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Chapter 8 — The Rules of War
The day crawled forward like something wounded.
Aria worked, but her focus fractured every few minutes — a thought, a memory, a voice she had spent years burying. Rafael's presence lingered like smoke in the lungs. Heavy. Hard to cough out.
People avoided her office.
They could sense it — the temperature change.
The quiet that warned of storms.
Adrian didn't call her, didn't ask questions, didn't hover.
He watched.
He observed her from a distance like a man studying a dangerous phenomenon — one that could break him if he touched it without preparation.
That alone unsettled her.
He didn't react like other men.
Not with jealousy.
With strategy.
It made him infinitely more dangerous.
---
Evening came.
The city glowed below as they rode the elevator up to the penthouse — just the two of them and the thick silence between them.
Adrian unlocked the door.
Neither of them spoke.
Not yet.
Aria set her bag down.
Adrian removed his watch, placed it on the table.
Their movements were controlled. Deliberate.
Not avoiding the conversation — building toward it.
Finally, Adrian turned to face her.
His voice was low, even.
"Aria. I need the truth."
Aria lifted her chin.
"I know."
He searched her expression — not with impatience, but with precision.
The air between them felt like the moment just before a blade touches skin.
Aria sat on the couch — not to retreat, but to anchor herself.
Adrian remained standing.
She spoke first.
"Rafael was… part of my life. A long time ago."
Adrian stepped closer — one slow step.
"How long ago."
"Five years."
Another step.
His shadow fell over her.
"What was he to you?"
Aria's eyes did not flinch.
"He trained me."
A single eyebrow lifted. "Trained. In what."
Aria's voice was soft.
"To survive."
Adrian went still — truly still.
Not shock.
Understanding.
Recognition.
"…How bad?" he asked quietly.
Aria's gaze drifted — not unfocused, but remembering something sharp-edged.
"I left home at sixteen," she said. "I wasn't running away. I was escaping. Rafael found me. Or I found him. I don't know which version is truer anymore."
Adrian remained silent, letting her continue.
"He taught me how to read danger. How to negotiate. How to fight. How to disappear. And how to live without feeling anything."
Her voice did not break.
It was steady.
Controlled.
Practiced.
"He saved me," she said. "And then he tried to own me."
Adrian sat beside her — not touching — but close enough that she could feel the heat of him.
"You escaped him," he said.
She nodded once.
"He didn't expect it," she said. "No one leaves Rafael unless he releases them. I didn't wait for permission."
Adrian leaned back slightly. His expression was not pity. It was something sharper, darker.
Respect.
"Why is he here now?" Adrian asked.
Aria's silence was answer enough.
Adrian exhaled — slow, thoughtful.
"He wants something. You."
Aria didn't respond.
Which was agreement.
---
Adrian studied her face.
"Aria."
Her eyes lifted.
"There are two kinds of pasts," he said. "Ones that sleep, and ones that wait."
Her throat tightened.
"Yours is awake."
It wasn't a warning.
It was truth.
Raw. Inevitable.
She took a slow breath.
"Do you regret marrying me?" she asked.
The question was quiet, but it cut.
For the first time since she met him, Adrian didn't answer immediately.
He didn't avoid the question.
He weighed it.
Finally, he spoke.
"No."
Aria's breath caught — just slightly.
Adrian continued, voice lower now.
"But I regret that I didn't know who I was bringing into my world."
Aria's jaw tightened. "If you want me gone—"
His voice sharpened — still quiet, but unarguable.
"I didn't say that."
The small silence that followed felt like something fragile balancing between them.
Adrian leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"You think I'm asking because I doubt you."
Aria remained still.
"But I'm asking because I need to know what kind of war we're in."
Not if there will be a war.
What kind.
Aria swallowed once.
"He's dangerous," she said.
Adrian gave a soft, humorless laugh.
"So am I."
"No," Aria said — and this time, her voice held something different.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Experience.
"Adrian. He's not dangerous like you. He's dangerous like… a wildfire. He doesn't destroy to control. He destroys because he can."
Adrian's gaze sharpened — a glint of something dark and possessive flickering beneath his calm.
"And does he want you back?"
Aria didn't look away.
"Yes."
Adrian's jaw clenched. The temperature in the room shifted — not with rage, but with decision.
"What does he know about you that I don't?" he asked.
Aria hesitated.
This was the question she feared.
More than Rafael.
More than the past.
Because the truth was not a story — it was a weapon.
She looked into Adrian's eyes.
And whispered:
"The kind of person I used to be."
Adrian didn't blink.
"Then tell me," he said.
"Before he does."
Her heart stuttered.
Not from fear.
But from the realization:
Adrian was not asking for her past to judge her.
He was asking because he intended to defend her.
And to do that — he needed to know what enemy he was about to destroy.
Aria exhaled slowly.
Her voice was a whisper — soft, fragile, unforgettable:
"I wasn't a victim, Adrian.
I was the weapon."
The silence that followed was alive.
Not horror.
Not disgust.
Recognition.
Because Adrian was one too.
He reached out — slow, deliberate — and placed two fingers under her chin.
Forced her to meet his eyes.
"I don't fear what you were," he said quietly.
"I fear what they'll try to make you again."
Her breath trembled.
Not from weakness.
From being seen.
And for the first time — truly — Aria felt something shift between them.
Not love.
Not yet.
But something far more dangerous.
Understanding.