The next morning, Erin woke up in a bed that felt like a cloud made of cashmere and guilt.
She stared at the ornate ceiling. "So it wasn't a dream…"
She rolled over—and saw an empty side of the bed.
Adrian Blake was already gone.
Figures.
The original Erin used to scream at him for not sleeping in the same room. But now, Hazel—who had no clue how to be a wife, much less a CEO's wife—was kind of grateful for the breathing room.
She shuffled into the bathroom.
And promptly screamed.
"OH MY GOD, WHO IS THAT?!"
The mirror answered with a flawless, fresh-faced heiress in lavender silk pajamas.
"Right… that's me now."
She poked her cheek. Still soft. Still real.
She changed into something casual—a creamy sweater and light jeans she found in the closet. Just the act of opening the walk-in wardrobe felt like walking into a luxury department store.
Downstairs, the housekeeper handed her a breakfast tray. On it: buttered croissants, a cappuccino with a perfect leaf-shaped foam, and—
She blinked.
"…Strawberry jam?"
Her favorite.
But Erin Lancaster hated strawberries. Called them "peasant fruit," apparently.
Hazel frowned. "Who told them I like this?"
Before the housekeeper could answer, a quiet footstep echoed behind her.
She turned.
Adrian.
Still in his suit, crisp and perfect, like he walked straight out of a Vogue photoshoot. His hair was a little messy this time. Like he'd been in the wind.
He said nothing.
Just placed a small white paper bag next to her plate.
She looked down.
Inside was a chocolate chip cookie.
Warm.
She blinked again. "I… I never told anyone I liked these."
He didn't answer. He just stood there for a second longer—then nodded once and turned to leave.
"Wait!" she blurted, standing so quickly the chair scraped against the floor.
He paused.
"I… uh…" Her fingers tightened around the cookie bag. "Thank you."
He looked at her.
A flicker. A micro-expression. Like a silent ripple on still water.
Then he walked away again.
She sat back down, her heart strangely warm.
He knew.
He noticed.
He remembered.
He just didn't say it.
⸻
Later that day, she wandered into the living room and saw a thick folder left on the coffee table. Her name was on it.
Curious, she opened it.
It was a daily schedule. Appointments. Business matters. Stylists. PR.
But at the bottom, in faint pencil:
3:00 PM – Erin's therapist appointment
(cancelled 6 times)
Her chest tightened.
The real Erin… needed therapy? And Adrian tried to schedule it for her?
He cared. In his way.
Hazel curled up on the velvet couch, hugging a throw pillow the price of her old rent.
She looked toward the stairs where he disappeared.
"He's like a human iceberg," she mumbled. "Silent on the surface. Hidden shipwrecks underneath."
She glanced at the cookie bag again.
Then smiled.
Maybe she couldn't fix everything.
But she could start with one thing.
She would never cancel that therapist appointment again.
And maybe—just maybe—she'd get Adrian to say one word.
Just one.