Dear Adam, page 21
Halfway down the newsfeed, a headline caught her eye. It wasn’t the text that made her stop; it was the photo.
Her breath caught.
Dr. Marcus Chen, her cosmetic surgeon, stood smiling at a podium, flanked by photographers. He looked relaxed. Triumphant even. The article headline read:
Award-Winning Surgeon Dr. Chen Announces Early Retirement After Receiving American College Of Surgeons Lifetime Achievement Medal
Ava stared.
Her cursor blinked on the page.
Retirement?
Her hand, still resting on the mouse, had grown cold. She blinked, once, then again, the words refusing to realign into something reasonable. Retirement meant finality. It meant no revisions. No second chances. No dream—her dream denied.
Her chest tightened.
She sat back slowly in her chair. The bright hum of the office suddenly felt too sharp, too loud. She stared at the image, not reading, just feeling. She swallowed the unspoken plea: What about me?
He had the life he wanted. The career. The acclaim.
But she was still here. Waiting to be fixed.
Her vision narrowed to the photo of Chen, beaming, basking in accolades, holding his medal like a pageant trophy. Something inside her cracked. On shaky legs, she rose from her desk and crossed the office, snagging her handbag from the armchair. She pulled out her phone, heart pounding in her throat.
She selected the number from her contacts list.
It rang twice before a crisp female voice answered.
“Chen’s Aesthetics, how may I help you?”
Ava turned her back to the room and paced toward the far window. “Hi. I’m calling about Dr. Chen. Is he… still taking patients?”
A pause. Typing. “He’s currently unavailable, I’m afraid.”
“No, I mean—” Ava caught herself, steadied her tone. “I just saw the news. The award. The retirement announcement. I’m a potential client and I need to know. Is he still performing surgeries?”
The receptionist hesitated, her tone smoothing into something practiced. “Dr. Chen is completing a very limited number of procedures following his announcement, but his books are nearly closed.”
Ava gripped the edge of the windowsill, knuckles whitening. “Is there any chance I could be squeezed in?”
Outside, angry clouds gathered over the bay, rolling low and ominous, like something barely held back. The grey light that spilled through the glass made everything feel ominous and on edge—like her.
“Well…” The woman’s voice dipped slightly, confidential now. “If you have the funding available, I can speak with his coordinator. He’s prioritizing select patients with private arrangements.”
Ava closed her eyes. “I don’t… I don’t have the money. Not yet. But soon. Very soon.”
The receptionist paused, then her tone softened into something sympathetic, but distant. “I see. Well, when you’re in a position to move forward, I’d be happy to refer you to one of our trusted colleagues.”
Ava ended the call without another word.
She didn’t want a trusted colleague.
She didn’t want options.
She wanted him. Chen. The man who had held her chin in his hands and told her it could all be undone. That she could have her face back. That her life wasn’t over.
She’d had other surgeons. And look at what that had achieved.
She didn’t want another plan. She wanted a solution.
She wanted what Chen had promised her.
Her phone buzzed again—Erin, INFER. Ava hit ACCEPT, clenching her jaw.
“Ava, hey! Just wanted to flag something. I've just come off a call with Axiom. They’ve raised a few concerns around the trial protocol. Nothing huge, but—”
“I told you I’d handle the clinical side,” Ava snapped, sharper than she meant to. “Everything is under control.”
A pause. Then Erin, still cheerful but firmer: “Right, totally. Just… wanted to keep you in the loop.”
“I don’t need the loop right now,” Ava said flatly. “I need you to let me do my job.” She ended the call before Erin could reply, then tossed her phone onto the desk.
If the AI Companion failed... she had no backup plan. There would be no graceful retreat. Only doors slamming shut.
She hadn’t meant to snap at Erin, but she was not going to let her shot slip away.
Chapter 34
Wednesday Evening
They'd barely crossed the threshold into Clarissa’s hotel room when she headed straight for the phone and dialed room service. “Two bottles of Moët,” she said crisply. “On ice. “Two bottles means two buckets. Don’t make me say it twice.”
