She was drowning in voices.
Laughter.
Whispers.
Mocking tones that didn't belong anywhere near her name.
The ballroom lights flickered like lightning, turning faces into shadows. Sharp, cruel silhouettes that leaned too close.
"Interesting choice, Nathan."
"Amusing."
"Good luck keeping this one."
Hands reached for her, pulling, clutching — cold fingers around her wrists, her dress, her shoulders.
She twisted, trying to break free, but the room warped around her.
She could see her parents.
Standing at the center of it all.
Not proud.
Not smiling.
Angry.
Her mother's eyes were cold, sharp.
Her father, jaw clenched, disappointment heavy on his face.
Nick stood behind them, arms folded, shaking his head.
"Elena… how could you?"
"You've embarrassed us."
"We expected better. But you've ruined the name of our family."
She tried to run, but her feet wouldn't move.
The walls closed in.
The music twisted.
Her breath vanished.
Someone whispered behind her—
"Everything is under control."
She spun—
And woke up with a gasp.
---
The nightmare snapped away, but the panic didn't.
Her chest heaved, her vision swimming in the soft morning blur. She reached instinctively for the edge of her mattress—
And the last real memory before everything went dark flashed sharply:
Nathan at her doorway.
Still in last night's clothes.
Eyes bloodshot.
Jaw tight with fear.
His arms wrapping around her.
Her knees giving out.
The world tilting—
And then nothing.
Her breath stuck in her throat.
Slowly, she realized her head wasn't on a pillow at all.
Warmth.
Solid.
Steady.
A lap.
She blinked hard, forcing her eyes to focus, and lifted her head by a fraction—
And froze. Nathan?
Nathan was sitting against the headboard, slumped slightly, his fingers still tangled loosely in her hair as if he'd fallen asleep mid-stroke.
His head rested against the wall, posture exhausted beyond words.
Still in last night's clothes —
wrinkled now,
tie gone,
top button undone,
sleeves pushed back as though he'd yanked them up in frustration.
Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes.
And his expression—
Not polished.
Not composed.
Not the man from the gala.
He looked wrecked.
Human.
Worried.
Real.
And somehow that made everything worse.
Because how could someone who looked this afraid for her…
someone who hadn't even left her side…
someone whose hand still held her protectively even in sleep…
be lying to her?
Her throat tightened painfully.
Her fingers trembled against his knee.
Nathan stirred slightly at the movement, not fully waking, but his hand instinctively tightened around her shoulder, pulling her closer as if he feared she might disappear.
Elena swallowed hard, breath trembling.
How long had he been here?
How long had he stayed awake… watching her… waiting?
Why did he look like he'd fought a battle she didn't understand?
Her fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his shirt.
"Nathan…" she whispered, barely audible.
His breath hitched
—just slightly—
like even half-asleep, he heard her.
As if her voice were the only thing anchoring him to dawn.
"Hm?" Her voice cracked as her eyes fluttered open.
"Yeah, I'm up… Ohh—"
Nathan jolted awake. His back snapped straight, breath catching in his throat as he looked down at her.
"Elena?" His voice was hoarse — relief and panic tangled together. "You're up."
She tried to push herself off his lap, but her limbs felt useless. Weak. He reacted instantly, hands sliding to her shoulders.
"Elena, don't move."
His tone was firm, not harsh — terrified.
She blinked up at him, disoriented. "Nathan—"
"You are finally awake," he breathed out, forehead dropping for a second as if he'd been holding that sentence in all night. "God, I was terrified."
What happened to me?
She tried again to shift away. He stopped her, but gently this time, guiding, not restraining. He helped her sit up, only to pull her securely against his chest, his arms circling her from behind.
Why is my energy too low?
Her head settled on his shoulder without meaning to.
He exhaled shakily against her hair.
"Easy, baby," he murmured, his voice deeper than usual. "Don't move too much. The doctor said you need rest. You'll feel better soon."
"What… what happened?" Her voice was thin, rough. "How did I get here?"
And why's my body hurting?
Nathan's arms tightened around her waist, chin resting over her head.
"Shhh, sweetheart," he whispered, brushing his thumb over her side. "Nothing to worry about. You fainted in my arms. I brought you to your room."
The memory hit her in fragments. His voice at the door. His hands catching her. The world going dark.
Ohh!
"You… stayed here? The whole night?"
He didn't hesitate.
"How could I leave you like that?" he explained quietly. "Nick didn't come home last night. Someone had to be here so you weren't alone."
