Clara Whitman had never forgotten Adrian.
Even after all these years, the memory of their childhood friendship — the long summer afternoons, the whispered secrets, the games that blurred into confessions — lived in her mind like a carefully polished jewel. To her, Adrian had always been hers, and hers alone.
She had just returned from abroad and met him at an event. She watched him from the corner of the gala hall, perfectly poised in his tailored tuxedo, and the old obsession stirred anew. The press whispered about him as the city's most eligible bachelor, but Clara didn't care what they thought. She had known the real Adrian first. She had seen the boy behind the suit, the man beneath the mask. And she was convinced that no other woman could ever understand him the way she did.
Adrian, of course, barely noticed her gaze. He was polite, distant, the mask flawless, the same way he always had been. He had learned early that Clara's intensity could suffocate, and he had learned to step carefully around it. A smile here, a nod there — that was all he owed her.
But she lingered. She always lingered.
At dinner, she approached with that same practiced warmth. "Adrian," she purred, just loud enough for him to hear, "you look… busy as always."
"I am," he said softly, keeping his tone neutral. Polite. Safe. "How have you been, Clara?"
"Better," she said, flashing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "But you know… some things never change. Some people never change either."
Adrian nodded, his stomach tightening despite himself. He remembered all the times she had tried to pull him close, all the subtle manipulations disguised as affection. He had always resisted — gently, carefully, enough to keep her at bay but never hurt her outright.
His mother's voice rang softly in his mind: Be kind, Adri. You can't control her, only your own heart.
And Isabelle's: You don't have to answer to her. She's not your world.
Yet, Clara's presence reminded him of a life he had never chosen, the expectations he had never met. She represented a world of assumptions, of entitlement, of duty over desire — the opposite of the quiet, unspoken longing that had begun to stir in his chest.
Adrian excused himself politely, weaving through the crowd, feeling the familiar mixture of guilt and relief. Clara would wait, he knew. She always did. But Adrian knew something too: no matter how long she lingered, He felt nothing enough for her to ever fill the void he felt deep within.