Chapter 11 - Secrets in the Firelight
The fire crackled softly in the hearth.
The shadows danced across the wooden ceiling.
Adrien swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes fixed on the flames.
“My father built this empire on blood and fear,” Adrien spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
“He taught me that trust is a liability.”
“Is that why you’re always so cold?” Maya asked gently.
“Because everyone around you only wanted your power?”
Adrien looked at her.
There was no anger in his eyes.
Only a profound, suffocating exhaustion.
“When I was ten, my mother was killed in a car bomb meant for my father,” Adrien said, the words cutting through the room like broken glass.
“From that day on, I vowed never to let anyone close enough to hurt me.”
Maya’s chest tightened.
All the arrogance, all the cold detachment, all the terrifying mafia boss aura—it was just armor.
Armor worn by a little boy who had lost everything.
Without thinking, Maya stood up.
She walked across the room.
And sat down right beside him on the leather sofa.
Adrien stiffened at first.
Unused to anyone invading his personal space without a hidden weapon.
Maya reached out.
She placed her small, warm hand over his large, calloused fingers.
Adrien looked down at her hand.
Then up into her eyes.
“You don’t have to carry it all alone anymore, Adrien,” Maya whispered.
Her voice was steady.
Full of a quiet, unshakable strength.
Adrien stared at her, feeling a wall he had built around his heart for fifteen years begin to crack.
Slowly, instinctively, he turned his hand over.
And intertwined his fingers with hers.
“You are a very dangerous woman, Maya Collins,” Adrien murmured, his voice thick with emotion.
“You fix pipes, you shoot assassins, and now you’re trying to fix my soul.”
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“Well,” Maya smiled softly, her face inches from his.
“Someone had to take the job.”