A lump formed in her throat.
"Doctor?" she started, breath shaking.
Nathan instantly soothed her with a soft hush, brushing a hand down her arm.
"I'll tell you everything," he promised, his tone gentle but firm. "After you eat. I can order soup or… make porridge for you. Whatever you want."
"Nothing," she muttered, swallowing hard. "I'm… nauseous."
"That's because you haven't eaten a thing, darling."
His lips brushed the top of her head — barely there, instinctive.
"Come on. Choose one. Or I'll get both."
She winced but sighed, exhausted. "Porridge."
"Got it." His voice softened even more. "I'll make it."
He shifted, lifting her just enough to lay her back onto the pillows, adjusting the blanket over her with a tenderness she wasn't prepared for.
Before leaving, he paused at the doorway, eyes lingering on her like he still couldn't convince himself she was truly awake.
You made him so worried, Elena.
"And Elena?"
His voice dropped to that low, intimate tone he only used when he was dangerously honest.
"No more overthinking while I'm gone."
A faint smile tugged at his lips, sad, relieved, and something else she couldn't name.
"Okay?"
She nodded weakly. For a moment she didn't want him to go, to stay with her, to comfort her, to answer her questions, to relieve her from doubts.
But the moment he disappeared down the hall…
her heart was already racing again.
Elena lay there, her body aching, her head pounding with every heartbeat.
She closed her eyes and let out a low groan.
Why did I faint?
Why couldn't I just confront him like a normal person?
Her thoughts spiraled, looping through fragments of the gala, his colleagues' comments, the phone call. Every unanswered question pricking at her chest.
She didn't hear Nathan return — she only felt the mattress dip beside her.
"Darling," he whispered, gentle but firm, "I'm going to help you sit up a little so you can eat properly."
She nodded weakly. "Mhm."
He slipped an arm behind her back, lifting her with slow, steady care, arranging the pillows until she was propped comfortably.
His touch was soft, almost too soft for someone who usually moved with such precision. Like he was afraid she might crumble.
And I am doubting his intentions?
He picked up the bowl.
"Open your mouth," he said softly.
She tried to manage a small glare but ended up obeying anyway.
He spoon-fed her slowly, patiently, watching her reactions like every swallow mattered.
I was doubting his affection? His care?
When she finished, she leaned back a little, breath steadier, color returning faintly to her cheeks.
A tired smile tugged at her lips. "I already feel better. Thank you… Nathan."
Something softened in his dilated eyes, just briefly, before he masked it again.
Her stomach settled, her limbs felt less heavy, a little warmth pooling in her chest as the food reached her system.
And for a moment, a fragile, fleeting moment, she let herself lean into the comfort he offered.
—
Elena had just finished showering when she stepped back into her room.
Her hair was damp, skin flushed from the steam, and fresh clothes clung softly to her frame. She didn't care about the old pair of shorts that she put on or the tank top she was wearing as long as she felt comfortable in them.
Nathan was already there.
Clean. Composed. Showered.
Sitting in her room as if he belonged there. Elbows on his knees, fingers laced, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite decode. His burning gaze on her as if she was too fragile to walk.
The moment her eyes lifted to his, he spoke.
"Elena," he said quietly, "why didn't you answer my texts?"
She froze.
"I… umm…"
What do I tell this person, who's still half crazy, taking care of me, that I had been acting out because of some stranger's remarks? Or the phone call that could be about anyone made her suspicious about his character?
He stood slowly, closing a bit of the distance. Not enough to crowd her, just enough to make her chest tighten.
"Elena," his voice softened, "can we talk openly please? So I know what's been going on in your mind?"
She swallowed hard, fingers twisting together.
There was no point lying now.
Here goes nothing…
"I didn't want to talk to you, Nathan."
His expression stilled, blanking so quickly it made her stomach clench.
"And why," he asked calmly, "did you feel you couldn't?"
She looked away, searching for the correct words.
"Because… the gala night haunted me, Nathan."
Her voice shook. "Your colleagues… they were ridiculing me… or at least it felt like it. And they weren't even subtle… It felt like an insult."
The memory made her flinch.
Nathan stepped closer and took her hand gently, squeezing once, firm, grounding.
"Elena, darling," he murmured, "the world out there is dark. Not the way you see it. People wear masks. They judge, they mock, they push where they see softness."
He brushed his thumb over her knuckles.