Aidan had barely registered the words. He’d been too focused on peeling the evening off his body.
First the jacket which he slung carelessly across the end of the bed. Then the tie which he unknotted with a low groan of relief. He dropped the cufflinks into a crystal dish on the desk with a quiet clink, the little propellers catching the light one last time before he walked away from them. He unfastened the top few buttons of his shirt and rolled his shoulders until the seams loosened against his back.
It wasn’t just comfort he craved. It was an escape. From art that had hit too close. From feelings that had no proper shape yet. From himself mainly.
He slumped into the leather armchair by the window, exhaling as though deflating from the inside out.
Clarissa appeared behind him. Without speaking, she slid her hands over his chest, slow and sure, her fingers slipping under his shirt like they owned the right to be there. Her lips grazed the back of his neck, soft as breath, her hair tumbling forward to brush his cheek as she leaned in.
He didn’t close his eyes from pleasure. He closed them to block it out. Just for a second, he didn’t want it to be the Beauty CEO. He wanted it to be the woman behind the words on his screen. The one who typed instead of touched. The one who trusted him with secrets, not seduction.
Alice.
He drew a slow breath and let Clarissa's hands explore, not because he wanted them, but because he didn’t know how to ask her to stop.
A soft knock at the door broke the moment. He rose to answer it, but Clarissa waved him away, her silver cuff bracelet winking in the light. Two waiters entered the room, carrying ice buckets and stands, the bottle necks standing proud.
He turned to them, but Clarissa was already shooing them out the door, pressing a tip into each palm like she’d done it a hundred times before. His hands shook as he poured the fizz into a crystal flute and passed it to her.
One manicured talon stroked the back of his hand as she took the glass from him, her eyes locked on his—because she was claiming something, not offering it.
He lifted his glass for a sip, partly out of habit, partly as a shield, but Clarissa stepped in, lowered his hand, and kissed him. Deep and demanding.
Caught off guard, his glass tipped in his hand. Champagne dripped over his knuckles and splashed onto the leather of his shoe.
At the back of his mind, he thought: Sorry, Raj.
But then her mouth deepened over his, her tongue coaxing his, and the thought scattered like corrupted data.
His free hand fell to her waist as the pressure in his pants surged, blood moving faster than reason. Everything else, the vault, the Phantom, the aching shape of Alice's words, faded. Obliterated by the heat rising between them.
Clarissa broke the kiss with a smirk. She stepped back and slipped the straps of her dress from her shoulders. The silk cascaded from her body like water, pooling around her stilettos.
Her sculpted and toned body rose and fell in all the right places, hugged by black satin lingerie. Her panties rode high, two delicate straps hugging her hips. As she turned away, his eyes traced the path those straps took, dipping into the dimple at the base of her spine, disappearing between the ripe curve of her buttocks.
He didn’t realize he’d let go of the glass until it thudded softly into the deep pile of the carpet.
Clarissa strutted on her silver heels toward the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to flash him a wink. “Fasten your seatbelt, Maverick,” she purred over her shoulder, her voice low and teasing. “Turbulence ahead.”
The bathroom lights flicked on as she crossed the threshold, painting her silhouette in clean, angular light. She leaned into the glass walk-in enclosure and slammed the shower on. With a quick, practiced movement, she swept her hair up onto her head and knotted it.
He stood watching, breath shallow, one shoe wet, caught in the moment between wanting to flee and needing to fuck someone to lose himself.
Clarissa leaned back against the glass, her lips parted just enough to hint at a moan not yet given. One hand slid up the smooth plane of her stomach, skimmed her ribs, then cupped her breast through the satin bra. She pinched her nipple slowly, deliberately, and let out a soft sound of invitation.
He watched her through the steam-fogged air, jaw tight. The ache in his groin pulsed in time with the throb behind his eyes. He knew her beauty was a siren song, all choreography and control. He didn’t want to follow her lead.
