The office had changed.
It wasn't noise or movement that shifted — it was air. Heavy, unmoving, like something was waiting to happen. Even the soft whirr of the air conditioner felt distant, like it couldn't reach me. I dropped into my chair, shoulders sinking, exhaustion pulling at me like gravity had tripled.
Today had taken more than it should have.
The meeting.
Marshall's revisions.
Alex.
The almost-kiss that wasn't a kiss but left my pulse behaving like one.
I just wanted one minute — one breath — to let my bones stop vibrating.
I picked up the stack of mail, my head already throbbing at the thought of sorting through them. Bills. Contract notices. Vendor correspondence. Routine. Mindless.
And then—
One envelope made me freeze.
Thick. Heavy. Embossed in a way that meant important, but not the office kind of important — the life kind. The kind that comes with consequences. The kind that never arrives with good news.
A quiet, cold ripple went down my spine.
Before I could open it, my phone exploded across the desk.
Violent.
Persistent.
Unrelenting.
Mom.
Sis.
Mom again.
Two missed calls. Three. Four.
And then a voicemail.
My stomach twisted so sharply I felt nauseous.
I didn't even think — I called my mother back immediately.
She answered on the first ring.
Her voice wasn't a voice. It was a break. A crack. A wound trying to speak.
"Zarah... baby—your dad..." She inhaled sharply, and the sound alone made my throat close. "He—he was in an accident. The car... it spun. He's awake, but—please—come home now. Right now."
For a second, I couldn't breathe. My mouth opened but no sound came out.
"Mom... what happened? Is he— Is he—"
"He's alive," she breathed, "but he's in pain, baby. He's scared. He keeps asking for you."
A single tear slipped down my cheek before I even felt it coming.
"I'm on my way."
My voice was shaking and small and unfamiliar, like someone else had spoken for me.
The moment the call ended, everything inside me snapped into motion.
Bag. Keys. Mail. Phone.
I shoved everything into my tote with frantic, clumsy movements.
The room tilted for a second — the shock hitting me like a physical shove — but I forced myself upright.
I half-walked, half-ran through the office. The elevator doors took too long to close. My foot wouldn't stop tapping. My fingers wouldn't stop trembling.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
When the doors finally slid open to the lobby, the world felt too bright, too loud. Conversations buzzed around me, printers continued spitting pages, a coworker waved as I passed — none of it registered. My ears were filled with the echo of my mother's voice.
He keeps asking for you.
Outside, the city felt like a different universe. Cars honked, people moved too slowly, life didn't understand that mine was falling apart.
I fumbled with my phone, tapping my Uber app with fingers that felt numb.
The waiting time said 7 minutes.
Seven minutes felt like a lifetime.
I paced the sidewalk, breaths coming short, sharp, shallow. My heart wasn't just racing — it was pounding against bone like it wanted out.
I didn't even realize Alex had followed me until I heard—
"Zarah?"
His voice cut through the haze—low, controlled, but edged with concern.
I turned, and the look on his face shifted instantly. One glance at me — at my tears, my shaking hands — and the softness in his expression was replaced with something fierce and grounding.
"What happened?" he asked quietly, stepping closer.
"My dad," I forced out, barely managing not to break. "He was in an accident. I— I have to go—now."
His jaw clenched, eyes dark and focused. "Do you need me to take you? I'll drive. Forget the Uber—"
"No." My voice cracked. "Just— I just need to get home."
He nodded once. Firm. Certain. "Then I'm staying here until you leave."
I didn't understand why that made my chest tighten. Why it made the panic feel a little less suffocating. But I couldn't think about that now.
The Uber pulled up, finally, and Alex opened the door for me.
"Message me when you get there," he said, voice low but unwavering. "Please."
I nodded, barely seeing him now through the blur of panic. I sank into the backseat, and before the door even closed, I was whispering:
"Please, just drive."
The city blurred into streaks of color outside my window. The driver's voice was muffled noise. My fingers dug into the seat, nails pressing into leather.
Traffic lights were torture. Slow cars felt personal. Every stop was a punch.
My phone buzzed.
My sister.
"Zarah? Where are you? Mom's crying again. Dad keeps drifting in and out, but he's awake. He's—he's trying not to scare us but you can see he's in pain. Just—please hurry."
My voice cracked. "I'm coming. I promise."
Her breath hitched. "Okay."
When the car finally reached the estate gate, my chest tightened so painfully I pressed a hand over it. I practically threw money at the driver, grabbing my bag and running.
My mother opened the door before I even reached it. Her eyes were red, her hands trembling as she pulled me into a shaking hug.
"He's in his room," she whispered. "Careful—the doctor said he shouldn't move much."
I stepped inside, breath unsteady, heart punching at my ribs.
Then I saw him.
My father.
My strong, loud, stubborn, always-in-control father—
—lying weak and pale beneath white sheets, arm in a sling, scrapes on his face, breathing unevenly.
