The contract was supposed to be simple.
Clean lines.
Clear boundaries.
No room for confusion.
Somewhere along the way, we had crossed them all.
The morning started with silence.
Not the peaceful kind the kind that hummed beneath the surface, tight and expectant, as if the walls themselves were waiting for something to break.
I sat at the dining table, a cup of tea growing cold between my hands. Across from me, Adrian stood by the window, phone in his hand, unreadable as ever.
"You're not drinking that," he said.
"I will."
"You said that ten minutes ago."
I glanced down at the cup, then back up at him. "I'm thinking."
"That's what worries me."
I sighed. "You can't keep saying that every time I do."
"I can when thinking puts you in danger."
"There you go again," I replied calmly. "Deciding things for me."
He turned from the window fully then. "This isn't about control."
"It feels like it."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "Because you don't like being told no."
"Because I don't like being treated like I no longer exist outside this pregnancy," I shot back.
Silence snapped between us.
His eyes flicked briefly to my stomach.
"That's not fair," he said quietly.
"No," I agreed. "But it's honest."
The contract sat on the table between us.
A printed copy. Untouched since the day we signed it.
I slid it closer, the paper whispering softly against the glass surface.
"Let's talk about this," I said.
Adrian looked at it, then at me. "Now?"
"Yes. Now."
"You're tired."
"I'll be more tired if we keep pretending this conversation doesn't need to happen."
He hesitated, then finally took the seat across from me.
I flipped to the relevant page.
"Clause seven," I said. "Personal autonomy."
He already knew what it said.
"Both parties retain full decision-making authority over personal and professional matters, barring immediate threats to safety."
I looked up. "Do you see the problem?"
His gaze was steady. "I see the loophole."
"That's not comforting."
"Safety isn't meant to be comforting," he replied.
"That clause was written to protect me," I said. "Not to cage me."
"I'm not caging you."
"Then why does it feel like I need permission to breathe?"
The words hung there, heavier than I intended.
Adrian's fingers curled slowly against the table. "Because every time I imagine losing you, logic stops working."
That… I hadn't expected.
"I didn't ask you to stop caring," I said more softly. "I asked you to stop replacing my choices with yours."
His gaze dropped.
For the first time in days, he didn't have an immediate answer.
"You think I don't trust you," he said after a moment.
"I think you trust yourself more."
"That's not an insult."
"It is when it erases me."
Adrian leaned back, exhaling slowly. "I built an empire by anticipating risks."
"I survived death by learning to live with them," I countered.
His eyes lifted, sharp. "You don't get to use that against me."
"I'm not using it," I replied. "I'm reminding you that fear didn't save me last time. Awareness did."
Silence again.
This one heavier. More dangerous.
"What do you want?" he asked finally.
I didn't answer right away.
I chose my words carefully.
"I want transparency," I said. "I want to know when things shift. I want to decide when I step back and when I step forward."
"And if I think you're wrong?"
"Then we argue," I said simply. "Like adults."
A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. "You'd win."
"I usually do."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
The meeting ended without resolution but not without movement.
That afternoon, Adrian loosened the restrictions.
Not all of them.
Just enough to acknowledge my presence again.
I joined a video call with the investment team short, controlled, monitored. Adrian stayed in the room, pretending not to listen while absorbing every word.
"You're enjoying this," I said afterward.
"Watching you work?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I always have."
I ignored the way my chest tightened at that.
It was later, when the penthouse was quiet again, that Adrian broke the silence.
"There's something else," he said.
I looked up from my tablet. "Of course there is."
He didn't smile.
"The inquiry Lucas mentioned it's gaining traction."
"How much?"
"Enough to make Ethan nervous."
"Good."
"And enough to make other people curious."
That was less good.
"What kind of people?"
He hesitated.
"People who don't usually move unless there's something worth protecting."
I closed my tablet slowly. "Or hiding."
"Yes."
My pulse quickened not with panic, but with clarity.
"So this isn't just about Ethan anymore."
"No," Adrian said quietly. "It hasn't been for a while."
I nodded. "Then we need to adjust the terms."
He studied me. "Which ones?"
"All of them."
That night, I stood in front of the mirror, studying my reflection.
I looked softer now. Rounder. Slower.
But my eyes were the same.
