He Finally Touched Me, But Called Her Name

The moment Adela slid into the car, Caden's cold, powerful presence enveloped her. He sat beside her, staring straight ahead, his profile as hard and unforgiving as a marble statue.

The enclosed space, a mixture of his cedarwood cologne and the lingering scent of antiseptic from the hospital, made her stomach churn.

She fought back the nausea, turning her head to watch the New York City streets blur past.

Suddenly, a yellow cab swerved in front of them. Al slammed on the brakes. The force of the stop threw Adela forward.

Just as her head was about to hit the front seat, a strong arm shot out, pinning her back against the leather.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, not from the near-accident, but from the searing heat of Caden's arm against her chest.

She looked up, her eyes meeting his deep blue ones. He seemed surprised by his own reflexive action, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features.

He snatched his arm back as if he'd been burned. "Sit properly," he bit out, his voice colder than before. "Don't cause me any trouble."

Adela looked down, the tiny spark of warmth that had flared within her instantly extinguished. She was a fool to think it meant anything. He was just protecting his property from being damaged before the party.

As the nausea twisted inside her, she instinctively placed a hand over her belly. The small, protective gesture caught Caden's eye. His brow furrowed in a look of suspicion and distaste.

The car pulled into a magnificent Hamptons-style estate on Long Island. Manicured lawns swept down to fountains glittering under the lights. Guests in designer clothes drifted across the terrace, champagne flutes in hand.

Adela took Caden's arm as they entered the grand ballroom. His grip was tight and cold, like a manacle. They were playing their roles again.

Their arrival silenced the room. Caden's mother, Eleanor Moran, glided toward them in an elegant Chanel suit.

"Caden, you're finally here." Eleanor's eyes swept over Adela, lingering for a moment with the cool assessment one gives to a piece of furniture, before dismissing her.

"Good evening, Mother," Adela said politely. Eleanor gave a curt, barely perceptible nod in response.

A chirpy voice cut in. "Caden! There you are!" It was Adela's stepsister, Tiffany Buchanan, completely ignoring Adela as she sidled up to him.

Tiffany's eyes raked over Adela's dress. "Sister," she said, her voice dripping with fake surprise, "is that last season's design? Didn't the Morans give you a clothing allowance?"

A few of the women nearby tittered behind their hands. Heat flooded Adela's cheeks, but she kept her voice even. "I thought it was appropriate for the evening."

Eleanor took a delicate sip of her champagne. "The Buchanan family's upbringing could certainly use some refinement," she said, her voice carrying. "You have your work cut out for you, Caden." The words were aimed at Tiffany, but the insult was clearly for Adela.

Caden said nothing. His silence was its own form of agreement.

Emboldened, Tiffany looped her arm through Eleanor's. "Don't be upset, Aunt Eleanor. It will be better when my sister Cristal gets back from Europe. She has the best taste. She'll help Caden with these things."

She had deliberately raised her voice when she said "Cristal." It had the desired effect. A flicker of something soft and pained crossed Caden's face.

"Yes," Eleanor sighed, her gaze distant and pointedly sad. "Cristal is such a wonderful girl. Such a shame. If it weren't for her saving Caden... imagine how radiant she would be now."

Their words were a coordinated attack, twisting the knife of the family's great lie. The eyes of the other guests were on Adela—a mixture of pity, scorn, and morbid curiosity.

Adela's stomach roiled. She had to get out. "I'm going to the powder room," she murmured to Caden.

He gave her a cold glance and released her arm.

She turned and fled, each step feeling like she was walking on broken glass. Behind her, she heard Tiffany's triumphant voice. "See? You just can't take her anywhere."

She stumbled into the opulent restroom, leaning over a marble sink and dry-heaving. Nothing came up but the bitter taste of acid.

Her reflection was a mess of smudged makeup and haunted eyes. She thought of Caden's arm in the car, that brief, instinctual moment of protection. How pathetic she was to have felt anything at all.

The door swung open. Eleanor Moran walked in, a cold smile playing on her lips.