The police station smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant. The room was small, cold, and too bright — the kind of place that made you feel like you’d done something wrong even if you hadn’t.

Isla sat at a metal table, her jacket wrapped tightly around her. Her jacket still smelled faintly of antiseptic, and there were dried stains on her sleeves — reminders of the night she couldn’t shake off.

A clock ticked on the wall. Too loud. Too slow.

She looked toward the door, her voice hesitant. “Can I call someone? Just to let them know I’m here?”

They let her use the station phone. A younger officer passing by outside glanced in, then nodded. “You’ll get a call, ma’am. Just wait a few minutes.”

She nodded, trying to hold on to that small comfort — one call. She already knew who she’d try first.

Her fingers hovered over the dial. Calling her mother would mean tears, panic, too many questions. So she dialed Clara instead.

No answer.

She tried again. Still nothing. She was taken back to the interrogation room.

The door opened, and the same two officers from the hospital walked in. The woman — Officer Blake, her badge read — set a cup of water in front of Isla. The man leaned against the wall, notebook already open.

“Miss Reyes,” Blake said, her voice calm but tired. “We just want to go over everything again, okay?”

Isla nodded, fingers clasped so tightly the knuckles turned white. “I already told you. I found him on the road. There were people, but no one—no one helped.”

The male officer looked up. “You didn’t know the victim?”

“No,” Isla said quickly. “I’d never seen him before.”

“Then why bring him to the hospital yourself?”

Her throat tightened. “Because he was dying,” she said softly. “The ambulance wasn’t coming fast enough.”

The man exchanged a glance with Blake. “And the driver who helped you — what’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” Isla said. “He stopped when I waved him down. He didn’t say anything, just helped me get him in the car.”

“Do you remember the license plate?”

She shook her head. “It was dark. I didn’t—” her voice broke a little “—I didn’t think about that.”

The man sighed and wrote something down. The sound of the pen scratching paper filled the silence. Isla’s pulse thudded in her ears.

The door opened again. This time, someone new stepped in — a tall man in plain clothes, his badge clipped to his belt. He had the kind of face that didn’t need to raise its voice to be taken seriously.

“Detective Rowen,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Mind if I sit?”

Isla shook her head, unsure if she could speak.

He sat across from her, folding his hands. “You’ve had a rough night, I imagine.”

She gave a weak laugh. “You could say that.”

Rowen watched her quietly for a moment. “The man you brought in — he’s been identified. His name is Xavier Ashford.”

The name meant nothing. Isla frowned slightly. “I don’t— I’ve never heard of him.”

Rowen nodded slowly, as if testing her reaction. “He’s the CEO of Ashford Enterprises. Billionaire. Makes the news sometimes.”

She blinked, her thoughts tripping over each other. “Wait—billionaire?”

He studied her. “That’s right. Which is why we’re trying to understand how someone like him ended up on foot in a quiet neighborhood at night. And how you happened to be there.”

“I told you, I just found him,” Isla said, her voice cracking. “I was walking home. I heard a crash. That’s it.”

Rowen leaned back, unreadable. “You understand why this looks strange, right? No witnesses have stepped forward, no car fragments, no dashcam footage. Just you, a stranger, and a missing driver.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Isla’s voice rose before she caught herself. “Please, I was only trying to help.”

The detective’s tone softened. “I know. But sometimes good intentions get tangled in bad timing.”

Her breath came unevenly. She looked down at her hands — still stained faintly red beneath her nails — and felt her stomach twist.

Hours passed in fragments after that. More questions. More waiting. The clock crept past 5 a.m., and Isla’s answers grew smaller, quieter. Every word felt like proof she didn’t have.

When morning light seeped through the blinds, the detective returned. “The hospital called,” he said. “Ashford made it through the night. He’s stable.”

The breath Isla didn’t realize she was holding escaped her in a shaky sigh. “Thank God.”

When the questioning finally ended, the detective closed his file with a quiet sigh. “You’re free to go, Miss Reyes. We may follow up if we need more details.”

“Just like that?” she asked, voice brittle with exhaustion.

“Just like that.”

