The Stranger I Married

Ella’s stomach bottomed out, her pulse shrieking in her ears as Adrian froze, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers.

For a second, all she could hear was her own ragged breathing—and the soft chime of the bell above the door still echoing through the café like a warning shot fired too late.

Slowly, deliberately, Adrian lifted his head, his hand dropping from Ella’s cheek like it was scalded, his jaw tightening as he turned toward the entrance.

He already knew who it was.

Of course, he did.

He’d seen Nicholas at the gala weeks ago—standing behind Ella like some immovable, protective wall of sleek power and quiet menace. Watching them. Watching him. Adrian had felt it even then, that calculating gaze sliding over him like a scalpel.

But this was the first time they’d met face to face.

Not in passing. Not across a crowded room.

Now there was no crowd. No excuses. No pretense.

Only them.

Nicholas stood there in black, like a walking threat in a tailored suit, coat unbuttoned, lean frame draped in power the way other men wore cheap cologne. The faintest shadow of stubble lined his jaw, his dark hair slightly disheveled like he’d run his hands through it in frustration—or worse, calculation. The rain from outside hadn’t even dared touch him properly.