The Contract Bride of Westwood

Rose slammed the door behind her, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her high heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as she turned to face Adrian, who sat on the edge of their bed, shoulders hunched like a child caught stealing.

"You still love her, don't you?" Rose hissed.

Adrian didn't move. Didn't blink.

She threw her hands up. "God, you won't even deny it anymore! After everything we did to get here! After everything we took from her—you still look at me like I'm just her shadow!"

His voice was quiet. Heavy. "Maybe you are."

The words cut deeper than a scream. Rose reeled back as if slapped.

"I married you because I thought I could forget her," Adrian said, rising slowly. "But I can't. I still see her every time I close my eyes. And worse? She doesn't even look back. She doesn't even hate me. She just moved on."

"And you wish you had followed her instead," Rose whispered, tears pooling.

He didn't answer.

His silence was enough.

***

Westwood Manor - Morning

Melanie stretched lazily in bed, sunlight creeping in through the heavy velvet curtains. She blinked groggily, rubbing her eyes before reaching for her phone on the nightstand.

One new message.

 "Class has been cancelled due to internal faculty matters. Please await further updates."

She groaned and tossed the phone aside, letting her head fall back on the pillow. No school. No responsibilities. No reason to change out of her oversized sweatshirt and shorts. For the first time in weeks, the day was entirely hers.

And Leo wasn't around.

She rose, brushing her hair into a loose bun, and wandered barefoot down the grand hallway. Her steps echoed slightly against the cold, marbled floor. The manor was so quiet, the silence almost hugged her.

She paused outside the kitchen, then grinned.

"Why not?" she said aloud. "Let's have some fun."

After gently dismissing the maids—despite their protest—Melanie rolled up her sleeves and took over the space. The kitchen, usually cold and polished, transformed into a warm, fragrant mess.

She started with cookies, then attempted Leo's favorite pasta dish—what was it again? His mother said it when they were leaving for shopping days ago. Creamy garlic mushroom something. She even experimented with stuffed bell peppers and made cupcakes for dessert. All while singing along softly to a playlist echoing from the Bluetooth speaker. She laughed at her flour-streaked nose in the reflection of a shiny cabinet and sipped on white wine between batches.

One glass turned into two. Then three.

She danced between the counters, arms up, humming to herself. She forgot the pain of betrayal. The whispers. The tension with Rose. Even Leo's absence didn't sting as much.

By late afternoon, she'd curled up on the living room couch, warm and slightly tipsy, the scent of butter and baked goods clinging to her sweatshirt. She turned on the TV, some classic movie flickering in the background, but her heavy eyes closed before she could register the plot.

***

The door creaked open quietly.

Leo stepped in, dragging his suitcase behind him. He paused in the foyer, frowning. The scent of something sweet and savory hit his nose first. Then the silence.

"Melanie?"

No reply.

He walked into the kitchen. It looked like a storm had passed through—a happy one. Flour dusted the counter, half-eaten cookies rested on a tray, an open wine bottle tilted near the sink.

And then he saw her.

Melanie, curled up on the couch like a content cat, lips parted slightly in sleep, one bare shoulder peeking from beneath her sweatshirt. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her hair a soft, messy halo.

He walked over and crouched down beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"Melanie," he said gently.

She stirred, blinking up at him.

And then she smiled.

"Wow," she murmured, reaching out. "You look... really handsome."

Leo's lips twitched. "Thanks. You're drunk."

She giggled. "Drunk in a dream, maybe."

Her hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble there. "You feel real. That's new."

"I am real," he said softly.

She leaned forward suddenly, throwing her arms around his neck. "If this is a dream, I'm going to enjoy every second."

He froze.

"Melanie..." he whispered. "You're not thinking straight."

But then her lips met his.

Warm.

Soft.

Real.

Her fingers curled around his collar, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss with surprising intensity. Leo's mind spun, his body going rigid.

"I should stop," he muttered against her mouth. "You think it's a dream."

But he didn't stop.

Because he'd wanted this since the day he met her.

And right now, she was melting into him. Her mouth against his was tender but eager, unguarded. He slid his hand up her back, cradling her as he kissed her back—slow, deep, intentional.

A thousand thoughts raced through his head. That she would regret it. That he would. But none of them were strong enough to break the moment.

Her fingers threaded into his hair. His lips moved over hers with unrestrained passion.

Leo pulled her gently into his lap, one hand at the small of her back, the other caressing her cheek. He kissed her like he'd been starving—and finally allowed to eat.

Because she was kissing him like she meant it. Like the guards around her heart had momentarily vanished, like she was tasting something she'd denied herself for far too long.

And he couldn't help it.

He kissed her back.

Slow. Intentional. With the kind of tenderness that comes from restraint—and the kind of hunger that builds after months of silence.

He pulled her closer, his hand sliding up her spine, memorizing every inch of her. Their mouths moved in sync, searching and giving all at once.

When they finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against his, their breaths tangled and shaky.

"You're warm," she whispered.

"So are you," he replied, voice raw.

For a moment, they just stayed there—caught in something unspoken. Not quite love. Not quite lust. But something impossible to walk away from.

Melanie's eyes fluttered closed again, and she murmured, "Even in my dreams... you make me feel safe."

Leo closed his eyes too, his hand still resting at the small of her back.

If this was wrong, if this was reckless, he didn't care.

If this was a mistake, he didn't care.

Because for the first time—she had reached for him.

And he wasn't letting go.