Isabelle 

Fuck.

I suppress a moan, my body squirming beneath the soft sheets. Every inch of me aches from my night with Adam, the smallest movement sending waves of soreness through me. I don't remember how many times his thick, warm cum filled my pussy or how many times I climaxed in sheer bliss. All I remember is collapsing on him, utterly spent, after he finally declared we were done. And I also remember feeling like I still wanted more as I drifted to sleep.

But now, awake and barely able to move, I regret not stopping sooner—if for any reason, so that I wouldn't be lying here contemplating wetting the mattress. I quickly weigh the pros and cons of peeing the bed of the guy I just slept with and groan after the cons win out unanimously. I slowly lift my aching body from beneath Adam's protective embrace.

Wetting the bed wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

The thought lingers for a moment longer as my feet touch the cold wooden floor, and I realize just how far the bathroom really is from the bed. It can't be more than ten feet. But add in the urgent pee factor, and I might as well be trekking toward Everest's summit. I glance back at the warm bed—and at Adam, the epitome of "holy hotness"—biting my lip as I debate.

Kids wet the bed all the time.

"For fuck's sake, just grow up and go," I mutter. Before I can find a convincing argument or witty retort to myself, I shake my head, abandoning the internal debate and shuffle toward the bathroom.

Aaahhh, I sigh, loudly, as I finally relieve myself. The sound's so loud I'm sure I've woken Adam, but when I return to the room, he's still fast asleep. He stirs in the bed as his arm searches to embrace me again.

Smiling, I move back to the bed—back to him— when something shiny catches my attention from the dresser. The picture frame gleams against the faded doily it rests on. I pick it up, studying the woman in the photo—holding a small infant in front of a massive rose bush. The bush in the photo looks like a smaller version of the one that brought me into Adam's life.

She's the most enchanting woman I've ever seen. More so in the photograph than in the painting I saw of her when I first came here. Her smile is almost infectious, even through the print. I catch a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror, then back at the picture. She makes my sisters look like hags.

So why did Adam even ever glance my way, after having her in his life?

"Her name is—was—Jessica," Adam's gruff morning voice pulls me from my thoughts. "She had a gift of creating something from nothing. She grew those roses from a twig. She loved them so much. Sometimes, I thought more than she loved me."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, still staring at her. I now understand why he was so intent on me saving the bush. It's his link to her, just like my books are my connection to my mom. I gently set the picture back and smooth the doily.

"She made that before...." he begins, but his voice cracks, and the rest of the sentence trails away into silence.

"It's beautiful," I say softly.

"You're beautiful," Adam says, leaning back against the headboard.

I freeze, glancing at my reflection. I've been told many things in my lifetime, but nothing hits me quite as hard as those two words from his lips. My cheeks flush as I make my way back to bed.

"You don't have to be nice," I mutter, flustered by the unexpected comment. "I know how I look."

"Exquisite," he replies, without hesitation.

"Yeah, maybe if you're comparing me to Phillip," I joke, fumbling to pick up my glasses.

"Why do you always insist on being so insecure?" he asks, his voice softer. "You're enchanting."

"If you ever saw my sisters, you'd know the true definition of enchanting."

He draws me into his warmth, placing his hand over my trembling fingers, stopping me from fumbling with my glasses so I can focus on him.

"Yours is the standard by which all beauty is defined," he says, his dark brown eyes locking so deeply onto mine that I'm sure he's looking straight at the core of my being. It's like he sees the beauty I always wished others thought I was. That space of myself I never allowed another to venture—he navigates so effortlessly.

My cheeks flush once more, and I pull my hands away from his.

"Yeah... beastly beauty, maybe," I say, trying to defuse my discomfort. I slip my glasses on and immediately growl in frustration when three fractured Adams stare back at me through one cracked lens. "Damnit! Those jackasses must've broken them."

"Good," Adam says, taking the glasses off my face.

"Good?" I snap, suddenly irritated. What's wrong with him? Doesn't he realize I need these to see?

"You should wear contacts," he says, his tone softening. "You shouldn't hide behind those frames... or the lies you were fed regarding your beauty growing up." He kisses me gently on the cheek, and my irritation melts away at the warmth of his lips.

