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.

The rest of the day passed in a quiet blur.

I buried myself in tasks, scheduling, emailing, typing notes from a meeting I barely remembered being in. I moved slower than usual, but I was efficient. The pain in my hand pulsed like a reminder I couldn't ignore, and the limp in my step flared with every move, but I kept going. I always did.

Sebastian hadn't said much after patching me up. Just handed me a bottle of water and returned to his office, closing the door behind him like he needed the space to breathe. Maybe I did too.

The meeting with the Paragon Group was scheduled for four o'clock, and I spent the early afternoon prepping materials and confirming arrivals. They were a high-profile client, known for being sharp and impossible to please. I'd seen Sebastian rip into unprepared teams before, today was not the day to be sloppy.

So I worked.

Until just before three, when Sebastian emerged from his office.

His eyes swept the outer area of the executive floor before landing on me. "Isla," he said, calm but direct. "You're not attending the Paragon meeting."

I blinked. "What?"

"You're not coming."

"I'm your assistant. Of course I'm coming."

"No," he said, stepping closer. "You're not. You're exhausted. You're hurt. You're going to my office, and you're going to rest."

I opened my mouth, already forming my protest. "I can still..."

He tilted his head slightly, not unkind, but firm.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"I'm fine, Sebastian."

He didn't blink. "That's the third time today you've said that, and you haven't been right once."

I looked around. A few nearby interns were pretending not to listen, but I could feel the attention shift toward us like static. Embarrassment prickled beneath my skin.

"I'm not going to lie down in your office like some fragile..."

"Yes you're going to!"

That voice. Commanding. Quiet, but cutting straight through my defenses like a knife. My protests died in my throat.

"Go," he said again, more gently now.

"That's an order."

I wanted to hate the way my body responded. The way my feet moved before my pride caught up. But I didn't fight it. Not really. Because maybe I did want to lie down. Maybe I wanted just an hour of silence in a place that didn't smell like him. Marcus.

Sebastian's office was warmer than the rest of the building. Quiet. Private. I stepped inside slowly, feeling like an imposter trespassing into something sacred. The door clicked softly shut behind me.

The room was sleek, modern, like the man who owned it. The couch by the far window looked far too luxurious to be used for anything but decoration, but I made my way toward it and sat.

For a few minutes, I just stared at the skyline beyond the glass. New York stretched endlessly outside, glittering beneath a gray sky that mirrored the heaviness in my chest.

I didn't mean to lie down.

I meant to sit. Just rest my eyes.

But the moment my head hit the armrest, my body gave in. Muscles loosened. Shoulders sagged. My bandaged hand rested on my stomach, and I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

I wasn't sure when I fell asleep.

But I did.

*****

I woke to the soft click of the door.

For a second, I didn't know where I was. The couch beneath me was too soft. The room was too quiet. Then I smelled the faint hint of cedar and something sharper-Sebastian's cologne.

I sat up quickly, disoriented. The skyline was darker now. Evening.

"You slept," his voice said from behind me. Not accusing. Just observing.

I turned. He was standing just inside the room, holding two mugs.

"I...God, I didn't mean to." I rubbed my eyes with my good hand. "What time is it?"

"Six-thirty."

I stared. "I was supposed to return after the meeting..."

"I didn't call you back." He handed me one of the mugs. "Chamomile."

I took it, fingers curling around the warmth, muttering a quick thanks before I could think of a reason not to collect it.

"You don't have to do all this."

"Maybe not," he said. "But I want to."

I looked at him over the rim of the mug. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, jacket off, tie loosened. He looked tired too, though in a different way. The kind of tiredness that comes from carrying too much and telling no one.

"How did the meeting go?"

He sat on the edge of his desk, facing me. "They want us to pitch a full rebrand by next Friday. Ridiculous deadline."

I smiled faintly. "You'll do it anyway."

He returned the smile, but it faded quickly. "They asked where you were."

My stomach tightened. "What did you say?"

"That you were handling something important." He sipped his tea, eyes watching me over the rim now. "They didn't need to know more than that."

A beat of silence stretched between us.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, voice careful.

"No," I said quickly. Too quickly. "There's nothing to talk about."

He didn't argue. Just nodded once. "Then you don't have to."

I hated how much that meant to me. That he didn't push. That he just... let me be.

"I should go," I said, setting the mug down and standing. My legs still felt sore, and I winced slightly.

He noticed.

"Maybe not yet," he said.

I glanced up at him, and for a moment, I saw something flicker behind his eyes. A question. A warning. Something unspoken again.

"Sebastian..." I hesitated, my voice quieter now. "You shouldn't get involved."

"Too late," he said softly.

I shook my head. "This isn't your problem."

"You are my problem."

That startled me. I looked at him fully now, and he didn't flinch.

