A D R I A N

The island hasn’t woken yet,  but I can feel it breathing under the glass. I haven’t slept. There’s coffee cooling somewhere behind me, untouched. The screens keep cycling through numbers, ledgers, timestamps, offshore accounts. My signature on every line is like a bruise that won’t stop spreading, and I keep seeing her face.

The way she woke up. The blanket sliding down. The shock in her eyes when she saw the data. The way she whispered my name before it broke apart in her mouth.

I trusted you not to let me lose her.
And maybe I did. Maybe that’s exactly what I did.

The boardroom smells like metal and salt. Too clean. Too sharp. I used to love this view, the empire my father built, the one I was supposed to guard. Now it looks like a carcass waiting for autopsy lights.

The night crew is gone. Marina’s emails are stacking. Ethan sent a message at 3 a.m. confirming the auditors landed on the mainland flight. By dawn, they’ll be crawling through every file, every account, every inch of Seraphine’s perfect skin, and Elara’s name is on all of it.

I drag a hand through my hair and stare at the glass. I look like my father did when he used to sit here before sunrise, chasing perfection, pretending exhaustion was victory. But he built this place on love,  I’ve been running it on control.

Control didn’t stop the cave, it didn’t stop me from wanting her, sure as hell isn’t going to save us now. The ocean blinks once, sunlight trying to push through the clouds and I whisper to no one,

“Not yet. I’m not done.”

Inside, the boardroom turns into a crime scene, everyone speaks in half-whispers like guilt might be contagious. Marina’s perfume hits first, citrus and apology. Her tablet glows against her wrist as she scrolls through live feeds, numbers, comment threads.

“Damage control is already underway,” she says without meeting my eyes. “We’ll call it a clerical malfunction until the investigation clears.”

I want to laugh, but it dies halfway out of my throat. Clerical malfunction. The amount rerouted was enough to buy a hospital, or bury one. My father calls twice. I let it ring both times. I can’t listen to him say he’s disappointed. Not yet. Ethan stands near the door, broad and silent, his jaw wired tight.

“Two of the offshore accounts trace back to a shell company registered in the Pacific corridor,” he says quietly. “Used the same routing prefix as our foundation funds. Whoever did this knew our system inside out.”

Marina looks up sharply.

“Meaning what? That it’s internal?”

Meaning family.

No one says it aloud, but the air tastes of it. The auditors spread folders across the table like sacred texts. They talk about oversight, compliance and  exposure. They talk about my name like it’s an infection they’re trying not to catch, and through it all, Elara’s name keeps flashing beside mine.

When the room finally empties, I stay. The glass still hums from the drone engines outside. The screens glow pale, waiting for someone to tell them what to do next. I shut them off one by one. The silence that follows feels heavier than the sea. Everyone keeps saying the same thing:
Keep calm. Stay quiet.  Let PR spin. That’s how rot survives, under calm voices and quiet hallways.

My reflection stares back, dark eyes, unshaven, shirt wrinkled from too many hours.
I don’t look like an heir. I look like a man trying not to drown in his own ocean.

“I won’t let this eat her,” I whisper. “Or this place.”

The words scrape up my throat, raw and real.

“If Seraphine rots, I’ll burn it clean myself.”

I pull the security tablet from my pocket, override the access menu, and delete every shared code I’ve ever issued.

Marina’s.
The board’s.
Even my father’s.

System reset: MASTER CONTROL ONLY.

A warning flashes IRREVERSIBLE.
I press confirm. The lights flicker, somewhere below, doors lock. A low mechanical hum rises, then fades. When it’s done, I breathe for the first time in hours.

The sun’s high now, but Seraphine still feels cold, from the office balcony, I catch sight of her. Elara crosses the courtyard below in scrubs that look like they haven’t been changed since yesterday. There’s a clipboard in her hands, a pen behind one ear. Her braid’s coming loose, strands whipping in the wind, but she doesn’t fix it. She doesn’t even flinch when a staff member looks straight through her.

She walks like she’s not afraid of being watched. Two nurses trail behind her, whispering. One flinches when Elara turns and speaks, calm, low, probably explaining protocol again. They nod like they’ve just been handed the truth they weren’t ready for.

She pauses to help a porter lift a box. One of her knees gives for a second, she’s favoring the one she scraped in the cave, still. I remember kissing that bruise in the dark.
I remember her breath catching.

I see the limp and it hits me, sharp, uninvited. The way she moved that night, half-falling against me, refusing help even as her body gave out. She never complained. Never asked for care. But she let me see her, bruised, burning, breakable, and I remember what I did with that trust.

The med wing was asleep when I brought her back. No one saw us, just the dim green glow of the backup lights, the antiseptic hum of climate control. She didn’t speak much. Just leaned on me, trembling. Every few steps, flinching from pain she refused to name.

I got her into a recovery suite. Smaller than the private rooms. Clean sheets. A cot. A lamp we didn’t turn on. Her hands were scraped, her braid half undone. Dirt under her nails. She winced when she sat. I knelt to pull off her boots.