"But should it concern you so much? Enough to make you sick?"
She blinked, chest aching.
"If I had known you'd react like that," Nathan continued, voice low, "I would've stepped in. But I let it be because I understood what they were hiding."
She frowned. "Hiding?"
He nodded.
"Their own fears, my silly girl. Some were jealous. Some were intrigued by you. You were dazzling, of course they were."
A faint smirk touched his mouth. "But people deal with their insecurities by inflicting them on others. Their comments… that was their weakness, not yours."
He stepped closer, hand coming up to cup her cheek.
"This world is full of bullies. I've been a part of it long enough to know. Their demeaning remarks don't touch me anymore — they've only made me stronger."
He leaned his forehead lightly against hers, voice softening further.
"And in a way, they were preparing you for this world — the real one."
Elena's breath caught.
"I'm sorry," Nathan whispered. "I'm sorry I didn't step in. I should have. And I promise — it won't happen again, sweetheart."
His arms wrapped around her waist gently, drawing her close.
She felt so ridiculous at that moment, questioning him on the behaviour of others. Others that didn't even matter to her.
"And don't you ever scare me like that again," he added, voice breaking just a little. "I kept hating myself all night."
The tension between them loosened just slightly — like a tight knot pulled halfway undone.
But Nathan could still feel it.
Her shoulders hadn't relaxed.
Her fingers were still cold in his.
Her breaths came too carefully, as if she were terrified of saying the wrong thing.
Nathan studied her quietly, his thumb brushing her cheekbone once more before he spoke.
"Elena," he whispered, "look at me."
She did. Slowly.
His eyes softened — warm on the surface, unreadable beneath.
"You're still tense," he murmured. "There's more. I can feel it."
A pause. His hand slid down to cradle her jaw gently.
"Now tell me… what else is bothering you?"
Her throat tightened.
She opened her mouth — closed it.
Tried again. Failed again.
Nathan didn't move. Didn't press forward.
He simply waited, still as stone, his touch steady and tender.
"Elena," he said, softer than before, "you don't have to protect me from your thoughts."
Her eyes stung.
"You can say anything," he whispered. "Whatever it is… don't carry it alone."
Her breath shook, barely audible.
Because this was the moment she'd been dreading.
The question curled inside her chest like a warning.
She swallowed. She can't back out now…
"Nathan…" she whispered, voice cracking, "there is… something."
His fingers stilled on her skin — the only sign he felt her shift.
"Tell me, sweetheart," he murmured. "I'm right here."
Her heart hammered.
She didn't know how to ask it.
Didn't know if she could.
But she lifted her eyes anyway…
And the fear in them was something he couldn't miss.
Elena swallowed hard, searching his face for something soft — anything soft — but the moment she spoke, something in him changed.
"Nathan…I overheard your conversation with your mom."
His expression didn't just shift.
It hardened.
The warmth in his eyes iced over, a flicker of annoyance tightening his jaw.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… controlled.
Too controlled.
His voice dropped. "What about it?"
"I—I didn't mean to hear anything," she said stammering. "I was looking for you. Your colleagues… were staring at me, saying strange things and you weren't coming back and—"
"What did you hear, Elena?"
He cut her off.
Impatient now.
Measured.
Her breath stuttered.
She hesitated and that only sharpened the coldness in his gaze.
"Elena," he repeated, colder this time. "What exactly did you hear?"
She felt her throat close around the words, but she forced them out anyway.
"You said…"
her voice trembled,
"…'Everything is under control.'"
Nathan's jaw locked.
She continued, barely breathing.
"And… 'She's getting along really well.'"
He didn't blink.
"And then… you said…"
her chest tightened painfully,
"'I'm close. Closer than I planned.'"
Silence pressed the room.
Her eyes burned, but she kept going.
"And you said… 'This chapter will end sooner than I thought. I'll give you the good news soon.'"
The final sentence cracked her voice.
For a long, terrifying moment…
Nathan said nothing.
Just stared.
Unreadable.
Cold.
Calculating.
And Elena suddenly felt very, very small.
Nathan inhaled slowly.
A deep, controlled breath.
You could almost see the moment he forced his expression back into place, smoothing the sharpness, collecting himself, slipping the mask on with precise care.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
"And you thought it was about you?"
The question landed like a sting.
"Now it makes sense," he continued, tone calm but edged, "why you made yourself sick. Why you avoided me. Why you didn't reply."