"You work for me," he went on. "You keep this place running when everyone else would've crumbled by now. And you walk in here every day like you're not bleeding out of places no one can see. So yeah, Isla. You're my problem. Whether you want to be or not."

I swallowed. My throat felt too tight.

"Don't say things like that," I whispered.

"Why?"

"Because I can't afford to believe them."

He stood then. Slowly. Stepping close enough that I had to tilt my chin to keep looking him in the eye.

"You don't have to believe it," he said. "Just... let yourself rest. Just once. Let someone else care."

I didn't answer.

But I didn't pull away either.

And maybe... maybe that was enough.

For now.

The apartment was too quiet.

No television. No music. Not even the soft hum of the refrigerator I used to notice when everything else was still. Just silence, and the unmistakable weight of it pressing against my chest.

Marcus was home.

I knew it the second I stepped into the building. The doorman wouldn't meet my eyes. The elevator attendant gave me a clipped nod and nothing else. Those were signs I'd learned to read long ago. Like the way our door creaked louder when my hands shook unlocking it.

I stepped inside and gently shut the door behind me. The rose was gone. So was the photo. The spot where they'd lain was clean now, too clean, like someone had scrubbed the memory away.

I took a breath.

Maybe he was asleep. Maybe I could shower, eat something small, and slip quietly into bed before...

"Where were you?"

His voice came from the living room. Steady. Calm. The kind of calm that was worse than rage.

I turned slowly.

Marcus stood near the window, one hand holding a glass of something amber-colored. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up. And he was smiling. That cold, polished smile that made my stomach churn.

"I stayed late at work," I said, as neutrally as I could manage. "There was a meeting."

He nodded like that explained everything. "Of course. A meeting. And then, what? Naptime in your boss's office?"

I froze.

He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I didn't sleep last night," I offered. "I was exhausted. He told me to rest."

"He told you."

"Yes."

The silence between us crackled.

"And you just... did what he said?"

I didn't respond. My heart was already hammering too loud. I should've lied better. I should've said I was in the archives. Or the restroom. Or literally anywhere else.

But I was tired of lying.

"He didn't do anything inappropriate," I added quickly. "He just wanted to help."

That was the wrong thing to say.

Marcus's smile sharpened.

"Help?" He set the glass down, too gently. "Do you think I don't know what this is?"

"What what is?"

He stepped closer. "The way you talk about him. The way you flinch when I come near you now. Like you think someone else will protect you. Like you've forgotten who takes care of you."

"No one takes care of me," I said, too quietly.

"What was that?"

I shook my head, backing up a step.

He grabbed my wrist.

Not hard. Not yet. But it was enough to make the fresh bandage sting.

"I saw your hand," he said. " You let him touch you, didn't you?"

"It was first aid, Marcus."

He twisted my wrist, slow and deliberate. I gasped.

"That's how it starts. The boss giving orders. The girl obeying. Don't play stupid with me, Isla."

"I'm not playing anything!" My voice cracked. "He doesn't even know..."

"Know what? That you're mine?" His face was closer now, breath hot and bitter. "That everything you are belongs to me?"

I yanked my arm back. "I'm not property!"

Something in his face changed.

His hand came across my cheek so fast I barely saw it.

The sound cracked through the room like thunder.

I stumbled back, crashing into the edge of the kitchen counter. My vision blurred. My cheek burned.

"I warned you," he said quietly. "I told you not to embarrass me."

I tasted blood.

"I didn't..."

The second hit came harder. My head snapped to the side, and I felt something pop in my lip. Warmth trickled down my chin.

"You think he's going to save you?" Marcus sneered. "Your precious boss? Think he'll come storming in to rescue you like some pathetic white knight?"

He grabbed my arm again and dragged me through the kitchen. I fought him, tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.

He shoved me onto the floor near the dining table. My knees hit tile.

"You don't sleep in another man's office," he snarled. "You don't take drinks from him. You don't let him see you."

My ribs screamed as his foot connected with my side.

I curled in, arms instinctively covering my head, too stunned to scream, too used to staying quiet.

"You listen to me," he growled, towering above me. "You don't forget who you belong to. You don't ever...ever...make me look weak."

I didn't reply.

There was nothing I could say.

So I stayed there, shaking. Bleeding. Silent.

Eventually, his breathing slowed. The rage seeped out of him like a fire dying without oxygen.

He stepped back, adjusted his cuff, and wiped his hands like I was something he needed to clean off.

"I'm going out," he said, like nothing happened. "By the time I get back, you better have remembered who you are."

The door slammed behind him a moment later.

I didn't move.

Couldn't.

I just lay there, cheek pressed to the cold tile, the copper taste of blood heavy in my mouth.

Something inside me cracked that night.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

But enough.