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.

I must've fallen asleep on the floor.

Or maybe I just blacked out for a while. Time passed differently when you were hurt, like your body no longer trusted the clock. When I opened my eyes, the light from the hallway had shifted. The apartment was dimmer, quieter. Still.

My ribs ached when I moved. My cheek throbbed in time with my pulse. I pulled myself up with shaky arms, crawled to the bathroom, and rinsed the blood from my lip with trembling hands.

I didn't cry.

I hadn't in hours.

There were small cuts along my arm, bruises blooming like ink stains across my skin. I dabbed antiseptic over them with what little was left in the cabinet and pressed gauze to my side where the bruise would turn deep purple by morning.

I was still holding the cloth when the door opened.

The slam was lighter this time.

No fury. No yelling. Just the heavy rhythm of his shoes against hardwood, the familiar sound of keys tossed on the table, and the soft clink of a half-empty glass being poured again.

He was calm now.

That was worse.

I didn't move from the bathroom doorway. Just stood there, one hand gripping the counter, the other pressing the cloth to my ribs. The mirror caught my reflection, smeared mascara, split lip, a cheek that was beginning to swell. I looked like someone else. Someone smaller.

His footsteps stopped behind me.

I didn't turn around.

"I shouldn't have done that," Marcus said softly. Not apologetically. Just like he was stating a fact.

I waited.

He came closer.

"You know how I get when I'm pushed." His voice was smooth now, almost gentle. "You shouldn't have lied to me, Isla."

I nodded once.

Not because I agreed. But because I wanted it to be over.

His hands came around my waist, fingers pressing lightly at first, then firmer. My body flinched under his touch, but he didn't notice. Or maybe he did and just didn't care.

"You're so quiet," he murmured, his mouth near my ear. "You used to talk to me."

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"I'm tired," I said.

"You can rest after," he whispered, his hands sliding under the hem of my shirt. "I need you tonight."

I didn't move. Didn't resist.

Because fighting never made it better.

Because silence was safer.

He turned me slowly, ignoring the hiss I couldn't hold back as my ribs protested. His fingers found the edge of the bandage on my wrist, peeled it back with lazy interest.

"You let him do this?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"He was helping."

Marcus didn't respond. He kissed the spot, softly, like that made it better, instead it made my skin crawl.

I didn't kiss him back.

I didn't meet his eyes.

I just let him touch me, mechanically, methodically, like I was something owed to him. Something he'd paid for and now expected to use. His lips trailed down my neck, his breath warm against skin that felt cold from the inside out.

When he lifted me onto the bathroom counter, I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out. My side flared in pain. He didn't notice. Or didn't care.

His fingers gripped my hips. His mouth pressed against mine with a hunger I didn't share. I closed my eyes and went somewhere else, somewhere distant and far away where my name didn't belong to him.

"Look at me," he said at one point, voice tight.

I did.

Because it was easier than what would happen if I didn't.

The counter was hard. My body screamed with every motion. My wrists trembled where he pinned them above my head. And still, I said nothing. Gave nothing. Not a sound. Not a plea. Just silence.

When it was over, he kissed my cheek like we were lovers.

Like it was love.

He didn't see the blood that smeared onto his collar.

He didn't ask if I was okay.

He zipped up, poured another drink, and wandered into the bedroom like.

Slowly the hours dragged by...the next day soon came and Marcus was out without even checking if I was fine or not.

I wore black.

Long sleeves. High collar. Slacks instead of a skirt because tights would cling too much to the cuts on my thighs. My blouse was loose, draped just enough to conceal the stiffness in my posture.

It took me twice as long to get dressed. My ribs flared every time I lifted my arms, and the bruises along my hips screamed with every step. But I moved like I was fine. I moved like nothing happened.

That was the trick, wasn't it?

Pretend long enough and it almost looked real.

I didn't look in the mirror before I left the apartment. I didn't need to. I could feel the way my body ached. I could still feel his breath against my skin. His hands. The weight of silence between us.

The ride to work blurred past me. I stared out the car window like the streets were unfamiliar, like I didn't walk this same path every weekday morning. People moved with purpose, talking, laughing, holding coffee cups like weapons of routine.

I envied them.

When I stepped into the building, I held my breath.

The lobby smelled like lemon polish and wealth. The floors gleamed, the glass elevators hummed quietly, and the security guard gave me the same polite nod he always did.

I nodded back.

The elevator ride was short. Too short.

By the time I stepped into the executive floor, I'd braced every part of myself. Shoulders squared. Eyes forward. Hands tucked into the sleeves of my blouse so no one would see the fresh bandage on my wrist or the blooming bruise just beneath it.

Sebastian's door was open.

He was inside, standing near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder. He didn't look at me right away, but I felt it the second he did.

His eyes were like a scalpel, quiet, sharp, dangerous when they lingered too long. And they lingered now.

"You're late," he said without turning around fully.

"Traffic," I replied smoothly, my voice steady.

He set the folder down on the edge of his desk, then finally turned to face me.

His gaze swept over me once.

I stood still, arms crossed lightly over my stomach, hiding the way my body leaned too heavily on one leg. I didn't flinch when his eyes narrowed. Didn't shift when he took a slow step forward.

"You look pale."

"I didn't sleep much."

"You never do."

There was a pause. Tension curled in the space between us, unspoken, taut.

Then his eyes flicked to my sleeves.

And stayed there.

"New blouse?" he asked.

"Old one. Just buried in the back of my closet."

"Strange choice for July."

I forced a soft smile. "It's cold in here."

Sebastian didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Just watched me like he was unraveling something thread by thread. I shifted slightly, turning toward my desk, hoping he'd let it go. But his voice followed me, low and quiet.

"Isla."

I stopped.

His tone wasn't sharp. It wasn't even cold. But it cut through me like glass anyway.

I turned just enough to look over my shoulder.

"Yes?"

He studied me for a long moment. Then, without warning, he said, "Tell me the truth."

My stomach twisted.

"About what?"

His jaw ticked. "Why you look like you've been running from something."

I blinked once. Twice.

"I'm not."

His eyes darkened. "You're a terrible liar."

I didn't answer.

Because he was right.

Sebastian stepped closer. Not invading, just... narrowing the space. His eyes flicked to my hands again. I resisted the urge to pull my sleeves down further.

"You weren't like this yesterday," he said.

"I was tired yesterday too."

"No. You were tired." His voice dropped slightly. "But not like this."

There was something in his tone that unsettled me, curiosity, yes, but more than that. Restraint. Controlled concern, like he wanted to ask more but knew I'd shut him out.

Because I would.

Because I had to.

"I'm fine," I said softly, the words like smoke. "Really."

Sebastian didn't believe me. I could tell.

But he didn't push.

Instead, he walked back to his desk, picked up the folder, and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, brief, but enough to send a jolt through my chest. I pulled away quickly.

"Review the financials on page five," he said, voice neutral again. "Then schedule a meeting with Parsons before noon."

I nodded, clutching the folder like it might anchor me.

And I left his office.

Because I couldn't afford to fall apart under that gaze. Not here. Not where silence had to be my armor.

Not when the bruises were still fresh beneath my sleeves.

Not when my body still remembered everything I didn't want it to.