The soft patter of rain had begun against the window when Alden heard the firm knock on the door. His face didn't betray a flicker of surprise — only the faintest sigh as he rose, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. He walked to the door with composed strides, his voice smooth and polite as he greeted the visitor.
"Inspector," he said calmly, opening the door wider. "Please, come in."
The inspector followed, his coat dripping faintly onto the marbled floor, and Alden led him toward the drawing room — his movements collected, deliberate. Mira, who had been quietly watching them both, her brows furrowed. Something in Alden's tone made her stomach twist, but she knew now was not the time to ask questions.
Instead, she slipped toward the kitchen, her heart thumping against her ribs. She busied herself — boiling water, arranging cups, slicing cake — her motions mechanical, a practised habit. The clinking of porcelain was the only sound as she assembled a tray, wheeled it to the drawing room, knocked softly, and left it outside the door. She never entered; Alden didn't like interruptions during his private talks.
After cleaning the dishes and tidying the counters, exhaustion finally began to weigh on her limbs. She wrapped herself in a soft comforter on the couch, turned on her favourite show, and let her eyes flutter shut sometime before the credits rolled.
An hour and a half later, the house fell silent again. The inspector left, his boots echoing down the hall as Alden escorted him to the door. The faint drizzle had stopped, and Alden's reflection caught in the glass — calm, distant, unreadable. He turned towards the kitchen, wheeled the tea cart back to the counter, and then his eyes found her.
Mira.
Curled up on the couch, hair tousled, a strand stuck across her cheek, her soft breaths the only sound in the room. For a long moment, he simply stood there, arms folded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Then, with quiet steps, he walked closer and gently lifted her into his arms. She murmured something half-asleep, her fingers clutching his shirt before falling limp again.
He carried her to her bed, pulled the blanket up, and stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary — watching the slight furrow in her brow even as she slept.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden. Mira stirred, blinking against the brightness. Alden was already awake, seated by the edge of the bed, his expression unreadable.
"Aren't you getting late?" she asked, her voice raspy from sleep.
He hummed, eyes narrowing faintly. "Maybe."
She yawned, rubbing her eyes. "Then what are you looking at?"
A slow grin touched his lips. "At the hooligan I've been feeding."
Her jaw dropped in mock offense. "Ayeee! I do work at home, okay?"
He chuckled — a rare, fleeting sound — and ruffled her hair before heading to the shower.
The day went on as usual, though Mira couldn't help but notice the quietness in his demeanour. No teasing remarks, no wry smiles. Just silence. The clinking of cutlery felt too loud as she plated breakfast.
"What did the officer want, Alden?" she asked finally, watching him from across the table.
He looked up briefly, then back to his cup. "Nothing much."
"You two talked for more than an hour," she pressed, her tone cautious but probing.
He nodded once, eyes lowering. "He wanted my statement."
"On?"
"One of my patients," he said after a pause, "ran away. He's been missing for two days. The family's worried — they wanted to know if we'd found any trace."
Her heart skipped. She knew exactly who he was talking about — Cüneyt. The patient she had been hidden away, trying to protect. She forced a calm tone. "So… have you found anything?"
Alden shook his head, finishing his tea in one gulp. "No. We're still looking."
He stood, adjusted his coat, and, without meeting her eyes, leaned forward to press a light kiss on her forehead. "I'll be late today. There's a lot to do."
And just like that, he was gone.
Mira's hands trembled slightly as she washed the dishes. Every sound — the water, the clatter of porcelain — felt amplified against the pounding in her chest. She couldn't stop thinking about Cüneyt. What if the police found him? What if Alden already knew everything?
Her pulse quickened. She couldn't just wait.
She threw on a long hooded coat, a mask, and left the house quietly, taking a cab instead of her usual car. The air was cold, biting. She got off a few blocks early near Ozan's neighbourhood, her steps quick and cautious. The building loomed, dark and silent.
When she entered the room, her breath caught in her throat. The chair is empty. Sheets crumpled, window half open. No trace of Cüneyt. Panic seized her.
"No… no, no," she whispered, scanning the room. She checked under the bed, behind the door — nothing. The phone she'd hidden for recording was gone too.
Her mind raced.
Did someone take him? Did he escape? Did Alden find out?
The silence of the room pressed in around her like a scream she couldn't hear.
She stumbled out into the cold air, her heart thudding violently. She needed to report it — to find out what happened. But as she reached for her phone, doubts began to gnaw at her.
What if he got out on his own? What if his family took him back? What if the police already have him?
And worst of all— what if the kidnapper found him first?
Her breath came in shaky bursts, fogging in the air. The world felt suddenly too big, too quiet.
Far away, church bells rang — faint and haunting. Mira's hands trembled as she looked toward the police station's lights flickering in the distance.
For the first time in days, she realised her fear wasn't just for Cüneyt. It was for herself — for the secret she carried, and the man she lived with.
Because somewhere deep down, she knew — Alden was hiding something too.