Evelyn was discharged the next afternoon.
By the time she stepped out of the hospital, the city looked the same as she remembered—glass buildings, endless traffic, people moving as if their lives were perfectly intact.
She knew better.
A black car waited at the curb.
She stopped.
In her previous life, she would have hesitated. Wondered if getting into Adrian Blackwood's car meant surrendering control she might never get back.
This time, she opened the door herself.
The interior smelled faintly of leather and something colder—clean, restrained, unmistakably him.
Adrian sat on the opposite side, tablet in hand, posture composed. He didn't look up immediately.
"Your doctor cleared you," he said.
"Conditionally."
"Yes."
"You ignored medical advice before."
"I won't this time."
That made him look at her.
Just briefly—but it was enough.
"You've been saying that a lot," he observed.
"This time."
Evelyn met his gaze. "Because this time, I mean it."
The car pulled into traffic.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Silence with Adrian was never empty—it was deliberate, analytical. He was watching her from the corner of his eye, measuring inconsistencies, waiting for cracks.
She let him.
"You were supposed to attend the gala last night," he said eventually.
"I know."
"You didn't."
"I chose not to."
He tapped the edge of his tablet once. "Why?"
Because that gala was where her downfall began.
Because the man she was supposed to meet there would later become the architect of her ruin.
But Evelyn had learned something important about Adrian Blackwood.
He didn't respond well to vague truths.
"I realized," she said carefully, "that I've been making decisions based on who feels easy—not who is honest."
Adrian studied her face, searching for the telltale signs of deflection.
"What you're asking for," he said slowly, "is not small."
"I'm aware."
"You want me involved again."
"Yes."
"Without walking away when it becomes inconvenient."
"Yes."
"That's not how you've operated in the past."
"No," she agreed. "It isn't."
The car stopped at a red light.
Adrian turned fully toward her for the first time.
"If I do this," he said, voice low and controlled, "it will be on my terms."
Evelyn's pulse steadied—not spiked.
"Then let's talk about them."
That, finally, surprised him.
They didn't go to her apartment.
Adrian's driver took them to Blackwood Tower instead—thirty-six floors of glass and steel overlooking the city like a silent judge.
His office occupied the entire top floor.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Minimalist furniture. No personal items visible, only precision and control.
Adrian gestured toward the conference table.
"Sit."
She did.
He placed the tablet in front of her and slid it across the table.
"A temporary agreement," he said. "Six months."
Evelyn looked down.
Mutual Partnership Contract
Confidentiality Agreement Attached
She didn't touch it yet.
"You anticipated this," she said.
"I don't enter emotional negotiations unprepared."
"I figured."
She scrolled.
The terms were… unexpected.
No cohabitation clause.
No exclusivity requirement.
No restrictions on her career.
Instead:
— Joint public appearances when necessary
— Strategic alignment in social and professional settings
— Full transparency in matters involving third parties
— An exit clause, executable by either party with thirty days' notice
She looked up.
"This is generous."
"It's precise," Adrian corrected. "There's a difference."
"And what do you get out of it?"
He didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his honesty was unsettling.
"Time," he said. "And proximity."
She nodded. "I can agree to that."
He watched her closely as she continued reading.
No hidden traps.
No buried control mechanisms.
That alone told her something important.
He wasn't trying to cage her.
He was trying to make sure she didn't disappear again.
Evelyn set the tablet down.
"I have conditions too."
Adrian's brow lifted slightly. "Go on."
"No surveillance without disclosure."
His jaw tightened.
"Personal boundaries," she continued calmly. "If I say I need space, you give it. No retaliation. No pressure."
Silence stretched.
In her previous life, this would have been where things broke.
Now, she held his gaze without flinching.
"Consent," she added. "In all things."
Adrian leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"You're not afraid of me," he said.
"I'm aware of you," she replied. "There's a difference."
"That awareness didn't stop you from leaving before."
"No," Evelyn said softly. "Fear did."
That landed.
For the first time, Adrian looked… restrained.
Not dominant.
Restrained.
"You're asking me to unlearn instincts that kept me alive," he said quietly.
"I'm asking you to trust that I won't punish you for it."
His eyes darkened.
"You don't punish people," he said. "You disappear."
"I did," she admitted. "And I won't do that again."
He studied her for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
"Agreed."
Her breath released slowly.
"Good."
Adrian slid a stylus toward her. "Sign."
She did.
The moment her signature appeared on the screen, something shifted in the air—subtle but undeniable.
Not possession.
Commitment.
Their first public appearance happened sooner than expected.
That evening.
A last-minute board dinner. Media presence unavoidable.
Evelyn changed in the private suite Adrian kept in the building—not because he asked, but because she chose to.
When she emerged, Adrian looked up from his phone.
He didn't hide his reaction.
Not desire.
Recognition.
"You clean up well," he said.
"So do you."
His gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary—then he looked away.
Control.
They entered the restaurant together.
The effect was immediate.
Whispers.
Phones discreetly angled.
Eyes tracking them as a unit.
Adrian's hand hovered near the small of her back—not touching, but close enough to be felt.
She didn't step away.
When someone approached too closely, Adrian shifted, subtly placing himself between Evelyn and the intrusion.
Protective.
Not possessive.
She leaned toward him slightly.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"For what?"
"For respecting the agreement."
His eyes flicked to her, unreadable. "I always respect contracts."
She smiled. "Good."
Halfway through dinner, a familiar voice cut through the low murmur of conversation.
"Evelyn?"
Her spine straightened.
She knew that voice.
Marcus Hale.
In her previous life, this was the man she had chosen.
The man who smiled like warmth and left destruction in his wake.
Adrian's posture changed instantly.
Not aggressive.
Alert.
Evelyn turned calmly.
"Marcus," she said. "Hello."
He looked surprised—then pleased.
"I heard you were unwell. I'm glad to see you're better."
"I am."
His gaze flicked to Adrian, then back to her. "I didn't know you two were… together."
"We're not," Evelyn said evenly.
Adrian's eyebrow twitched.
She continued, "We're aligned."
Marcus laughed lightly. "That sounds complicated."
"It isn't," Adrian said coolly. "If you're not involved."
The tension sharpened.
Marcus smiled, undeterred. "Perhaps we could talk sometime, Evelyn. Catch up."
In the past, she would have hesitated.
Now, she didn't.
"There's nothing to catch up on," she said. "But I wish you well."
Marcus blinked.
Adrian's hand rested briefly at her back—one second, then gone.
A silent acknowledgment.
Marcus excused himself shortly after.
When he was out of earshot, Adrian leaned in.
"You handled that efficiently."
"I learned," she replied.
"From?"
"From losing everything."
He studied her, expression unreadable.
"You won't lose this time," he said.
She met his gaze.
"Neither will you."
For the first time, Adrian smiled.
It was faint. Controlled.
But real.
And Evelyn understood then—
This agreement wasn't about control.
It was about two people standing at the edge of the same mistake…
And choosing not to fall again.