---

Chapter Seven – He Remembers

Elena’s POV

The door shut behind Adrian with a soft hiss of air, leaving the faint trace of cedar and mint that clung to my skin like a secret.

I gripped the sink for balance. My pulse wouldn’t slow.

He remembers.

That certainty pulsed louder than my heartbeat.

And yet—he’d walked away.

I dabbed the last trace of wine from my dress, drew a breath, and forced myself back toward the meeting room.

Father’s eyes narrowed as I returned. “Took long enough.”

“Stain was stubborn,” I said, sliding into my chair. My voice felt steadier than I expected.

Across the table, Adrian Blackwood lifted his glass without looking at me.

But the air between us hummed, as if that locked-door moment still hovered.

A board member chuckled. “We were just discussing contingency budgets.”

Adrian’s gaze flicked to me—quick, sharp. “Miss Hart, what’s your read on Hart Tech’s expansion capital? Too conservative?”

The question hit like a thrown knife.

I straightened. “If we maintain the current burn rate, we risk shorting R\&D. I’d recommend reallocating three percent from marketing to keep prototype timelines intact.”

A pause.

Then a slow nod from Adrian. “Direct. Refreshing.”

Father gave a stiff smile, clearly caught between pride and irritation. “Elena is…thorough.”

Adrian’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “So I’ve noticed.”

Dinner plates were cleared. Coffee arrived in delicate porcelain cups.

Conversation buzzed around me, but every time I glanced up, Adrian’s eyes found mine—cool, assessing, unreadable.

He asked another question. And another. Each sharper than the last:

“Vendor reliability in Austin?”

“Projected licensing ROI if competitors move first?”

I answered each one, pulse drumming, mind running hot.

When I hesitated, Father’s hand twitched at my elbow, but I steadied and delivered figures, contingencies, timelines.

By the fifth question, the CFO gave a low whistle. “Impressive.”

Adrian leaned back, studying me like a chessboard he’d mapped three moves ahead. “You plan for failure well, Miss Hart.”

“Planning prevents failure,” I shot back before I could stop myself.

Something flickered in his eyes—amusement? Approval? It vanished as quickly as it came.

A server refilled my glass. I barely noticed—until Adrian’s gaze pinned me again, heavier this time.

My fingers slipped.

The glass toppled.

Cold wine cascaded across my lap.

I gasped and shot to my feet. “Oh—”

Father’s jaw clenched. “Elena.”

“I’m fine,” I stammered.

Without waiting for my father's nagging,I left again to clean up.

The hallway’s hush wrapped around me like a reprieve.

I exhaled hard, clutching the damp fabric of my dress.

But his stare followed me, an invisible tether.

I pushed through the door and braced against the counter.

Water roared from the tap as I splashed my face.

“What is wrong with me?” I muttered.

The door opened.

I didn’t have to look to know.

“Running away again?” Adrian’s voice was velvet over steel.

I spun. “I—It was an accident.”

He stepped closer, the door clicking shut behind him. “Interesting timing for accidents.”

“I didn’t—” I bit back the protest. “Mr. Blackwood, you should be at the table.”

“Perhaps.” His eyes scanned mine, dark and intent. “But I prefer real conversations.”

My breath caught. “We…already spoke.”

He tilted his head. “Not about last night.”

Heat flared across my cheeks. “You remember.”

A slow, near-invisible smile. “Every detail.”

The room shrank. “Then why pretend you didn’t?”

“I wanted to see how long you’d hide.”

His voice softened. “You hide well.”

I gripped the counter behind me. “This isn’t—We can’t—”

“Can’t?” He stepped close enough that the cedar-mint scent wrapped around me. “Or won’t?”

My heart pounded so hard it hurt. “My father—our companies—this is business.”

“Business,” he repeated, tasting the word like a challenge.

“Yet you answered every question tonight like someone who owns more than numbers.”

I forced a breath. “I’m just doing my job.”

“You’re more than that,” he said quietly. “And you know it.”

Silence pressed in. Only the faucet’s drip broke it.

Finally I said, “What do you want, Adrian?”

His eyes darkened, unreadable. “To see if you’ll stop hiding.”

For a long beat we stood there, the air electric.

Then he stepped back, composure snapping into place as if a switch flipped.

“I’ll expect your revised projections Monday.”

Businesslike. Cool.

He reached for the door.

“Adrian—” The name slipped out before I could stop it.

He paused. A faint, knowing curve touched his mouth.

“Good night, Elena.”

And he was gone.

Father waited by the car, expression tight. “Took you long enough.”

“The stain was too stubborn to be cleaned ,” I said again, sliding into the seat.

He studied me. “Adrian Blackwood asked for those projections. That’s significant.”

“I’ll have them ready.”

“Good,” he said, but his eyes narrowed slightly, as if he sensed an undercurrent he couldn’t name.

Hours later, city lights flickered outside my apartment window.

I pressed a hand to the cool glass, remembering the brush of his voice, the nearness of him.

He knew.

He’d known all along.

And instead of fear, a dangerous thrill coiled through me.