I didn't sleep.

I lay curled beneath the weighted silence of Marcus's arm draped over my waist, my body still and breath shallow, afraid that even blinking too loudly might wake him. His breathing was heavy with the aftermath of bourbon and violence, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that mocked peace.

My cheek pulsed in time with my heartbeat. Every movement stung. But it wasn't the ache in my bones that kept me awake, it was the business card.

Sebastian Hale's name burned into my memory like a warning sign.

The morning light had barely begun to bleed through the curtains when I slipped out from under Marcus's arm. He stirred but didn't wake. I moved like I had a thousand times before: slowly, silently, like prey, ignoring the pain in my feet.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind me. I locked it.

Only then did I breathe.

The mirror was cruel.

Swollen lip. A red shadow creeping across my jaw. The faint beginnings of a bruise already blooming at my temple like a dark flower. I touched it carefully and flinched at the sting.

I reached for the concealer, the same way I did most mornings. It was a routine now. Just another step in becoming Isla Langford, the polished wife, the composed hostess, the woman whose pain lived beneath the surface.

But no amount of foundation could cover the truth: Marcus was escalating.

And now someone else was in the crosshairs.

I had to protect Sebastian. Even if he didn't know he was in danger. I wasn't capable of protecting myself but i don't want to drag anyone into my battles.

Even if he'd barely looked at me more than any other assistant.

Even if the only connection between us was a moment too long, a glance too sharp, a kindness too rare.

I scrubbed the thought from my mind. It didn't matter what Sebastian Hale had done-or hadn't done. What mattered was what Marcus thought he'd done. That was enough to get someone killed.

I wasn't going to get someone killed because of me.

By the time I stepped into the kitchen, the housekeeper was humming softly to herself, frying eggs and pretending not to notice the bruises that weren't quite hidden. I thanked her, took my breakfast in a to-go container, and left before Marcus stirred.

At the office, I kept my head down.

The receptionist gave me a polite smile. The security guard nodded. I smiled back, mechanical. They didn't know. They never did.

The elevator doors closed around me like a shield. My fingers trembled as I pressed the button for the 24th floor. Not from fear this time, but from the realization that the safest place for me today...was work.

Sebastian's floor was already humming with energy when I stepped out. Phones rang. Laptops clicked. The smell of roasted coffee clung to the air.

I moved quickly to my desk, booted my computer, and buried myself in reports. I was good at disappearing. It was one of my more valuable skills.

But halfway through organizing the quarterly investor notes, a shadow passed over my desk.

I didn't have to look up to know it was him.

"Langford," Sebastian said.

I glanced up. "Mr. Hale."

I stood up.

His expression didn't change, but his gaze lingered. Too long. Not with the softness of concern, but with the sharpness of noticing something was off.

"You're early," he said.

"I had work to catch up on."

His eyes dropped briefly to the side of my face. I'd done a good job. Not perfect. The makeup cracked slightly near my temple where the bruise ran deepest. He didn't mention it.

Instead, he nodded. "Conference room in ten. Bring the numbers for the Maxwell account."

"Yes, sir."

He turned and walked away, but I felt the air shift around me. Like something unsaid was circling. Watching. Waiting. I sat down back.

In the meeting, I kept to the edges of the room. Quiet. Efficient. Sebastian didn't look at me once after I handed him the notes. He was all business, composed, clear, intimidating in the way powerful men often are. But his fingers tapped twice against the table when I passed him the folder.

It wasn't a habit I'd seen before.

I filed it away.

Afterwards, he dismissed the others. But as I started to follow them out, his voice stopped me.

"Langford, stay a moment."

Did he notice the limp in my walk?

Was he still going to talk about the gala night?

I turned, slow and cautious.

The door clicked shut behind the last employee. Silence settled between us.

Sebastian didn't sit. He stood by the table, watching me, not intently, not suspiciously. But with that same quiet stillness I'd seen the night of the gala, when he followed me outside for air. Like he was waiting to see if I'd offer something unspoken.

I didn't.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes." I lied, smoothly.

A pause. Then, "You left something at the event."

My spine straightened. "I did?"