That’s when I saw it, a long, swollen bruise just below her right knee.

“You should’ve told me it was this bad.”

“It’s fine.”

“Elara.”

Her eyes met mine. Tired. Fractured. Full of everything she hadn’t said.

“I didn’t want to stop walking,” she murmured. “If I stopped, I wouldn’t have made it out.”

I took her leg gently, settled it across my thigh,  then I bent and pressed my lips to the bruise, her breath stuttered, and she didn’t pull away.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend this doesn’t mean something.”

She grabs me first, fingers twisting in my hair, mouth crashing into mine like it’s war. No hesitation. No mercy. No asking. She kisses like she’s starved for me, like her body’s been aching without permission, and now there’s no going back.

Clothes come off in frantic pieces, her soaked scrubs stick to her skin, my shirt already gone from stripping her earlier. I peel her pants down her legs, drop to my knees, and bury my face between her thighs.

She moans, loud and raw. “ Adrian, yes.. don’t stop..”

I don’t. My tongue flicks her clit, slow then rough, until her legs shake. I suck hard, thrusting two fingers inside her, curling just right. She bucks into my face, nails clawing at my scalp. She comes fast, screaming, already breathless. “God, yes.. Again.. more..”

“Greedy girl,” I growl, standing, gripping her waist. “Good. Because I’m not done.” I push her back onto the cot, flip her onto her hands and knees. Her ass is up, glistening, perfect. I line up and thrust in deep. She gasps, then pushes back onto me harder. 

“Harder,” she begs. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

I pound into her, holding her hips tight, watching her arch and moan with every thrust. Her pussy clenches me so tight it’s insane.

“You’re soaking me,” I pant. “You love it like this.”

“God, I do..keep going..”

She fists the blanket, breath ragged, thighs shaking as another orgasm rips through her. I don’t stop. I drag her up, one hand on her throat, the other between her legs.

“Ride me.”

She turns, panting, straddles me, sinks down with a cry. Her heat envelops me so deep I lose breath.

“ God! you feel unreal,” I groan. She rides me hard, grinding, breasts bouncing as I suck one into my mouth, teasing her nipple with my teeth.

“Again,” she gasps. “Make me come again, please.. I need it..” I flip her beneath me, pin her arms above her head, and slam into her, unrelenting.

“Adrian—” she sobs. “Yes, yes, yes, don’t stop..”

I keep going until she shatters for the third time, screaming into my mouth. Her walls clench me like a vice, and I lose it, coming deep inside her with a guttural growl, but even then, it’s not enough.

I haul her onto my lap again, spooning her, grinding into her from behind, slower now, deeper. She gasps, oversensitive and desperate.

“Adrian.. I’m still coming..”

“Good girl,” I whisper, kissing her neck. “Take every drop.” She writhes in my arms, soaking me again, completely undone.

After, we’re still tangled, bodies slick, hearts racing. I cradle her against my chest, one hand over her ribs, the other stroking her hair as her breath finally evens out.

“We’re not dead,” she whispers against my skin.

I kiss her temple. “No. But you ruined me.

That night, I thought I understood what it meant to protect her, but that was before the world came for her name, before I realized desire wouldn’t be enough to shield her.

Before now.

I should go to her. I should explain what I’ve learned, what I’m burning down to shield her name. But if I do that now, if the press catches even one photo, she’s finished.

The door slams open behind me, one of Marina’s interns, sweaty, flushed, holding a tablet like it’s a live grenade.

“You need to see this.”

He doesn’t wait. Just shoved it into my hands. The screen flickers. Loads.

My name is in bold. Elara’s just beneath it.

DOCTOR AND HEIR UNDER INVESTIGATION FOR FINANCIAL COLLUSION.

Below that, the photo, grainy, low-resolution,  but unmistakable. The clinic couch. She was wrapped in a fleece blanket. Me behind her, one arm slung across her waist. Both of us are asleep. Unaware.

The timestamp? Hours after I signed the audit requisitions. I sit down hard, the tablet still in my hands. The article spins everything:
Romantic entanglement.
Conflict of interest.
Millions funneled during a personal liaison.

There’s even a quote from a “board source” suggesting Elara “positioned herself intimately close” to gain influence over the heir.

Heat rises behind my eyes, tot shame. Not fear.

Rage.

“She didn’t even know,” I mutter.

Outside the door, voices rise, panic ricocheting down the hallway. The PR team’s already scrambling. Marina’s shouting about controlled statements. The staff group chat is leaking screenshots like wildfire.

Ethan bursts in, face pale.

“You want me to lock down all internal comms?”

“Yes. And trace that photo. I want to know who pulled it and who they sent it to.”

He nods once, already moving. I rise, the tablet still in my hand and step toward the balcony.

“They want blood?” I whisper. “I’ll give them fire.”

Then I turn and start issuing orders.