He stood, but hesitated at the door. “You did the right thing, Miss Reyes. Even if it didn’t feel like it tonight.”

Isla just nodded, her mind fogged. “Can I use the phone now?” she asked.

Officer Blake gestured toward a desk near the exit. “Go ahead.”

Her hands shook as she dialed Clara’s number again. It rang once. Twice. Then—

“Hello?” Clara’s voice came through, groggy but sharp with worry.

“Clara,” Isla breathed, relief breaking through her chest. “I’m at the police station. They— I had to give a statement about an accident.”

“What? You’re where?” Clara’s voice snapped awake. “Stay there. I’m coming.”

By the time Isla hung up, the weight in her chest felt a little lighter — not gone, but bearable.

Less than an hour later, Clara rushed into the station, hair pulled back, her coat thrown over pajamas. “Are you okay?” she asked the moment she saw her.

“I think so,” Isla whispered.

Clara wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her outside.

By the time Isla stepped outside, the sun was pale and cold against her face. The city felt wrong — too bright for how heavy her body felt. They caught a bus home, her reflection flickering in the window beside empty seats. Her thoughts were loud, circling one name over and over. Xavier Ashford.

By the time she reached her apartment, Clara was pacing the living room in her pajamas, worry etched across her face.

“Where the hell have you been?” she blurted, rushing to her. “I called you all night!"

Isla’s voice cracked. “I lost my phone.”

“Lost your—Isla, look at you.” Clara grabbed her shoulders. “You’re freezing.”

Inside, the warmth of the apartment felt almost cruel. Isla sank into the couch, explaining everything in halting fragments — the cake, the accident, the hospital, the police. Clara listened, stunned. When Isla finished, her friend exhaled sharply and shook her head.

“You should’ve minded your business,” she muttered. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I know,” Isla said softly. “But I couldn’t just walk away.”

Clara sighed and went to the kitchen. The smell of eggs and toast filled the air. She set a plate in front of Isla, who only stared at it. Eventually, exhaustion won. She lay down on the couch, still in her clothes, and she finally let herself fall asleep.

Hours passed.

The sound of knocking woke Clara first. Firm, steady knocks — not the kind you ignore. She opened the door a few inches, blinking against the late afternoon light.

A man in a dark suit stood on the porch. Broad shoulders. Earpiece. Every inch of him screamed bodyguard.

“Yes?” Clara said warily.

“Isla Reyes?” the man asked, voice clipped but polite. “Mr. Ashford would like to see you.”

Clara frowned. “She’s asleep. Who are you exactly?”

The man held up an ID badge embossed with the Ashford Enterprises logo. “I was sent to escort her.”

Clara crossed her arms. “She’s been through enough. Whatever this is can wait.”

“I’m afraid it’s urgent,” the man said. His tone stayed calm, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Mr. Ashford requested her personally.”

Behind Clara, Isla stirred. She pushed herself up, her head foggy, hair a tangled mess. “Clara?” she mumbled. “What’s going on?”

Clara turned. “Some guy says a Mr. Ashford wants to see you.”

Isla blinked, stepping closer. The bodyguard looked at her, his expression unreadable.

“Miss Reyes,” he said. “There’s a car waiting outside. Mr. Ashford would like to speak with you in person.”

The world seemed to tilt for a second. The man from the road — the billionaire who’d nearly died — wanted to see her?

Her pulse quickened. Fear, confusion, disbelief — all tangled together. “Why?” she asked quietly.

The bodyguard didn’t answer. “Please, ma’am. It’s better if he explains himself.”

Isla’s mouth went dry as Clara’s hand brushed her arm — a quiet warning. Just when she thought everything was over,life reminded her she wasn’t free yet.

Clara closed the door after the bodyguard left, turning to Isla with a look halfway between disbelief and panic.

“Please tell me you’re not actually thinking of going with that man,” she said. “He looks like he could snap a neck just by thinking about it.”

Isla rubbed her forehead. “Clara, he works for Xavier Ashford. I can’t just ignore him.”

“Yes, you can,” Clara shot back. “It’s called staying alive.”

“Clara,” Isla said, trying to sound braver than she felt, “I’m going. You’re coming with me.”