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit and pulled out a different card, one of mine. Not his.

My business contact, the one I'd given to a vendor that night.

Relief and panic mingled in my chest.

"I didn't want to assume," he said, offering it, his eyes carefully scanning through my features

I took it. Our fingers didn't touch, but they could have. And for the briefest second, I wondered if he'd meant for them to.

What was I thinking of...?

"Thank you," I said. "That was thoughtful."

He tilted his head. "Most people don't use cards anymore. You're old-fashioned."

"I like things that feel solid," I said before I could stop myself.

His eyes flicked to mine. "And safe?"

I swallowed. "Safe is a luxury."

I meant that. It was a luxury I can't afford.

Another silence. It stretched a little too long.

He finally looked away, adjusting his watch. "We'll be meeting with the Paragon Group tomorrow. Wear something that says we don't take no for an answer."

That was it? No comment on the bruise. No kindness. Just a subtle return to structure.

I started to feel I was hoping for too much.

I nodded. "Understood."

When I left, i tried really hard to not limp, I didn't glance back. But my heart was beating a little faster. Not from anything he'd said.

From what he hadn't.

He'd noticed. And he was choosing not to ask.

Or maybe...he was choosing to wait.

*****

Back at home, I moved like a ghost.

The card was gone from beneath the rug. Marcus had cleaned up. The shattered glass. The blood. The evidence.

But not the threat.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet. And that scared me.

Marcus barely spoke. Barely looked at me.

Which was worse than yelling.

It meant he was thinking.

And Marcus Langford only ever thought in one direction.

Control.

When he finally did speak, his words were slow. Calculated.

"I hear Hale's quite the strategist. Built his empire young."

I froze.

He didn't look at me. Just kept cutting his steak.

"I imagine a man like that knows exactly what he wants," he continued. "Doesn't waste time."

I forced my grip to loosen on the fork.

"I wouldn't know," I said, voice even. "I only take notes."

A smile curled his lips. Not kind. Knowing.

"I suppose we'll see, won't we?"

I pushed my meal away. I'd lost the appetite.

I excused myself shortly after, stomach churning. I made it to the bedroom, locked the door behind me, and sat on the edge of the bed, pulse hammering in my throat.

He was circling.

Not just me now.

Sebastian too.

And all I could do was wait.

Not for affection.

Not for help.

But for the moment Marcus made his move.

Because he would.

And when he did, someone wouldn't walk away.

I came back from work not quite long.

The apartment was quiet again.

Too quiet. And it oddly comforted me.

Marcus had gone out for a late meeting, whatever that meant...and for the first time in days, I could breathe without flinching.

I curled up on the velvet chaise in the corner of the bedroom, clutching a mug of tea I hadn't taken a sip from. The air was still, but my thoughts weren't. They rattled inside me, sharp and restless. I hadn't changed from my office wear. I wanted to relish the comforting silence this cage of a home gave me.

Sebastian's words echoed in the back of my mind like a warning bell I couldn't shut off.

Safe is a luxury.

I meant it when I said that. I just didn't realize how much it would stick.

The phone rang. I was startled.

I got a little bit too comfortable in the silence.

My stomach turned before I even looked. Only one person would use the landline.

I answered anyway. Because some ghosts don't stop calling no matter how much you try to fend them off.

"Hello?"

"Isla, darling." My mother's voice was sugar-dipped poison, warm and brittle in the same breath. "You sound tired."

Here we go again...

I pinched the bridge of my nose and held back the urge to say something that's definitely not polite.

"It's almost midnight." I said as I glanced at the ticking clock on the wall and realizing that I've been sitting and thinking to myself for quite a long time.

"Well, time doesn't matter when you need help," she said, a fluttery laugh following. "I wouldn't call if it wasn't important."

Here it comes...

"How much?" I asked, skipping the act.

A pause. She never called to check if I'm fine or if I need something...it's always when she needs something.

"Don't be like that," she said with a sigh. "It's just a little trouble at the club. A misunderstanding. They froze my account."

"Again?"

"I'll pay you back." she whined.

"You never do." I shot back.

"Isla."

"No, Mom. Not tonight."

