Hospital Room, Later That Night
Kai steps into the quiet corridor and pulls out his phone. A few rings, and then:
"Hello?" Sofia's voice is clear, but there's a hum of road noise in the background.
"It's Kai," he says, glancing through the glass panel of Leila's room.
Sofia's voice sharpens instantly. "Is she okay?"
"She fainted during her final presentation. They've admitted her. Severe exhaustion, dehydration."
A pause.
"What?" The worry in her tone is palpable now. "Why didn't anyone tell me earlier?"
"You were already on the road when it happened," Kai says, gently. "I didn't want to worry you until we knew more. Doctors say she just pushed herself too hard."
Sofia exhales a sharp breath. "God, that girl—why does she keep doing this to herself…"
"I figured you'd want to know," Kai adds, watching Elias sit beside Leila, quiet and unreadable. "She's stable now. But still asleep."
"I want to come back," Sofia says quickly. "I can cancel—"
"You can't," Kai cuts in. "Didn't you say this was a big deal?"
"It is. It's a sponsored showcase by a design house in Lahore. They asked for my portfolio yesterday—I didn't think they'd confirm so fast." She sounds torn. "But… I'll be back in three days. Promise."
"She'll be okay," Kai reassures, softening his tone. "We've got her."
There's a short pause on the line.
"Take care of her, okay?" Sofia says, voice lower. "Both of you."
"We will."
Kai hangs up, pocketing the phone with a quiet sigh, before stepping back into the room.
Hospital Room – Moments Later
A soft stir.
Elias straightens when he sees her fingers twitch slightly, her brows pulling together.
"Leila?" he says, voice low.
Her eyes flutter open, slow and dazed, blinking against the ceiling lights. It takes a moment for her gaze to find focus—and then, suddenly, it finds him.
She blinks again, startled.
Her voice is hoarse. "Elias?"
A soft nod. "You fainted during your presentation."
She tries to sit up instinctively, but he rises and gently presses her shoulder back against the pillow.
"Easy."
Leila's lips part, embarrassed. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble. I just—"
"You didn't cause trouble," he interrupts, quietly but firmly.
There's silence between them. The soft hum of machines. Her lashes lower, her hand instinctively pulling the blanket tighter around her.
"I just pushed myself too hard," she mumbles, cheeks flushing. "I thought I could manage everything."
"You thought wrong," he says, his gaze still fixed on her. "You don't need to burn yourself down to prove anything."
His words linger in the space between them—unexpectedly gentle, but firm. Measured. Thoughtful.
Leila blinks at him, unsure how to respond. Unsure why he's even here.
"Where's Sofia?" she asks after a beat.
"She got a last-minute opportunity—some fashion project. She's out of town for three days," Elias says, then adds, "Kai called her. She knows. She wanted to come back, but we told her not to."
Leila's lips press into a soft line. "She must be worried."
"She asked us to take care of you."
Leila glances toward the window, quiet.
"Don't worry," Elias says softly, something rare threading through his tone—warmth, maybe even a hint of care. "You're not alone."
She doesn't answer. But something softens in her eyes—guarded, but grateful.
And as the night stretches quietly around them, Elias watches the woman who never once asked for anything begin—finally—to rest.
Morning Light
The light slipping through the hospital blinds is soft, almost kind — a welcome contrast to the sterile quiet of the room. Leila wakes slowly, her body aching with a heaviness she hadn't realized she'd been carrying.
Her eyelids flutter open to a pale ceiling.
A soft hum of machines. The rhythmic beep of her heart.
She blinks. Once. Twice. Letting the fragments of memory come back to her like slow waves.
The final slide. The conference room. Her mouth running dry mid-sentence. Then darkness.
And—
Her breath catches slightly.
Elias.
He was there.
She remembers the weight of his gaze, the way his voice cut through the haze in her chest like something sharp and certain. Not pitying. Not angry. Just… present. Like he'd been waiting.
Her eyes shift toward the armchair in the corner of the room. Empty now. But the faint crease in the hospital blanket draped over its side tells her he'd spent the night.
Why?
She pushes herself up slightly, wincing as her muscles protest.
"You thought you could carry everything again," she mutters softly to herself, fingers curling around the edge of the blanket. "And look where that landed you."
Guilt stings, slow and biting. She didn't mean to fall apart in front of everyone — not when she'd worked so hard to prove herself. Not when she was finally doing something on her own.
But underneath the guilt is something else. Something she's afraid to name.
The memory of those pale grey eyes looking down at her. Concern written so clearly in a man who rarely let anything show. His voice — low, unfamiliar in its gentleness. The quiet fury in his tone when he told her she didn't need to prove herself by burning out.
Why did it matter to him?
She presses a palm over her forehead, trying to clear the fog of her thoughts.
Don't be foolish, Leila.
But a part of her—the one that still remembers the softness of his voice in that sterile room—doesn't listen.