He pulls away, reaching for something in his nightstand, and I fight the urge to follow him, to keep our bodies connected. When he turns back, he holds out a hand mirror. I hesitate, so he gently wraps my fingers around the golden handle. My fingers trace the intricate pattern etched along the frame, running down its spine, but I don't look at my reflection.

"Are all guys secretly as vain as most girls, or are you just exceptionally obsessed with your looks?" I tease, raising an eyebrow, hoping he doesn't notice I'm averting my gaze. Unfortunately, he does, and his finger guides my chin, forcing me to once again take in all my me-ness.

"Well, if more men were as devastatingly attractive as me, they'd have a reason to be," he smirks.

I raise my eyebrow higher, and he cracks a laugh. It's then that I realize two things. Firstly, that in all the months I've lived there, I've never heard Adam laugh, and secondly, that I'd love to hear more of it, as often as possible.

"You might be the sharpest wise-ass on the planet, but you're not the only one." He lifts the mirror, adjusting it so I can see myself more clearly. "Jessica gave this to me."

And just like that, I feel like the biggest dumbass on the planet.

Foot-in-mouth, party of one?

"I'm so sorry. I didn't me—" I start to backtrack, but Adam shakes his head, placing a finger over my lips to silence me.

"Don't be," he says softly, his eyes drifting away before locking back onto mine. "She gave it to me when I took over my family's tech business."

"You run a tech business?" I ask, flabbergasted. The man who detests all technological things circa the 1980s and on is a tech mogul? And here I thought last night was going to be the most mind-blowing thing I'd ever experience in this room. But this news tops it. Okay, not really... but it comes pretty damn close. I have about a million questions, but Adam doesn't give me a chance to ask any of them.

"I didn't have a fucking clue who I was supposed to be when I walked into my first board meeting," he says, his voice growing quieter. "My father spent my whole life making sure I knew just how big of an incompetent, idiotic failure of a son I was in his eyes. So by the time he died and I had to take over, I was certain the board would laugh me right out of the room."

I lean in closer, the sorrow in his voice tugging at my heart. He kisses the top of my head gently before continuing.

"A few days before that meeting, Jess gave me this."

"Just what every savvy CEO secretly desires," I say, my brain unable to control my mouth whenever I feel uncomfortable, and staring at myself this long definitely qualifies as discomfort.

Luckily, Adam simply chuckles at my verbal diarrhea.

"She told me that whenever I looked into this, she wanted me to see myself the way she saw me. As a clever, intelligent, insightful, generous man," he says, his eyes shimmering with the memories of his lost love. "I'd seen my reflection a thousand times before, but that was the first time I really saw myself. Not the failure my father always told me I was, but the man I'd become despite his perpetual beratement."

Adam wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him.

"I'm not saying the people in your life meant to belittle you, but they've obscured your view of yourself," he says matter-of-factly. "But now, I now hope that whenever you see your reflection in this, you'll see yourself as I see you. A strong, intellectual, gorgeous woman who deserves so much more respect and love than she's allowed herself."

I stare into the mirror, my eyes filling with tears from his words. I try to blink them away, but they spill over anyway. I offer the mirror back to him, but he gently presses it back into my hands.

"It's yours," Adam says softly, wiping away a tear that has slipped down my cheek with a tender smile.

"Adam, I can't take this," I whisper, wiping my own tears. "Jessica gave it to you."

"She'd want you to have it," he says, pulling me tighter into his embrace. "I think she would've loved you."

"Thank you," I say, hugging the mirror close to my chest. My gaze drifts back to the photograph of Jessica and the baby. They look so happy—a perfect moment suspended in time amongst the sea of hideous ones that ensued after their departure.

"Adam...." I murmur.

"Hmm?" he responds quietly.

I cast my eyes downward, hesitant to ask the question I can't seem to stop myself from asking.

"What happened... to Jessica and—" I pause, realizing I don't even know the name of the child in her arms—Adam's child.

"Thomas," he says, the name rough and strained, as if he has to fight to release it from his tongue. He pulls away and sits on the edge of the bed, his head hanging low. When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper. "I killed them."

"What!" I gasp, grabbing his arm and turning him back toward me.