Clara blinked. “Excuse me? Why am I getting kidnapped too?”

“You’re not getting kidnapped,” Isla muttered, already pulling on her jacket. “You’re making sure I don’t.”

Clara groaned but started changing anyway. “Unbelievable. You save one billionaire and suddenly we’re starring in Taken 4: The Broke Roommates.”

Despite the nerves clawing at her chest, Isla laughed — just once, short and shaky. “Then let’s at least look decent for our ransom photo.”

They dressed quickly, both moving on autopilot — no makeup, plain clothes, hair tied back in messy knots. When the knock came again, Clara flinched and whispered, “This is how horror movies start.”

“Then stay close,” Isla said quietly, opening the door. “We’ll survive the first act together.”

The drive was quiet, except for the steady hum of the tires against the road. Isla sat in the back seat beside Clara, who hadn’t stopped fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve since they left the apartment. The city outside looked washed out — gray buildings, morning light, streets still wet from the night’s rain.

The bodyguard didn’t say much. Every so often, he spoke into a small earpiece, his voice low and professional. The car itself felt too clean, too expensive for them to belong in. Isla kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, her thoughts running circles around the same question: Why would a man like Xavier Ashford want to see her?

When the car finally turned into a gated compound, she realized it wasn’t an ordinary hospital. The sign at the entrance read St. Regis Private Medical Wing — a place she’d only ever seen in news reports about politicians and CEOs.

Inside, the air was almost too quiet. White walls, polished floors, the faint scent of disinfectant that somehow smelled expensive. Nurses moved in soft shoes, speaking in lowered voices. Clara reached for Isla’s hand as the bodyguard led them through a glass corridor.

“Are you sure about this?” Clara whispered.

“No,” Isla said honestly.

At the end of the hall stood a single guarded door. The bodyguard spoke briefly to someone at the desk, then turned to Isla. “He’s expecting you. Your friend can wait here.”

Clara’s grip tightened. “She’s not going in alone.”

The man hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Fine. But please, no interruptions.”

The door opened with a soft click.

The room was spacious, filled with quiet machines and filtered sunlight. Xavier Ashford sat propped against the pillows, pale but alert, his arm hooked to an IV. Even bruised and bandaged, there was something composed about him — the kind of calm that came from power, not peace.

When Isla stepped inside, his gaze lifted to her immediately. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“Miss Reyes,” he said, his voice low, steady. “You came.”

She swallowed. “Your bodyguard said you wanted to see me.”

“I did.” He gestured lightly to the chair beside the bed. “Please. Sit.”

She hesitated but obeyed. Clara stayed by the door, arms folded, eyes wary.

For a few seconds, there was only the soft rhythm of the monitor. Then Xavier spoke again. “You saved my life.”

“I just did what anyone would do,” Isla said.

He gave the faintest smile — not disbelief, but something close to it. “You’d be surprised how few people stop to help.”

Isla didn’t know what to say, so she looked down at her hands. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Xavier studied her for a moment. “Do you know who I am?”

“I do now,” she said quietly. “The police told me.”

“And yet you didn’t recognize me that night?”

She frowned slightly. “It was dark. You were bleeding. I wasn’t exactly thinking about that.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. “Where do you live, Miss Reyes?”

She blinked. “Why does that matter?”

“Curiosity,” he said, his tone almost casual. “You were in the right place at the right time. I find that interesting.”

Isla shifted in her seat. “I live on the south side. Near Bellview Street.”

“And you work?”

She hesitated. “I… do deliveries. Sometimes help at a bakery. Nothing permanent.”

Clara shot her a quick look, silently warning her to keep it short.

Xavier leaned back, his expression unreadable. “You’re not from money.”

It wasn’t a question, but it felt like one.

“No,” Isla said quietly.

He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself. “You mentioned another person that night — the driver who helped you.”

“Yes,” Isla said, relieved to change the subject. “He stopped when I waved him down. I don’t know his name. He just disappeared after we reached the hospital.”

Xavier’s jaw tensed slightly. “Convenient.”

Her pulse quickened. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

“I’m saying,” he replied evenly, “that I like to understand things fully. Especially when they involve me.”

