CHAPTER 207: THE ART OF LOVING YOU

ADRIEN’S POV

I left her perched on the cool marble of the bathroom counter, a fragile porcelain doll surrounded by white porcelain and chrome. I took a deep breath, t and the faint trace of her perfume—delicate, flowery—still clung to the air, layered over the ghost of clean linen. The image of her tear-streaked face seared itself into me, shame and confusion warring in her eyes until they burned on the backs of my eyelids. It was a look I never wanted to see again.

The calm I’d worn in the bedroom had been a mask. Necessary. Calculated. A lie. A necessary one.

Inside, a cold, unfamiliar panic was clawing at my ribs. Not because of the blood—that was nothing. It was her reaction. The raw, visceral terror in her voice when she’d begged me not to look. As if a simple, biological function had turned her into something monstrous in her own eyes.

That was unacceptable.

I strode out of the master suite, my bare feet silent on the polished hardwood floors. The herbs I’d ordered were a stop-gap measure, a knee-jerk reaction based on some half-remembered article I’d read about holistic remedies. It was insufficient. I needed a real strategy. I needed intelligence. I needed supplies.

Thomas was already in the main gallery, a silent silhouette against the pre-dawn glow filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Sir," he greeted, his expression unreadable but his posture alert.

"Thomas," I said, my voice low and urgent, devoid of its usual morning gravel. "I need the keys to the Aston Martin, the one in the secondary garage." That car was my public disguise, sleek and powerful, but unobtrusive enough not to scream ’billionaire’ on a quick grocery run. Normally, Thomas would handle everything, but this... this felt like something I needed to do myself. A personal mission.

"Right away, sir," Thomas responded, his tone perfectly neutral, not a hint of surprise at the unusual request or the early hour. "Will you be requiring security, sir?"

"No." My voice was flat as I wasa already moving.

My walk-in closet usually felt like a sanctuary of order, but now it was just a pit stop. I snagged a dark hoodie and a pair of jeans, clothes I rarely wore in public, designed for anonymity.

I made my way down the expansive staircase, my usual measured pace quickening. My gaze swept over the meticulously chosen art and furnishings, everything suddenly feeling secondary.

"Sir, your car is ready." Thomas said as he handed me the keys.

"Thank you, Thomas." I took the keys. "Also, I need you to inform the kitchen. Breakfast needs to be changed. No spicy food, no red meat, no excessive sugar or salt. I want fruits, leafy green vegetables, ginger tea, chicken, fish, eggs, warm soups, and turmeric incorporated into the new menu. Ensure it’s highly nutritious and easily digestible."

"Consider it done, sir. Is there anything else?"

"Yes." I paused, already halfway out the door. "Get the whole house temperature adjusted, I want it regulated between warm and cool across every wing."

As the large oak doors swung shut behind me, I practically sprinted to the garage.

The garage was cool and smelled of concrete and expensive gasoline. I bypassed the gleaming rows of supercars, heading straight for the understated car. The engine purred to life, a quiet beast waking in the dark. As I pulled out, I retrieved my phone. My thumb hovered for a second before I typed a clumsy, brutally direct query into the search bar.

What to get girlfriend if her period comes.

The results were a useless cascade of articles about emotional support and communication. Frustration tightened my jaw. I needed practical solutions, not platitudes.

I tried another search, more specific this time. ’Menstrual cycle what to buy.’

The results were a deluge of incomprehensible information. An entirely new vocabulary assaulted me. Pads. Tampons. Liners. Menstrual cups. Diagrams appeared, articles with titles like "Pads vs. Tampons: Which Is Right for You?" and "Decoding the Flow: Light, Medium, Heavy."

It was like trying to read a foreign language.

Wings? What in God’s name did wings have to do with any of this? Did they help? Were they necessary? Were there options without wings? Super Plus? Ultra-Thin with Flex Foam? The terminology was more complex than the schematics for our latest satellite prototype. The sheer variety was staggering. How could one person possibly know which one was correct? What if I chose the wrong one and made her more uncomfortable?

The screen glowed with an aggressive array of pinks and purples, images of smiling, active women bounding across fields, swimming in oceans—all while comfortably protected.

