Chapter 7 — The Man in The Mirror
The night in the penthouse was quiet — the kind of quiet that holds its breath.
Aria stood in the bathroom, steam fogging the mirror, her reflection blurred into something ghostlike. She stared at the shape of herself — shoulders straight, chin lifted, eyes calm.
Strong.
Untouchable.
Unshakable.
A lie she wore like perfume.
She wiped a hand across the glass.
Her own eyes stared back.
Not a victim.
But someone who learned how to bleed without leaving a stain.
She turned off the light.
The bedroom was dim, shadows moving across the walls like silent watchers. Adrian was sitting on the edge of the bed — jacket discarded, shirt sleeves loosened, hands pressed together lightly as though containing something dangerous.
He looked up.
Not at her body.
At her face.
He always looked at her face.
"You're exhausted," he said.
A statement. Not concern.
Aria walked past him and lay on her side of the bed. "So are you."
He didn't deny it.
Adrian slipped into bed beside her — but unlike the nights before, he didn't keep distance.
He didn't crowd her either.
He just existed closer.
Close enough that their breaths touched the same air.
Silence stretched — not empty, but full.
A thread pulled tight between them.
Finally, Adrian spoke — quietly.
"Vivienne said something to you."
Aria didn't respond.
Adrian continued, voice low, careful:
"She said I destroy things."
A pause.
Aria stared at the ceiling.
"Do you?" she asked.
His jaw tightened. "Yes."
Most men would defend.
Explain.
Justify.
He didn't.
Aria turned her head slightly — enough to see him in profile.
The shadows softened his features — made them look human.
Pain, not coldness, shaped him.
"People don't destroy everything they touch," she said.
"Only the things they try to protect."
Adrian's breath faltered — just a fraction.
Their eyes met in the dark.
No words.
No movement.
Two wounds recognizing each other.
They didn't touch.
They didn't need to.
Eventually, sleep came — but it was the kind of sleep where the mind stays awake.
Watching.
Listening.
Remembering.
---
Morning arrived sharp and cold.
Aria dressed in black.
Adrian in deep grey.
No conversation.
But when they stepped into the elevator together, the silence was not distance.
It was awareness.
The doors opened onto the executive floor — and that's when it happened.
The atmosphere was wrong.
Tense.
Stretched thin.
People scattered the moment Adrian appeared — like shadows fleeing from light.
Aria walked with quiet certainty, but her instincts prickled.
Something was off.
Something was watching.
She reached her office.
Stopped.
Someone was already inside.
Sitting in her chair as if he owned the room.
Leg crossed.
Hand tapping slowly against the desk.
A smile that knew history.
And blood.
He lifted his head.
"Hello, Aria."
Aria's breath stopped.
Not outwardly.
Internally — where it counted.
Her eyes darkened — a shift only someone trained to see would notice.
"Rafael," she said.
The name tasted like smoke in her mouth.
Adrian, behind her, went still.
A different kind of still.
Like a predator scenting another.
Rafael stood slowly — unhurried, confident, dangerous in the way only someone who has killed something inside themselves can be.
He looked at Aria with a familiarity that did not belong in this building.
Not in this life.
"You look well," Rafael said, voice smooth. "Better fed. Less… hunted."
Aria didn't blink. "Why are you here?"
His smile deepened — sharp, intimate, cruel.
"You didn't return my calls."
Her pulse stuttered — a subtle betrayal the human eye wouldn't catch.
Adrian saw it.
He stepped forward — not touching her, but aligning himself beside her.
A boundary.
A warning.
Rafael's eyes flicked to Adrian.
Measured him.
Dismissed him.
"And this must be the husband," Rafael said lightly. "Impressive. Cold. Predictable. Your taste hasn't changed."
Adrian's voice was quiet.
"You are trespassing."
Rafael didn't look away from Aria.
"She didn't tell you about me, did she?"
Aria's fists clenched once — the only sign.
Adrian didn't react outwardly — but the air changed.
Heavy.
Controlled.
Coiled.
"Leave," Aria said — voice calm, precise, cutting.
Rafael tilted his head.
"Is that how you speak to someone who saved your life?"
The floor dropped out of the air.
The room stilled.
Adrian's gaze sharpened — not in jealousy.
In comprehension.
Aria didn't move.
"That debt was paid," she said.
"Oh, no," Rafael whispered.
"That debt is still burning."
He stepped closer.
Too close.
Close enough that Adrian's posture shifted — barely — but enough for the room to feel the fracture before it broke.
"I just came to remind you," Rafael murmured, voice soft as breath against skin,
"You don't get to walk away from us."
Aria's eyes turned to steel.
"I already did."
Rafael smiled — slow.
Possessive.
Unsettling.
"We'll see."
He walked out — no fear, no rush — as if the city belonged to him.
The door clicked softly shut.
Silence.
Not the quiet kind.
The dangerous kind.
Adrian spoke first — voice low, controlled, but laced with something sharp:
"Who was he?"
Aria didn't look at him.
"A mistake," she said.
He didn't believe her — but he recognized the signal:
Not now.
Not here.
Not with eyes watching.
He nodded once — the smallest movement.
"We'll discuss it tonight," he said quietly.
Not an order.
Not a demand.
A promise.
Aria turned away, but her hands trembled — once — before going still again.
Because Rafael's appearance didn't mean the past was near.
It meant the past was already here.
Watching.
Waiting.
And Adrian…
Adrian had seen something in her now.
Something real.
Something dangerous.
Not weakness.
But history.
And history leaves scars that look like secrets.