He Made An Exception For Her But Never For Me Chapter 10
After that day, the courier really did stop coming.
My life returned to its quiet rhythm.
When there were no customers, I would set up my laptop by the window of the shop.
I had been preparing something for a long time, and I was planning to bring it to its climax that summer.
I had assumed that Adrian had finally given up and returned to his New York.
Until, a few days later, I noticed something.
The stone path in front of the shop, usually blanketed with fallen oak leaves.
Was swept clean every single morning.
I knew who was doing it.
The man with the obsessive need for cleanliness was using his obsessive, private rules.
To seep, silently, into my life.
He was still renting the apartment across the street.
The curtain in the window always left a narrow gap.
But I didn’t expose him. And I didn’t warn him again.
That weekend, the weather service issued a hurricane warning at orange alert level.
I pulled on a rain jacket and began moving the more delicate plants in the courtyard, one pot at a time, into the shop.
The wind grew violent, and the direction shifted suddenly. A waist-high areca palm was knocked over.
Its ceramic pot began sliding down the slick steps, straight toward my foot.
I closed my eyes, bracing for the pain. But the next second.
A pair of hands caught the mud-covered pot.
I opened my eyes.
Adrian was drenched from head to toe.
He hadn’t even worn a rain jacket. He had simply walked into my courtyard.
His custom-tailored suit was ruined.
It clung to him, dripping muddy water.
He didn’t say a word. He just started helping me carry the dozen or so plants into the shop.
When he reached the last pot, a rose bush covered in thorns.
His hand slipped, and a thorn opened a deep gash across his palm.
He didn’t so much as flinch. He simply moved the bleeding hand behind his back.
“That’s the last of them.”
His voice was rough. He looked at me through the sheet of rain.
“The wind is picking up. Go inside and lock the door.”
Through the glass door, I looked at his bleeding hand and let out a small sigh.
I turned, took the first aid kit from behind the counter, and pushed the door open just enough to hand it to him.
“Take this. Clean it yourself. Then go back across the street.”
My tone was flat.
Adrian looked at the first aid kit, and something like hope flickered in his eyes.
He didn’t take it. He leaned toward me slightly instead.
“Sophia, my hand is numb from the cold. I can’t get the bandage open.”
“Could you wrap it for me? Just a little.”
There was a small, hopeful plea buried in his voice.
I looked at him.
But I only set the first aid kit down on the chair outside the door.
“Adrian, the self-sacrifice act doesn’t work on me.”
I met his eyes. Not a ripple in my voice.
“The same way you once looked at the blood on my forehead and decided it was just a scratch that didn’t matter.”
“This little cut on your hand isn’t going to kill you.”
The light in his eyes went out.
“Do you think, because you, the great CEO of Bosworth Group, stood in the rain for me, carried mud, and even hurt yourself.”
“I’m supposed to burst into grateful tears and follow you home?”
I gave him a small, sardonic smile. It all felt so absurd.
“You do all this because you can’t stand losing control of a situation.”
“You’ve spent your whole life being the one people make exceptions for.”
“You’ve been running everything through your weighing-and-measuring logic for so long.”
“And now that you’ve realized there are no exceptions left for you here, you can’t handle it.”
“That’s not true!”
Adrian argued back frantically. The rain streamed down his face like something alive.
“Sophia, I really do love you!”
“I’ve never in my life begged another person like this!”
“Then I’d rather you didn’t learn to.”
I cut him off.
“Adrian, your love is too heavy. And too selfish.”
“You once treated Chloe’s illness like her private privilege. Even when I was calling for help after a car accident.”
“You dismissed me as, quote, a rational adult. Now that you’ve lost me, you’re trying to use self-sacrifice and self-torment to blackmail me back.”
“But I’m doing well. I don’t need you at all.”
I stepped back and prepared to close the door.
“Go back to being Mr. Bosworth. Stop coming here to sweep leaves and haul flowerpots.”
“It doesn’t suit you. And it won’t move me.”
I pulled down the shop’s shutter.
I sealed away the storm outside.
Along with the man collapsing in the mud.
Both were shut out of my world.
Back at my desk, I took a sip of warm tea.
My fingers moved across the keyboard, and I kept writing my story.
My real life was already clear enough.
There was no room left for anything sentimental or half-finished.