I clenched the steering wheel, my knuckles white. My brain, usually a finely tuned machine for dissecting market trends, optimizing supply chains, and predicting geopolitical shifts, was short-circuiting.

The sheer volume of options was paralyzing. Each product promised unparalleled protection, ultimate comfort, discreet fit – but for whom? For what kind of flow? What if Isabella had a "heavy flow" and I bought "ultra-thin light"? Would I be responsible for further distress? The thought made my stomach churn. I could dissect a hostile company’s financials in minutes, predict market fluctuations with unnerving accuracy, but I was being defeated by a wall of text about cotton products.

I found a 24-hour superstore, its fluorescent lights a garish beacon in the gray morning. I strode inside, a man on a mission. I bypassed the usual aisles of impulse buys and headed straight for the "feminine hygiene" section, a brightly lit corridor that now felt like a battlefield.

It was worse than Google. It was... overwhelming. A fortress of pink, purple, and pastel blue packaging. Every box screamed promises of "comfort," "protection," and "discretion."

I pulled out my phone again, trying to cross-reference my search results with the products on the shelves. It was useless. How was I supposed to know what she preferred? What if I got the wrong one? The thought of handing her the "wrong" thing and seeing that flicker of disappointment or, worse, embarrassment on her face again was intolerable.

My eyes scanned, uncomprehending. Pads seemed simpler. Maybe. But what if she used tampons? Or a cup? The internet hadn’t specified what kind was best, only that these were the options.

"Screw it," I muttered, grabbing a shopping cart.

If I didn’t know which one was right, then the only solution was to have all of them. I started at one end of the aisle and began clearing the shelves. One of every kind of pad—long, short, thin, overnight, with wings, without.

Then I moved to the tampons, doing the same. Plastic applicators, cardboard ones, sport versions. I saw something called a ’menstrual cup’ in a small, intimidating box and tossed two of them into the cart for good measure. I would not be defeated by a lack of options. She would have everything she could possibly need.

I stood back, looking at the mountain of feminine hygiene products. It still didn’t feel like enough. The Google results had mentioned other things. Pain. Cravings.

I abandoned the aisle and began a systematic sweep of the store.

Pain relief. I grabbed three different brands of painkillers. A heating pad—no, two. One for her back, one for her front. A neck massager. And a box of those disposable, stick-on heat patches. Tactical options were crucial. I remembered reading something about iron deficiency. I found the vitamin aisle and located a bottle labeled ’Blood Builder.’ It sounded direct. I added it to the pile.

Then, I paused. Comfort. She needed comfort. I saw a display near the seasonal section. A plushie shaped like a uterus (I didn’t know what it was, but it looked comforting). And a ridiculously large, plush teddy bear, easily the size of a small person, with soft brown fur and impossibly gentle-looking eyes. I imagined her curled up with it, her face buried in its soft fur. It was absurd. It was perfect. I wrestled its plush, oversized body into the top of the cart, its head lolling over a tower of sanitary products.

Finally, the snacks. The internet screamed ’chocolate,’ but I knew better. I’d watched Isabella pick the dark chocolate off desserts, her nose wrinkling slightly. She liked sweet, but not that.

I bypassed the entire candy aisle and went to the gourmet section. I found bars of creamy white chocolate with macadamia nuts, bags of soft strawberry licorice, and a small tub of the raspberry sorbet she loved. Ice cream. I raided the freezer section for three different pints: chocolate fudge brownie, strawberry cheesecake, and a simple vanilla bean. I was operating on pure data—small observations I’d filed away without even realizing it.

By the time I reached the checkout, my cart was overflowing. The cashier, a bleary-eyed young woman with purple hair, stared at the conveyer belt, then at me, then back at the mountain of products. Her expression was a magnificent cocktail of pity, awe, and sheer confusion.

"...Rough night?" she mumbled, scanning a box of Super Plus tampons.

"Product research," I replied, my tone flat and final.

I paid without looking at the total, grabbing the bags and piling them into the passenger seat of the car.

As I drove back through the slowly awakening city, the car filled with the smell of plastic packaging and others. I was still operating on pure instinct, a primal need to fix what was broken.

I didn’t understand the problem, not really. But I had acquired an arsenal. I had bulldozed the store. And now, I was going back to her, armed and ready to soothe the storm.