Page 24 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)
Chapter eighteen
W ell, it doesn’t look like his taste in literature has changed much over the years.
It feels like déjà vu as I skim the lofty bookshelves lining the walls of Adrian’s study, but the vast majority are just chunky medical textbooks with cardiac surgery on their spines, so I lose interest in those quickly.
To little surprise, he’s even organized his personal library via subject and alphabetical order.
The psychology books are marginally more interesting— The Science of Empathy & Mirroring Other People, A Comprehensive Guide to Emotional Literacy & Understanding Your Emotions —and entirely unsurprising, given all that I know about Adrian Ellis.
A few of the other books on the shelf give me pause, though.
The Psychology and Neuroscience Behind Love, The Thin Line Between Obsession & Love, and—my head cocks to the side in confusion— A Practical Guide to Marriage and Monogamy .
I blink.
Well…maybe his taste has broadened more than I thought.
Some traitorous part of me sparks with hope, but I stamp out the ember quickly.
I have no reason to think any of this has to do with me, I tell myself. Just because we’ve got…history with a certain eight-lettered phrase doesn’t mean anything.
We’re both nearing thirty—it’s not that unusual that Adrian might be interested in pursuing a more serious relationship, if only for appearances or nosy interviewers.
Which doesn’t bother me.
Not at all.
I have zero feelings about Adrian marrying someone.
God knows he’ll have no trouble in this city, and the image is all too easy to picture: some beautiful and refined native Upper East Sider who’s probably never ventured below 57 th Street.
Someone who photographs well and interviews even better.
Someone who’d be willing to overlook any…
emotional deficiencies or old tattoos if it meant tying the knot with an Ellis. Maybe even—nope. Not going there.
Not my business.
Just tonight, remember?
I move on to his executive desk. I don’t even bother with his sleek top-of-the-line desktop, knowing anything of this caliber is going to require either Touch or Face ID to access.
There is, however, a deep drawer on the bottom right of the desk.
Well, that looks old-fashioned enough.
I bend down, grab the handle—and then pause, logic overtaking curiosity.
Should I really be doing this?
It’s not like snooping through Adrian’s things has ever gotten me anywhere good.
Best case scenario: I find nothing.
Worst case scenario: I still find nothing, but he walks in on me sifting through his belongings and gets so angry he kicks me out.
I strain to hear the echo of footsteps—but nothing.
I bite my lip.
I’ll just take a quick peek.
If it’s nothing damning, I’ll stop here.
I take a deep breath, half-expecting the drawer to be locked—or to blare some sort Poppy is snooping again! siren—but it only tugs open with a quiet creak.
Bingo.
I listen for footsteps—and still nothing.
You really want to do this, Poppy? What if it’s worse than a journal or diary? What if he’s got like…a severed hand in there or something?
I shiver.
Ridiculous, probably, but it is Adrian, so I can’t dismiss the possibility completely.
I hold my breath as I peer inside and—
Oh.
I exhale with relief.
It’s just paperwork.
No amputated body parts and no private diaries.
Like anything else, the dark manila folders have been clearly organized and labeled by subject matter, so I quickly skim the titles.
Most of it seems to just be physical copies of medical education certificates, hospital documentation, and lecture notes—and even leafing through some of the included paperwork confirms that.
All completely normal, reasonable things you’d keep in the bottom desk drawer of your home office.
I’m not sure what it says about me that I feel vaguely disappointed by the anticlimactic discovery. I mean, it’s not like I wanted to unearth another dark secret that’d land me in hot water with Adrian.
And even if he has dark secrets, he’s probably not keeping them in an unlocked drawer, no matter how private his study may be.
That’s a lesson I taught him, I’m sure.
I sigh, intending to close the drawer and pretend like the past five minutes never happened, when my eye catches on another folder tucked in the very back.
An unlabeled folder.
Weird, I think. Everything else in this drawer is clearly labeled.
Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s a thick file organizer, which means I’d need to pull it out completely to examine the contents.
It’s probably just more med school lecture notes he forgot to label.
I stare at the unlabeled file, curiosity and anxiety warring in my head.
And certainly not worth the risk of Adrian walking in and catching me snooping through his things…again.
I glance toward the door, but the only sound I hear is my own heart pounding.
No…definitely not worth the risk.
My fingers reach for the file.
It’ll just be a little peek, that’s all.
It slides out easier than I expect it to, and when no alarms or anti-theft sirens start blaring, I sit cross-legged on the floor, ears peeled for any signs of approaching footsteps.
When I still don’t hear anything, I unclasp the cord and flip open the organizer.
No wonder this feels so hefty, is my first thought, staring down at what must be hundreds of pages of paper.
In true Adrian fashion though, it’s all divided into different sections, each one tabbed and labeled with his elegant handwriting.
Legal
ID Docs
Med H
Network
Financials
My brows crease, the headers only sparking more confusion.
What the hell is this?
On a whim, I crack open Legal first and examine the stapled paperwork closest to the top—a final contract of sale, as the bold and underlined title at the top reads.
Legal jargon isn’t my strong suit, but I’m able to glean that it’s for a real estate property and Adrian is the buyer.
For this penthouse? I wonder.
Is that what this is?
Just a folder where he keeps physical copies of sensitive documents?
It’d certainly explain the size.
But then I spot the property address—and shock slams into me with all the force of a gut punch.
No.
No fucking way.
Wide-eyed, I flip through the rest of the contract, searching for some sign that I’ve interpreted things incorrectly, that this is not what I think it is—but page seven, the seller’s name printed and dated just above Adrian’s, only confirms it.
For the past six months, Adrian Ellis has owned my apartment building.