PART 2: “Good,” Adrian said. “You’re learning.” Elena looked at him lying in that hospital bed, pale beneath the fluorescent lights, bandaged, bruised, powerful even when half his body would not obey him, and felt the strangest thing move through her chest. It was not pity. She knew better than to pity Adrian Cade. Men like him could turn pity into a weapon and make you apologize for bleeding on their floor. It was not love either. Love belonged to softer rooms, safer men, childhood stories where marriage began with flowers instead of lawyers. What she felt was recognition. For three years, she had stood behind Adrian’s chair, watching him rule Manhattan through glass walls and quiet threats, and she had always believed he was untouchable. Now she understood the truth. He had never been untouchable. He had simply been alone long enough to look invincible.

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