placed correctly. Then he said, "The charity gala tonight. Seven o'clock is fine. I've had the dress delivered. The dark blue one, with the pearls you wore last time."

Evelyn nodded.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked suddenly.

She blinked. "Nothing."

"You were distracted."

"The book I was working on last night." It was true, but not the whole truth. She had been thinking about the novel she was writing under the pen name Cora Blythe. She had written until one in the morning, reaching the scene where the heroine finally found the courage to ask her husband, "Have you ever loved me?" Evelyn had stopped there because she had no idea how that husband should answer.

Adrian did not press her. He picked up his phone, checked the time, and said that the driver would arrive at eight thirty. He had an early meeting and would not be eating breakfast at home. At the door, he looked back at her as though he meant to say something, but in the end all he said was, "See you tonight."

When the door closed, Evelyn remained in the dressing room, her hand still hovering where she had just straightened his tie. A trace of his aftershave lingered in the air—a faint woody scent she had chosen for him at a department-store counter. He had used it for three years and never once changed it.

She went downstairs and ate a little. Mrs. Patterson, the housekeeper, had already prepared coffee and toast and asked whether she wanted an egg. Evelyn said she wasn't hungry.

Afterward, she went over the materials for the gala. It was part of a children's education program sponsored by Adrian's company. She would spend ten minutes onstage, pose for photographs with several of the children receiving assistance, and say a few words of thanks. She had memorized the speech the week before, then changed two words the night before, replacing "honored" with "grateful." Honored sounded too much like something copied from a script. Grateful sounded more sincere.

Adrian would never notice details like that. Evelyn did. She cared whether she looked like his wife when she stood beside him, rather than a decorative figure being paid to fill the space. Though that was what they were—a contract marriage. The document they had signed three years earlier was still locked in the safe in the study. It laid out her duties in precise language: attending events with him, maintaining the Vale family image, requiring no affection, and never disclosing the true nature of their marriage. In return, she received a house, living expenses, and Adrian's promise to provide professional recommendations whenever she needed them.

She had been out of the orphanage and foster-care system for only two years when Adrian found her. She was working as a programmer at a small company, and her salary barely covered the rent on a basement apartment. At first, she had assumed he was a scammer. Later, she learned that he needed a wife who "looked reliable, wouldn't cause trouble, and wouldn't say anything to the press." He had chosen her because she had no family, no crowded circle of friends to explain herself to, and—as he had put it—"You look clearheaded. You won't do anything unnecessary."

At the time, she had considered it a fair exchange. She gave him respectability; he gave her security. Each got what they needed. Clean and simple.

But after three years, Evelyn had discovered that she was the one doing all the unnecessary things. She remembered that he took his coffee without sugar, that he always turned to the right in his sleep, that whenever he gave her a gift, he chose a brand he liked rather than the color she had once mentioned. Her closet was filled with dresses, jewelry, and handbags he had bought her, each one so expensive that, before him, she would never even have imagined owning it. She had taken countless photographs of the two of them smiling together at one event after another. Sometimes the smile looked real enough to fool even her.

There was only one thing she had not grown used to in three years.

Adrian never kissed her.

When they were intimate, he could hold her, touch her anywhere, look at her with such heat that she thought he would lower his head the next second. But every time they reached that particular boundary, he stopped. His lips would brush the side of her face, then find the space behind her ear, her neck, her shoulder. They simply never touched that one place.

Last night had been the same. He had come home late, after she was already in bed. Once he had showered, he climbed in behind her and put his arms around her. His movements were gentle, but his breathing was quick. When she turned her head to look at him, he pressed her back into the pillow. She barely saw his face through the entire encounter. When it was over, he released her almost at once, rolled onto his back, and slowly steadied his breathing.

Evelyn had stared at the ceiling, wanting to say something, but nothing came out. In the darkness, he turned away from her and fell asleep almost immediately.

She had lain there alone for a long time. Then she slipped out of bed, went to the study, and turned on the computer.

Her new novel waited inside Cora Blythe's folder. It was about a woman married to a man who never kissed her. After reading the first three chapters the month before, her editor, Harper, had written back: "The conflict is strong, but readers will want to know why she doesn't leave." Evelyn had replied, "Because she's waiting for an answer."

What answer, she did not know herself.

She opened the document and typed several lines where the cursor blinked. At last, the heroine asked the question aloud. She asked, "Have you ever thought, even for a second, of treating me like your real wife?" Evelyn stared at the sentence for a long time. Then she saved the file, shut down the computer, and returned to bed.

Adrian was still asleep. His breathing was even, but his brow had drawn tight again, just as it did during the day. Evelyn reached out and pressed the crease smooth. He did not wake.

She thought back to the day they had signed the contract three years earlier. It had been a bitterly cold conference room. Adrian's lawyer, Julian, pushed two documents across the table toward her. Adrian sat opposite her in a black suit, his expression blank, as though he were signing a purchase order for equipment. She had asked him, "Are there any rules I need to know about?"

Adrian had considered the question. "Attend events on time. Don't discuss our relationship publicly. Don't—" He paused. "Don't do anything outside the scope of the agreement."

She had looked at him. "What counts as outside the scope?"

Adrian had met her eyes but offered no answer. Julian was the one who explained. "Emotional expectations. Ms. Evelyn, you need to understand that this marriage is a business arrangement. Adrian does not want any emotional misunderstandings to arise during the term of the agreement."

Evelyn remembered nodding. She had said, "I understand," and signed her name on the document. Her hand had not trembled.

Now she sat in the study, staring at the date circled in red on the calendar: their third anniversary. The day after tomorrow.

Then she remembered something. The previous Christmas, at Adrian's mother's house, the old woman had taken Evelyn's hand and asked, "You've been married two years now. When are you going to give me a grandchild?"

Adrian had cut her off, saying that his mother had drunk too much. But later, while they were getting the car from the garage, he had said, almost casually, "Three years. If the marriage lasts that long, we can consider having children."

He had been looking for his car keys when he said it, in the same tone someone might use to ask what they were having for dinner. But Evelyn had been standing beneath the garage lights, and her heart had missed a beat.

She had not asked him to explain. She was afraid that if she did, he would take the words back.

Now the third anniversary was here. Evelyn rose and walked to the window, looking toward the cliff at the far end of the garden. In the morning light, the sea was gray-blue, and a boat moved slowly across the distance.

Maybe she could test the waters tomorrow. Maybe he had simply forgotten. Maybe, if she reminded him, he would remember and say, "That? I meant it."

She knew she should not let herself think that way. The contract was clear: affection was not required. But three years had passed, and she felt she had earned the right to ask one question.

Her phone vibrated. Adrian had sent a message: "Gala at seven. The car will be here at six forty. Blue dress with the pearls. Don't forget."

She typed, "Okay," and stared at the send button for two seconds before adding, "What time will you be home?"

His reply took a while. "I'll be there at six thirty. We'll go straight to the venue."

"Okay."

She set the phone down. In the kitchen, Mrs. Patterson was clearing away the dishes. Outside, a gardener was trimming the hedges. All of Cliffside Estate was quiet, polished, and perfectly ordered.

Evelyn returned to the study, shut down the computer, and concealed Cora Blythe's files in the encrypted partition. Then, beside the date of their third anniversary, she drew a small question mark.

She would ask him tomorrow. Just once.

After that, she would know the answer.

One More Kiss To Fall — Chapter 8: Before the Airport

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