"Dad..." I whispered.
His eyes fluttered open, slow, heavy — but the moment he saw me, he exhaled.
"There's my girl," he murmured, managing a small smile. "Knew you'd come."
Something shattered in my chest.
I rushed to his side, sitting, gripping his hand with both of mine.
"I'm here," I breathed, voice breaking completely now. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
He squeezed my hand weakly — but it was enough.
The world shrank to that tiny, fragile moment.
Him.
Breathing.
Alive.
Everything else — the office, Alex, the tension, the almost-kiss, the storm — vanished into silence.
Family first.
Always.
And tonight, nothing mattered more than that he was still here.
The doctor's soft footsteps drifted into the room like an unwelcome reminder of reality.
He greeted me with a small nod — the professional kind, measured and practiced — but the weight behind his eyes was real. He moved closer, flipping through Dad's chart with the solemn precision of someone walking a tightrope between truth and comfort.
"He's stable," the doctor said gently, turning slightly toward me. "But the impact hit his left side. His ribs are bruised and there's a mild concussion. He shouldn't move abruptly or exert himself. Painkillers will help, but he'll be groggy."
I nodded, absorbing every word because my mind refused to do anything else. Focus. Control. I needed structure. I needed something to hold on to.
"How long before he's... fully okay?" My voice was a thin strand, stretched tight.
The doctor offered a careful smile. "If he rests, eats well, and avoids stress, he should recover without complications. We'll monitor him closely over the next few days."
Stress.
As if that was optional in this family.
My mother's hand tightened around my arm, the tremor in her grip telling me she heard the same unspoken fear I did.
When the doctor finally stepped away, easing out of the room to give us space, the silence left behind was thick... suffocating... and fragile all at once.
Dad's fingers brushed mine weakly.
"You're frowning," he whispered.
I let out a breath that sounded more like a cracked laugh. "Of course I'm frowning. You scared the hell out of us."
"Didn't mean to." His eyelids drooped, but he forced them open to look at me. "Car came out of nowhere. Lost control on that sharp turn."
He paused, chest rising shakily. "I thought... I thought I wouldn't make it home."
That sentence hit me like someone had stomped on my chest.
"Don't say that," I said quickly, too quickly, my voice breaking on the last word. "You made it. You're here. That's what matters."
His expression softened — the kind he reserved only for me and my sister — that mix of pride and apology all tangled together.
"You shouldn't have rushed, Zarah," he murmured. "Work is important."
I swallowed hard, shaking my head. "There's nothing more important than you."
And I meant it with every frantic beat of my heart.
Mom stood behind me, wiping tears with the heel of her palm. My sister paced the hallway outside, speaking in hushed tones to someone on the phone. The house felt too small for this kind of fear — walls closing in, floors creaking too loudly, air too stale.
Dad drifted off again — not unconscious, but drowsy from the pain meds. His grip remained locked around my fingers even in sleep.
I didn't move.
Couldn't move.
Because for the first time in years, I saw him differently.
Not invincible.
Not loud and unshakeable.
Not the man who lectured the neighborhood mechanic for scratching his car.
But human.
Breakable.
Frighteningly mortal.
A soft sob escaped my mother's chest, startling me out of my thoughts. She sat beside me slowly, as if her knees hurt from the weight of worry.
"We almost lost him," she whispered, voice cracking. "Zarah... we almost—"
I leaned against her, closing my eyes, letting her lean against me too. We stayed like that — two women holding each other up because the alternative was falling apart completely.
Minutes passed. An hour. Maybe more.
Time didn't feel real.
Dad slept. Mom cried quietly. My sister returned with tissues and a blanket. I kept my hand in his, grounding him, grounding myself.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, far beyond the fear and adrenaline, another thought pulsed faintly:
I never texted Alex.
His voice from earlier replayed sharply:
Message me when you get there. Please.
I exhaled, shaky and exhausted, and pulled my phone from my pocket. Six missed messages blinked up at me.
Alex: Did you get home?
Alex: Please let me know you're safe.
Alex: Zarah?
Alex: I'm waiting for your text.
Alex: I'm worried.
Alex: Call me if you can.
My chest tightened — not with fear this time, but with something warmer, heavier, dangerously comforting.
But I couldn't think about him now.
Not here.
Not in this room.
Not while watching my father breathe like every inhale was borrowed.
I typed a single message.
I made it. He's okay. I'll talk later.
No heart.
No explanation.
No vulnerability.
Just... survival.
I locked the phone and placed it face down.
Tonight wasn't about storms or tension or Alex Sinclair's unwelcomed effect on my pulse.
Tonight was about my father.
My family.
This fragile life that nearly slipped away.
I rested my forehead against the back of my father's hand, breathing him in, letting the terror bleed out slowly, one uneven inhale at a time.
"I'm here," I whispered again. "I'm not going anywhere."
And I meant it.