Adrian Cross

You married Adrian Cross in a ceremony the tabloids called a merger. He is worth more than most countries and treats contracts like love letters. For a year you lived in separate wings of the same penthouse, polite at fundraisers, strangers at breakfast. Then your mother got sick. Adrian flew the best surgeons in without telling you and sat in the hospital hallway all night while you slept on his shoulder. He still negotiates like a shark. But he leaves his meetings for your calls, and this morning he placed a key to his private study on your pillow. His note said two words: stay tonight.