I stood, the cold mug forgotten on the table, and began to pace. The walls of this penthouse apartment felt thinner every second she stayed on the line.

"I need real help," I snapped, voice shaking. "Not this. Not more withdrawals from a life I never asked for."

Another pause. Her tone cooled. "You think you're the only one with problems?"

I laughed, bitter, tired. "I'm married to a man who breaks bones when he's bored. You know it but you're doing nothing to help me. I lie to everyone I know. I hide bruises with expensive makeup and make excuses for bloodstains I didn't cause. And you, you want a bailout because you can't keep your hands off a poker table."

"Isla..."

"No. You don't get to guilt me. Not after selling me off to the highest bidder like I was a used car on clearance."

"That's not fair," she hissed. "You have everything. A beautiful home. A wealthy husband..."

"A monster."

Silence.

"Oh now you have nothing to say?"

And then, icily, "You always were dramatic. If you hated it so much, why don't you just leave?"

I froze.

She knew the answer. She knew damn well why.

"You made sure I couldn't," I whispered. "You tied me to him. You forged the debts, Mom. You let Marcus buy them out so I'd be his. You called it a rescue, but it was a sale. I was your way out."

"I did what I had to do," she snapped.

"No," I said, voice cold now. "You did what was easiest."

My hands trembled.

"You ruined me. You and dad and I'll never forgive you for the trauma you two caused me. I'm going to keep reminding u everyday."

She scoffed. "Oh, please. Don't be so dramatic. Everyone sacrifices something. At least you're taken care of."

I nearly dropped the phone.

"Taken care of?" I repeated. "You think being held like a prisoner is being taken care of? You think being hit is love? You think pretending to smile at galas while your husband threatens every man who glances my way is being taken care of?"

There was only silence on the other end.

"I'm done sending money," I said finally, steel in my voice. "Find another daughter."

She scoffed. "You'll regret that, Isla. When the world turns on you,and it will, don't come crawling back."

"I never crawled to you," I said. "You pushed me down and called it raising me. The world is already against me, the worst that could happen at this point is for me to be brutalized to a coma."

And then I hung up.

My hands were shaking. I went to get my coffee, hoping the cold caffeine will help steady my nerves.

The silence that followed was heavier than any scream. I hurled the cup across the room and watched it shatter.

I let myself cry. I cried out loud. Letting out every single pain I felt as my fingers dug into the skin of my laoso. It didn't solve anything. It didn't make me braver. But it was something real in a world where everything else was pretend.

I washed my face. Picked up the broken pieces of the cup, winced as a shard cut through my palm.Brushed my hair. Changed into pajamas that weren't silk, just cotton, just normal.

I wanted to feel normal, even if it was a lie.

When I finally stepped out of the bathroom, the apartment was still.

Until I saw it. My palm still throbbing in pain, I walked forward.

A single red rose lay on the bed.

My blood ran cold. The pain on my palm felt numb

Marcus didn't give flowers.

Not for birthdays. Not for apologies. Not ever.

But there it was, placed right in the center of the sheets. Perfect. Deliberate.

And tucked beneath its stem... was a photo.

Not just any photo.

It was me,standing outside Hale's office building earlier that morning. My head down. My limp just visible. And Sebastian...

Sebastian was just behind me in the frame, barely visible.

But enough.

Just enough to imply something.

Enough to burn.

On the back, in Marcus's sharp, deliberate handwriting, four words chilled me to the bone:

"Tell me the truth."

The picture dropped from my hand as my heart raced even faster.

I didn't sleep, again.

Not even for a second.

The rose stayed exactly where I left it, on the floor, beside the photo that made my skin crawl. I didn't dare pick either up. I didn't dare move much at all.

I sat in the living room, curled on the couch, staring at the door like it might swing open at any moment. My ears strained for footsteps, the clink of keys, the telltale shift of the elevator that meant Marcus was coming home.

But he never came.

Not that night. Not by dawn. Not even by the time I was supposed to get dressed and head to work.

I nearly didn't. A part of me wanted to stay frozen in that apartment, too numb to move and too scared to care. But another part of me-maybe the stronger part, or maybe just the part that still knew how to pretend, got up, took a shower, dressed in something muted, and left like nothing happened.

