He didn’t answer. His hand slipped into his pocket, drawing out his phone. And he unlocked the screen, thumb gliding with efficient precision, before turning the phone toward me.
The video played.
Two men appeared, seated upright in chairs.
Both stared into the camera with rigid posture, their hands clasped tightly together on their laps. Their voices were hoarse but clear, the words rolling out one after another in a strangely rehearsed cadence:
"We’re sorry, Miss Isabella. We didn’t mean it. We should never have touched you. We’ll never forgive ourselves for it. Please..."
The second one stumbled over his words, voice cracking as he pushed through them faster, almost frantic: "...please know we regret everything we did. You didn’t deserve that. We were wrong."
I froze, my lips parting.
For a long moment, I couldn’t look away from the screen. And then, slowly, my gaze dragged up to him.
My blood turned to ice.
I lifted my gaze from the screen to Adrien. His face was carved from marble—calm, unshaken. He was watching me, not the video.
My mouth went dry. My heart slammed against my ribs, too loud in my ears. "Adrien..." My voice broke before I steadied it. "Did you...?"
His eyes narrowed just faintly. "Did I what?" His tone was smooth, unhurried, as though inviting me to finish the thought.
The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "Did you do what I said this morning?"
His head tilted, expression unreadable. "And what would that be, my love?"
I swallowed, heart pounding. "The... the fingers. The iron. The ropes. The trucks." My throat tightened. "You didn’t—did you?"
I searched his face, my pulse still racing. The memory of my own words came back—the furious, reckless methods I’d described in my rage. And now, this video. It feels... pointed. Did he really make them apologize... and then carry out the punishment I’d imagined?
"No," he said smoothly, immediately. His voice carried none of the hesitation I’d been bracing for—it was steady, certain, like stone. "I handed them over to the police. Where men like that belong. That’s all you need to know."
His hand came up, brushing along my jaw, coaxing me to meet his gaze. "You don’t need to worry about them anymore, love."
I narrowed my eyes. He didn’t look away.
"Adrien."
That was all I managed. My voice held no accusation—only a plea, fragile and trembling beneath the weight of what I feared.
He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the corner of one eye, then the other. His lips lingered, feather-light. But as he drew back, I noticed it—just a glint at his temple, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face.
The room was cool, almost chilled from the vents whispering overhead, but his shirt clung faintly to his back, the fine cotton dampened where it stretched across his shoulders.
My lips parted, a protest caught in my throat. Adrien Walton didn’t sweat. Not in negotiations, not under the flashes of paparazzi cameras, not even in the suffocating July heat. His control was absolute.
But now—a single, betraying drop traced a path from his temple, down the hard line of his jaw. It was a crack in the perfect marble statue of his composure, a flaw I had never seen before. Is he lying to me...?
My voice wavered. "Adrien... that video. It wasn’t the police, was it?"
He didn’t flinch. His tone was steady, clipped in that boss way that left no room for doubt.
"Of course it was the police. Do you really think I’d risk my company, my name, everything I’ve built—for them? Isabella, I don’t get my hands dirty when the law can do it for me."
He reached over, brushing his thumb over my knuckles, softening the steel in his words.
"I asked for proof they were alive and in custody. That’s what you saw. Nothing more."
The logic was airtight, and the reassurance in his eyes even more so.
He looked so steady, so untouchable—like the idea of him dirtying his hands in violence was absurd. Adrien Walton, the wealthiest CEO, didn’t need to hurt anyone. Men like him snapped their fingers and the law bent to listen. The video could’ve easily been a requirement, a formality the police had sent straight to his phone. Right?
"Trust me," he whispered against my skin.
The words melted every tight knot in my chest. He kissed my eyes again, slower this time, before sliding lower to brush against my lips. My breath hitched. He didn’t kiss me—not yet. He just hovered there, an inch away, his gaze holding mine, his thumb stroking my cheek.
"They’re gone, Isabella," he murmured, his voice a dark, silken promise. "They won’t be a problem for anyone, ever again. That’s all that matters."
My shoulders eased as if the weight of a hundred unspoken fears had slipped off me. He hadn’t just protected me—he had given me something I didn’t even know I needed. Their apology. Their acknowledgment. Proof that I hadn’t imagined it, that what they did was real and wrong.
I blinked back the sting in my eyes and whispered, "Thank you... for making them say it. For giving me that."
The word was small. Too small for everything it meant.
Adrien’s eyes, which had been unreadable moments before, softened imperceptibly. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched the corner of his lips. It wasn’t a smile of genuine warmth, but rather one of deep, quiet satisfaction. He leaned in, finally closing the small distance between us. His lips, cool and firm, met mine.
The kiss was slow, deliberate, a gentle claiming. It wasn’t passionate or urgent, but a profound reassurance, a wordless promise. I felt my tension drain away, replaced by a profound sense of safety. My hands, which had been clenched, uncurled and found their way to his shoulders, gripping the damp cotton fabric. The dampness was still there, a tiny anomaly, but in the intoxicating comfort of his embrace, it felt insignificant, easily dismissed as a trick of the light or a moment of stress now long past.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine, his breath mingling with mine. "You never have to thank me for protecting you, princess," he murmured, his voice a low thrum against my skin. "It’s my privilege. My absolute pleasure. And I’d do it a thousand times over," he said lowly, each word weighted like an oath. "For you," he murmured, lips ghosting mine with a steel-laced promise. "And worse, if that’s what it takes."