Sharp.
Aware.
Unwilling to be sidelined.
Adrian came up behind me, his hands resting gently on my hips.
"I don't want to lose you," he said.
"You won't," I replied. "Not if you stop trying to own the outcome."
He pressed his forehead against my shoulder. "I don't know how to love without protecting."
"Then learn," I said quietly. "With me. Not over me."
His arms tightened not possessive, but uncertain.
"Terms and conditions," I murmured. "They only work if both sides agree."
He nodded once. "Then we renegotiate."
The rest of the day passed in fragments.
Short conversations.
Long silences.
Moments where it felt like we were circling the same truth without quite touching it.
Adrian kept his promise mostly.
He didn't cancel my access again. He didn't move meetings without informing me. The guards stayed, but their presence was less oppressive now, more distant.
A compromise.
Not peace.
I spent the afternoon reviewing documents, my focus drifting in and out as Lily shifted restlessly. Every so often, Adrian glanced my way, as if measuring whether I was pushing myself too far.
"I'm fine," I told him for the third time.
"I didn't ask," he replied.
That made me smile despite myself.
In the early evening, Lucas returned.
He paused just inside the penthouse, eyes flicking between Adrian and me with practiced ease.
"You two look… functional," he observed.
"That's the goal," I said.
Adrian snorted quietly.
Lucas leaned against the counter. "The inquiry is still unofficial. For now."
"For now," I echoed.
"But," he continued, "someone's digging deeper than expected. Old records. Cross-company trails."
Adrian's gaze sharpened. "How old?"
"Before Cole Industries was even called that."
My breath hitched.
That timeline overlapped with my mother.
I kept my expression neutral. "Can you trace the source?"
Lucas shook his head. "Too clean. Whoever it is knows how to disappear."
"Or how to hide," I said softly.
Lucas studied me for a moment. "You're thinking ahead."
"I'm remembering," I corrected.
Adrian didn't miss the shift in my tone.
"Lucas," he said evenly, "that's enough for today."
Lucas raised his hands. "I'll see myself out before this turns into another negotiation."
After he left, the penthouse felt quieter than before.
Heavier.
"You didn't tell me everything," Adrian said.
"I told you what mattered."
He turned to face me fully. "You thought about your mother."
I didn't deny it.
"Someone digging that far back isn't doing it by accident," I said. "And it's not Ethan."
"No," Adrian agreed. "He doesn't have the reach."
"Then someone does."
Silence stretched between us again.
"I don't like where this is going," he admitted.
"Neither do I," I replied. "But avoiding it won't stop it."
He studied me for a long moment. "You're already preparing."
"I always am."
His lips pressed into a thin line. "That's what scares me."
"That's what kept me alive."
The truth settled heavily between us.
That night, the penthouse lights dimmed automatically, casting long shadows across the walls. I moved slower than usual, my body reminding me firmly of its limits.
Adrian noticed.
"Sit," he said gently this time.
I didn't argue.
He knelt in front of me, fingers warm as they pressed lightly into my lower back, easing the tension there. The intimacy of the gesture caught me off guard.
"You don't have to do that," I murmured.
"I want to."
I rested my hand against his shoulder. "You don't fix everything by taking control."
"I know," he said quietly. "I'm trying to learn."
That was new.
I leaned back slightly, allowing myself to breathe.
"Just don't forget," I said, "this started as a contract."
"And it stopped being one a while ago," he replied.
I met his gaze. "That's exactly why we need boundaries."
He nodded once. "Then we define them together."
Later, as I lay in bed, Lily's movements slow and steady, my thoughts returned to the words Lucas had used.
Old records.
Cross-company trails.
My mother hadn't died in a vacuum.
And whatever had been buried with her past was starting to surface.
Adrian's arm wrapped around me as sleep tugged at my consciousness, his presence solid, grounding.
But even as I drifted off, one thought refused to fade.
We weren't just renegotiating a marriage.
We were renegotiating how much of the truth we were ready to face.
And soon.
Someone was going to force the issue.
I fell asleep that night with Lily's movements steady beneath my palm.
The world outside was restless.
The contract between us rewritten but not yet signed.
And for the first time, I understood something clearly.
The real danger wasn't losing control.
It was mistaking protection for love.