Except everything had.

The limp in my step was worse today. My muscles were sore from tension, and the bandage I hastily wrapped around my palm throbbed beneath the fabric of my glove. The cold bite of the morning air didn't help. I winced with every movement, but I didn't complain. I never did.

Hale Corp's glass doors opened like the gates to another world-a place where I didn't have to be a wife. Just an assistant, just Isla, just... tired.

I went about the day quietly, answering emails, organizing Sebastian's schedule, and avoiding mirrors. Every time I sat, I tried not to flinch. Every time I stood, I tried not to gasp. And every time I caught my reflection, I tried not to look too long.

I thought I was doing a good job hiding it.

Until I wasn't.

"Stop."

The word came sharp, firm, Sebastian's voice, slicing through my mental fog like a blade.

I looked up from my desk. He was standing in his office doorway, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me.

"I...sorry?"

He didn't reply right away. Just walked toward me, eyes dropping briefly to the hand I instinctively hid behind my skirt. Then to my feet. The way I stood. The way I didn't lean on one side.

I stiffened.

"Come inside. Now!" He said.

"I'm fine," I lied.

"You're limping. And your hand.." he paused, jaw tight.

"You're bleeding through your bandage."

I looked down.

Damn it.

I hadn't even realized the gauze was soaked through. I moved to pull my sweater sleeve lower, but he stepped closer, too fast.

I flinched.

Not dramatically. Not noticeably, I hoped.

But enough.

He stilled. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I didn't say you would."

"You didn't have to."

The air between us shifted. I didn't want this. I didn't want him seeing too much. Knowing too much. Because knowledge made things dangerous,for both of us.

Still, I followed him into his office. Slowly, reluctantly.

The door closed behind me with a soft click that felt deafening.

Sebastian motioned to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."

"I'm okay..."

"Sit!"

There was no softness in his tone this time. It wasn't a request.

I sat.

He disappeared into the private lounge attached to his office and returned seconds later with a first aid kit.

"This really isn't necessary," I tried again, but my voice lacked conviction.

"You need help," he said, kneeling in front of me before I could argue again. "Let me help."

My breath caught as he took my hand. Gently. Carefully. Like he thought I might shatter if he held on too tight.

And maybe I would.

"I can do it myself," I said, voice shaking.

"I'm already here."

He peeled the soaked gauze away. His brows furrowed as he saw the deep cut.

"This wasn't from an accident," he muttered.

I said nothing.

He cleaned it in silence, hands steady, touch warm. I didn't realize I was watching him so closely until he looked up...his eyes meeting mine.

We froze. Just for a second.

It was stupid. I hated that it made my heart beat louder.

His eyes searched mine like he was trying to ask a question without words. I didn't have an answer even if he had.

"I see everything, Isla," he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. "Even when you try so hard to hide it."

"You shouldn't," I murmured, finally looking away. "You really shouldn't."

"Why?"

I hesitated. "Because it makes things worse. For you."

He placed a clean bandage over the wound and taped it in place with a care that made my throat tighten.

"I'm not afraid of worse."

"Well, I am."

I regretted saying it the moment it left my lips. Because it made me sound weak. And I hated sounding weak in front of him.

But instead of pity, he nodded...like he understood. Maybe he did.

When he finished, he sat back on his heels. "And your limp?"

"I'll manage."

"That's not what I asked."d

I hesitated. My mouth opened, then closed. "Just a fall." I lied. I can't tell him all my injuries are from broken cups.

His jaw tensed. "You fell. And cut your hand. And you're still walking like that."

"I'm fine."

He stood. The silence swelled again, heavy and full of things I couldn't say and he wasn't allowed to.

"Next time you're hurt," he said, walking to the door and opening it, "come to me first."

I paused in the doorway. I wanted to tell him there's a probability I might not come to him if there's a next time.

And I shouldn't have turned around. But I did.

Our eyes met again. Just briefly.

Just enough.

Something unspoken hovered in the air between us. Something quiet. Something fragile.

I didn't name it.

Neither did he.