Clara took a step forward. “She didn’t do anything wrong. She risked her life to help you.”

His eyes flicked toward her — sharp, assessing — then softened almost imperceptibly. “I know,” he said. “And I’m grateful.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not hostile. Isla shifted in her chair, unsure if she should stand or stay. “If that’s all, I should probably go,” she said softly. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She rose, smoothing her jacket nervously.

“Aria, wait-” Xavier said.

Isla froze. The word didn’t make sense at first — like she’d misheard it. She turned slowly. “...What did you call me?”

Xavier blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You said Aria,” she repeated, her voice quiet but firm. “That’s… not my name.”

A flicker of something — recognition, maybe regret — crossed his face before he masked it with a faint smile. “I did? Sorry. Must’ve mixed something up.”

Isla frowned slightly, her confusion deepening. “Mixed up how? Do I… remind you of someone?”

He hesitated just long enough to make her heart pick up speed. Then, smoothly, “You just look familiar. I’ve been in and out of consciousness — painkillers, maybe.”

She didn’t believe him, not entirely. But she couldn’t find the right words to press further.

“It’s fine,” she murmured instead. “I should go.”

“I owe you,” he said quietly, as if her confusion hadn’t happened. “You saved my life. That isn’t something I take lightly.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Isla said, still distracted by the echo of that name.

“I disagree,” Xavier replied, calm and deliberate — his eyes still studying her, as though the answer to something he needed lay right there in her face.

He reached for a notepad on the side table, scribbled something, and tore off a small card. “If you ever need anything — call this number. Day or night.”

She stared at it but didn’t move to take it. “Why would I need—”

“I insist,” he said, tone quiet but firm. “Think of it as… insurance.”

Isla hesitated, then reached out. The paper felt heavy in her palm, like more than it should have been.

Xavier’s gaze lingered on her — too long, too intent. “You remind me of someone,” he said softly.

Her heartbeat stumbled. “Who?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Someone I used to know.” His eyes flickered briefly — almost distant. “Aria.”

The name hit her like a cold draft. Isla didn’t know why, but it made her uneasy. “I should go,” she said, slipping the card into her pocket.

“Of course.”

As she turned toward the door, he added, “I’m relocating you. Temporarily.”

Isla stopped. “Relocating?”

“I have apartments available across the city. My assistant will show you a few options. It’s safer than where you are now.”

Clara spoke up, her voice sharp. “She’s not moving anywhere.”

Xavier’s tone remained calm, unbothered. “Consider it a thank-you. Rent-free. You can refuse if you want, but I’d advise against it.”

Isla’s instinct said to decline immediately — but then she felt Clara’s discreet pinch at her arm. When she turned, Clara’s expression said it all: We can’t afford to say no.

“Alright,” Isla murmured. “Just for a while.”

Xavier nodded. “Good.” He pressed a button by his bed. Within seconds, the same bodyguard appeared at the door.

“Show Miss Reyes the properties,” Xavier said. “And make sure she gets home safely afterward.”

The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Isla managed a small, uncertain smile. “Thank you, Mr. Ashford.”

“Xavier,” he corrected.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you… Xavier.”

He watched her leave, the door closing softly behind her.

For a long moment after they were gone, Xavier sat in silence, eyes fixed on the empty space where she had stood. The calm in his expression slowly shifted — curiosity hardening into something sharper.

“She looks just like her,” he said quietly.

The bodyguard reentered a minute later. “Sir?”

Xavier didn’t look up. “Find out everything about her. Where she lives, who she knows, what she’s hiding. Discreetly.”

The bodyguard nodded once. “Yes, Mr. Ashford.”

When he was alone again, Xavier leaned back against the pillow, his jaw tight. Outside, the city moved on — unaware that one small act of kindness had just tied two strangers to each other in ways neither of them yet understood.

The taxi pulled away and Isla’s exhaustion hit her like a wave. She just wanted sleep — real sleep — the kind where the world stopped demanding something from her.

But as she and Clara turned the corner toward their building… they both stopped dead.

All their belongings — suitcases, laundry baskets, even Clara’s pink vanity mirror — were dumped on the sidewalk like trash.