Elena flinched. "I… I didn't mean—"
"You could have just asked me then and there," he said, cutting in, "instead of hiding away from me. Instead of letting your mind spiral into… this."
She dropped her gaze, heat prickling behind her eyes.
Nathan sat back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
"You know I don't talk business," he said evenly, "but I'll explain it so you can stop doubting me."
Her heart thumped painfully.
His voice held no anger, just an unnerving, frigid clarity.
"It was about Claire," he said. "She's new. She made a bad deal — a deal that could've shaken her confidence if word got out."
Elena blinked. "Claire…?"
"My mother was worried," Nathan continued, tone still neutral, "that it might set her back. I was reassuring her that everything was under control. That Claire was learning. Getting along with the business well."
He held her gaze. Unblinking.
"I told Mom I'd take care of the mess. And the rest of what you heard?"
His jaw ticked.
"That was me explaining how I'd deal with the people who took advantage of her. How I'd end that 'chapter.'"
Her breathing hitched in embarrassment.
It… made sense.
It did make sense.
Stupid! So unbelievably ignorant Elena!
"Are you satisfied now?" he asked, voice low.
"Or would you prefer I take you to my office tomorrow and show you the paperwork? The emails? The mess she made? Would that help you trust me?"
What have you done!
Elena's hands shook.
"No—no, Nathan, that's not necessary. I'm sorry. I misunderstood. It totally makes sense. I'm sorry."
Silence stretched.
He didn't say it's okay.
He didn't soften.
Didn't reach for her hand.
He simply stared — unreadable — long enough for her stomach to twist.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"You know…"
his voice dropped to something quiet, almost fragile,
"…it hurts."
Elena's breath caught.
"It hurts that you still don't trust me," he said, eyes lowering to the floor. "After everything. After how patient I've been. Seeing how small your faith is in me…"
His jaw clenched, something like guilt shimmering beneath his lashes.
"…it feels like I'm the only one standing here without a safety net."
No… nono! How do I make it right?
"Nathan…" she whispered, aching.
He didn't look up.
His next words were barely above a whisper, soft, remorseful, perfectly placed.
"I don't want to be someone you hide from."
He didn't move.
Didn't reach for her.
Didn't even lift a hand at first.
He just stared up at her. Elena trembling above him, her breath shaky, her fingers gripping his shirt like she was terrified he would vanish if she let go.
"No-no-no," she stammered, trying to steady herself as tears spilled down her cheeks. "I'm sorry—are you okay? I didn't mean— I didn't mean any of it. Nathan, I'm so stupid, I didn't want to hurt you— I— I—"
The words tangled in her throat, breaking apart under their own weight.
She didn't know what she was apologizing for anymore.
The misunderstanding?
The doubt?
The fear?
Or the look in his eyes right now — the coldness she'd caused?
Something inside her cracked.
Without thinking, without pausing long enough to question it, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his.
Soft. Trembling. Desperate to take his pain away.
A plea more than a kiss.
He didn't respond.
Not for several long seconds.
It was like he was letting the moment stretch, letting her panic simmer, letting her apology settle into him in the way he wanted.
Then slowly — deliberately — he pulled back.
His hand rose to her face, thumb brushing the tear tracks on her cheeks, sweeping her hair back with a gentleness that didn't match the unreadable tension in his eyes.
"Elena…" he whispered.
But the warmth wasn't there.
Not fully.
She could feel the lingering coldness beneath his fingertips — the restraint, the calculation, the hurt he wanted her to see.
Her breath hitched.
"Nathan…" she whispered, voice cracking. "I'm sorry. Please—please don't pull away from me. I didn't know how to ask. I was scared. I didn't want to lose you. I—"
He lifted her chin with two fingers.
His eyes locked with hers, steady, dark, impossible to read.
Then, with a voice low enough to shatter her:
"Show me," he said.
"Show me how sorry you are."
Her breath caught, her heart stumbling painfully.
"Nathan…"
"I don't want your tears," he murmured, brushing another one away with aching slowness. "I want your truth."
His fingertips traced her jaw, lingering at the curve of her lips where her apology still trembled.
"No hiding," he said softly, but the command beneath the softness was unmistakable.
"No running away. Not from me."
He held her gaze, unblinking.
"Show me you trust me," he whispered. "Show me you're not afraid of me."
His thumb brushed her bottom lip — a gesture tender and possessive at once.
"Show me," he repeated, gentler this time.
"So I can believe you again."