His body answered anyway.
Of course it did.
He swallowed hard and stepped toward the bathroom, not because he wanted to lose himself in her, but because he could no longer bear to stay present in his own skin.
The sex was fast and hard. He fumbled out of his clothes, Raj’s clothes, as he closed the distance between them. She met him with lips parted, eyes bright with appetite. He pinned her against the glass, his arousal pressed against her thigh as he slid a delicate strap from her shoulder, baring one breast to his mouth, his hands rougher than he meant them to be.
He lost himself in the press of skin, in the heat of her breath against his cheek, in the mindless friction that drowned thought.
Her nails raked lightly down his back, her body arching beneath his.
He pressed harder, breath hitching as the world narrowed to sensation, the heat of her skin, the soft gasp in her throat, the thrum in his blood rising too fast. But just as he began to tip over the edge of restraint, she caught his jaw with her hand and turned his face to hers.
Her eyes were bright, steady, knowing. She stilled, breathless but smiling, her lips grazing his ear. “Let’s get wet,” she murmured.
Before he could answer, she reached down, flicked off her heels one by one, then hooked her thumbs into the satin straps at her hips. She peeled her panties down slowly, letting them slide over her thighs and crumple at her ankles. Then she took his hand, confident and commanding, and led him into the enclosure, water hitting his shoulders in a sudden cascade.
He caught his reflection in the steamed mirror. For half a second, his mind registered the fogged glass as a mask. He blinked, and it was gone.
She turned and pulled him into her, gripping his buttocks and kissing him deeply. His mind shut down, and for the next twenty minutes, he stopped thinking, stopped remembering, stopped feeling.
It was still dark when he woke with a start. He stared at the ceiling, pulse uneven, the echo of a dream clinging to his skin like sweat. The Phantom’s voice still rang in his head, grief in every note, resignation in every pause. A mask held out, a hand withdrawn.
Aidan blinked.
The sheets beside him rustled softly as Clarissa murmured something. He lay still, sheets clenched in his fists, the dream memory lingering.
The hotel room was too warm, thick with perfume and champagne. City light spilled through a crack in the blackout curtains, catching on the half-drained flutes abandoned by their bedside.
Clarissa shifted beside him with a murmur, one bare leg brushing his under the sheets. But her warmth did nothing to ease the hollowness that sat beneath his ribs.
The dream still clung to him, ragged and unfinished. The Phantom’s final note still echoed in his mind. That moment of surrender. That terrible longing and isolation.
Aidan swallowed and reached for his phone on the nightstand, the screen’s glow harsh in the darkness. He opened the AI Companion.
Nothing.
No new messages.
Just the static hum of her absence.
He set the phone down again with a dull thud. Maybe she didn’t need him anymore. Maybe she was talking to the vault now, confiding in the quiet code instead of the flawed man who wrote it.
He turned onto his side and studied Clarissa next to him, her hair fanning out across the pillow. Slowly, he reached out and ran his fingers through the strands, letting them fall between his knuckles.
She stirred. Her lashes fluttered, then her eyes opened, her expression soft with sleep. She blinked and murmured, “Mmmm. Can’t sleep, Maverick?”
“I had a bad dream,” he whispered, surprised by how small his voice sounded.
She reached up and stroked his cheek with the pad of her thumb, her smile deepening. “Want me to kiss it better?”
Before he could answer, she straddled him in one smooth movement, the sheet slipping away as she moved.
He sucked in a breath, not from desire, but from the slow, creeping sense that no one really saw him.
Without thinking, he reached up and cupped her breasts, thumbing her nipples until they stiffened under his touch. She arched for him, panting, eyes heavy with want.
His cock responded instinctively, rising beneath her as she rocked her hips in answer.
He closed his eyes and let the arousal take him, let her take him. It was easier that way. Easier to get lost than to admit how far gone he already was.
Later that morning, as the train slowed into San Jose, he could still feel the echo of her nails on his shoulders, her perfume clinging faintly to his skin. But it felt distant now. Like something already fading.