“What the—” Clara blinked, jaw dropping. “Is this a joke?”

Isla’s stomach knotted. “No. No, no, no…”

The landlord stood by the door, arms crossed and smug. “I waited three hours. You’re late on rent again. You’re out.”

“We’re late two days," Isla shot back, panic rising like fire in her throat. “My sister is still in the hospital. We just— we just got back from seeing her!”, She lied.

“The same way you haven't paid three months. That’s not my problem,” he snapped. “I’ve been patient long enough. You can collect the rest after you pay what you owe.”

Clara stepped forward like she was two seconds from throwing hands. “You can’t do this!”

But he shrugged, already turning away. “Already did.”

Clara muttered curses under her breath, kicking the nearest suitcase. Isla pressed her palms to her eyes, fighting the burn of tears. Not here. Not now.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered.

Clara froze — then a slow grin spread across her face.

“Actually… I know exactly what we’re going to do.”

Isla narrowed her eyes. “Clara.”

“No, listen.” Clara grabbed her shoulders, excitement bubbling despite the chaos. “Xavier already offered. A free apartment. A billionaire’s apartment. With real floors and real hot water that doesn’t smell like rust.”

“That was just him being… grateful,” Isla argued. “I’m not going to mooch off someone I barely know.”

“You saved his life, genius.”

“That doesn’t mean he owes me anything!”

“It means,” Clara said, pointing at their scattered belongings, “we don’t sleep on the sidewalk tonight.”

Silence stretched between them — loud, humiliating, and cold.

Isla looked at their life on the concrete — clothes that weren’t new, bags that had been reused too many times. Her chest ached. Pride was a luxury she couldn’t afford anymore.

“Fine,” she whispered. “We’ll take the apartment.”

Clara grinned in victory. “Excellent decision.”

“But just until we get back on our feet,” Isla added quickly.

“Mm-hmm. Sure. Temporary. Totally.”

Clara was already waving down the nearest rideshare. Isla took one last look at everything they owned.

This wasn’t a choice. It was survival.

And with clenched teeth and a shaking breath — she made the call.

The apartment tour started with too much silence.

The bodyguard — the same one from the hospital — led them through a building so polished it didn’t feel real. His shoes made no sound on the marble floors. Every surface gleamed. Even the air smelled expensive.

Clara leaned close to Isla as the elevator doors slid open. “You know what this place reminds me of? The kind of building that has more security cameras than people.”

“Don’t start,” Isla whispered back, her nerves already fraying.

“I’m just saying,” Clara muttered, eyes darting to the ceiling. “If someone sneezes here, ten guards probably check the footage.”

The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. The bodyguard motioned for them to follow, his tone professional. “This unit is fully furnished. Mr. Ashford wanted you to have options.”

The door opened into a space that looked like it had been pulled from a lifestyle magazine — soft gray walls, glass furniture, and a view of the skyline that made the city look cleaner than it was.

Clara’s jaw went slack. “Oh. My. God. This place has a kitchen island. And not the kind that doubles as a laundry table.”

Isla barely heard her. She stood near the window, looking out over the glass and steel below. It didn’t feel like her life. It didn’t even feel like her city anymore.

“It’s too much,” she murmured.

Clara turned, already halfway in love with the apartment. “Too much is kind of the point, isn’t it? You saved a billionaire. Let the man buy you nice countertops.”

“Clara—”

“We were kicked out,” Clara interrupted. “Unless you’ve been hiding a trust fund somewhere, we’re taking the apartment.”

The bodyguard didn’t comment, though the faintest trace of amusement flickered across his face. “There are two other units, if you’d like to compare.”

“Do any of them come with a conscience?” Isla muttered.

Clara nudged her. “We’ll take this one.”

He nodded once, producing a small folder. “The paperwork’s already prepared. You can move in immediately.”

Of course it was.

They signed. They moved. And for a few hours, things almost felt simple — too simple.

By afternoon, Clara was humming to herself as she unpacked their few boxes, already claiming the larger bedroom. “You realize we can’t tell anyone this was free, right? My mother will think I joined a cult.”

Isla managed a small laugh but couldn’t shake the weight in her chest. Every sound in the apartment felt amplified — the hum of the fridge, the quiet thud of her footsteps, the faint echo from the vents.

Around dusk, she stepped into the hallway and froze. A small black camera sat tucked in the corner above the door — the kind she’d never noticed before.

“Probably for security,” she told herself. But when she turned back inside, the phone on the counter rang once. Just once. Then silence.

Her pulse jumped.

She crossed the room, staring at the receiver. Nothing. No missed call, no blinking light. Clara emerged from the bedroom, holding a stack of folded shirts. “What’s wrong?”

“Phone rang,” Isla said. “Then stopped.”

Clara shrugged. “Maybe wrong number.”

But Isla wasn’t convinced. And later, when she stepped out to grab something from the lobby, the driver waiting outside had already greeted her by name.

That night, Clara fell asleep instantly — exhaustion and relief winning over suspicion. Isla stayed up. The apartment was too quiet, and quiet had started to mean danger.

She sat on the couch, staring at the city lights below, trying to convince herself this was a good thing — safety, stability, a place that didn’t leak when it rained. But all she could think about was Xavier Ashford’s face when he said her name. No — not her name. Aria.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

She almost didn’t answer.

Then she did.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then: “You didn’t save my number.”

Xavier’s voice. Calm. Low. Too composed for this late hour.

Isla sat up straighter. “I didn’t know it was yours.”

“I gave you my card,” he said, and she could hear the faint smile in his tone. “Most people would’ve used it by now.”

“I’m not most people.”

“I noticed.”

The silence stretched, taut and deliberate. She could hear the faint hum of machines in the background — he was still in the hospital.

“I wanted to make sure you settled in,” he said at last. “Is the apartment to your liking?”

“It’s… nice,” she said carefully. “A little too nice.”

“You deserve comfort.”

Her laugh came out hollow. “You don’t even know me.”

“That’s what I’m trying to change.”

Something in his voice made her pulse quicken — not fear, exactly, but a kind of pressure, like she was being studied through the phone.

He asked more questions, his tone almost casual: if Clara was with her, if she planned to keep working at the bakery, if she walked home alone often. Isla tried to keep her answers short, light, unbothered.

But every word felt like a thread being pulled.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Isla,” he said finally.

“I’m not,” she lied.

Another pause. Then, quietly: “Good. Because I meant what I said — if you ever need anything, call me. Day or night.”

“Right,” she said. “Like a billionaire’s emergency hotline.”

That drew a soft, genuine laugh from him — the first real warmth she’d heard in his voice. “You might be surprised how often people do call me for that.”

“Then I’ll try not to add to the list.”

“Do what you must,” he murmured. “Goodnight, Isla.”

The line clicked dead.

For a long time, she didn’t move. Just stared at the phone in her hand, the screen fading to black.

Across the city, Xavier sat in his hospital room, a file open on his desk. Inside were photos — some printed, some digital — of Isla. At work. On the street. A few grainy shots from before she’d even reached the hospital that night.

He flipped through them slowly, stopping at one. Her head turned just so, hair falling across her face. She looked exactly like Aria.

The resemblance was too precise to ignore. The same eyes. The same quiet defiance.

His bodyguard — the older one, Rourke — stood near the window, arms crossed. “Sir, with respect, we’ve seen coincidences before. This isn’t proof she’s her.”

Xavier didn’t look up. “No,” he said softly. “But it’s something.”

“Then what do you want done?”

“Keep watching,” Xavier said. “But stay invisible.”

Rourke hesitated. “And if she’s not her?”

Xavier’s gaze lingered on the photo. “Then I’ll decide what to do when I’m sure.”

Outside, rain began to fall again — light at first, then heavier, streaking the glass like quiet warnings.

Back in the apartment, Isla stepped onto the balcony, letting the wind pull at her hair. The city lights glittered below, sharp and distant.

Somewhere out there, she knew, he was thinking about her. And though she couldn’t explain why, she felt it — like a thread tightening between them, invisible but real.

Neither of them knew yet how deep that thread would go, or how much it would cost to follow it. But it had already started to pull.