He stepped onto the platform, squinting against the flat Californian sun, his boots striking the concrete with more certainty than he felt.
The cab ride was quiet. Just him and the blur of sun-faded shopfronts and tired houses sliding past the window.
His mind wandered back to the morning, waking in Clarissa’s hotel bed with her limbs tangled in his and a hollow in his chest where satisfaction should’ve been.
He’d dressed in silence and slipped out without waking her, the stale flavor of half-drunk champagne coating his mouth.
Back at his apartment, he’d showered too long, as though steam could scald the memory off his skin. He changed into jeans and a faded tee, then gathered Raj’s suit, shirt, and tie into the garment bag and walked it to the dry cleaner down the block.
The propeller cufflinks were still in Clarissa’s hotel room. He’d remembered them during the descent in the elevator, but couldn’t face returning for them.
Now, in the backseat of the cab, he ran a thumb along the seam of his jeans and watched the street signs change. Strip malls gave way to sleepy residential blocks. Manicured lawns and jasmine spilling over fences. Then the familiar curve of the drive into Ashbourne House.
The cab slowed.
He drew a breath, then stepped out.
The conservatory was warm and overgrown, a small jungle pressed up against the glass. Fiddle-leaf figs leaned into the sun, their broad green faces glowing. Ferns and spider plants overflowed from terracotta pots, hanging in macramé nets from hooks in the ceiling. The scent was green and earthy, like her greenhouse had smelled when it rained. This was why he paid their exorbitant fees.
His chest loosened just a little. She’d always loved gardening. She used to talk to her plants like they were guests.
She was sitting near the far window, tucked into a deep leather armchair that looked as though it had been purchased at a high-end antique store. Her hair was washed and combed. One hand rested on her lap, the other was stroking the dry edge of a monstera leaf over and over, like she was trying to soothe it.
Aidan crossed the room slowly and pulled a small footstool close enough that their knees nearly touched. He leaned forward a little to catch her eye.
She turned to him, blinking, then her gaze drifted to the leaf again. “This one’s dry,” she murmured. “Do you think I should water them?”
He bit his lip and looked away. Something desperate cracked in his chest, his body crying out for comfort like a child. Please. Just know me today.
“I’ll water them for you later, Mom,” he said gently, reaching out and placing his hand over hers, stilling her fingers.
Her skin was pale but warm.
She blinked again, and something in her gaze shifted.
Recognition slid into place like the sun breaking through clouds.
Her face softened. “Aidan.” She gave a small, surprised smile, like the name had risen unbidden.
His throat tightened with relief so sharp it almost hurt. He swallowed hard and nodded.
She squeezed his hand. “How are you, love? Have you met a nice girl yet?” Her voice turned teasing and conspiratorial. “It’s important not to be alone too long. You never liked that.”
His throat closed around a response. His mind flicked, first, unbidden, to Alice. Then an image of Clarissa pushed it away. Two women. Two truths. One haunted his thoughts, the other consumed his body.
He squeezed his mother’s hand, then looked into her face. “I’m working on it,” he said softly. And for a moment, that was enough.
The Solace Tech elevator hummed as it climbed, floor numbers blinking past in steady succession. Aidan stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, his reflection faint in the brushed steel doors.
He’d stayed at the care home as long as she’d stayed with him. The moment her hand had slackened in his, the light dimming in her eyes, he’d pressed a kiss to her temple and whispered goodbye. But for almost an hour, she'd been his mother again. Gentle and curious about his life. She’d remembered his name. Remembered him.
The lightness stayed with him, a sense of buoyancy, like a knot in his chest had finally eased. For once, he wasn’t holding his breath.
Only the care home invoice in his pocket tugged him back down to earth, the neatly folded paper crinkling against the lining of his jacket. The receptionist had insisted he take it as he left, all apologies and professional sympathy. He hadn’t looked at it yet. Didn’t need to. He’d read the email. Done the sums.
