DALTON
I wasn't supposed to wake up.
I rarely do.
Once I'm out, I'm out unless something breaks the pattern.
And tonight, something did.
A sound.
Soft. Unsteady. Barely there.
Footsteps.
I sat up immediately. Habit. Years of living alone in a penthouse make you sensitive to every noise. My housekeeper leaves at six. Security does rounds. Marcus goes home.
No one should be moving around at 2:17 a.m.
For a second, I thought it might just be the AC settling or the fridge humming, but then I heard it again a thud, followed by the unmistakable scrape of a hand sliding against the wall.
Then a small, shaky exhale.
Aria.
I was out of bed in seconds.
The hall lights were dim, casting soft shadows across the stairwell. And there she was halfway down the stairs, gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Her knees buckled. She caught herself. Barely.
"Aria?"
Her head turned toward me, and the moment I saw her face, my chest tightened. Pale. Trembling. Sweat beading at her hairline. Eyes unfocused.
"I'm low," she whispered.
That was all I needed.
I didn't ask how low. I didn't ask when it started. I didn't ask why she hadn't called for me.
I just moved.
Two steps at a time, I reached her before she fell again. My hand found her waist, the other her arm not holding her the way you hold something fragile, but the way you hold something you refuse to let hit the ground.
"I've got you," I said.
And I meant it.
Her body sagged into me for a second just long enough to tell me how bad it truly was before she forced herself upright like she was ashamed of needing help.
Why is she always like that?
Why does she treat needing help like a sin?
Why does she think she's a burden?
I guided her gently down the stairs, keeping her close. She was unsteady, breathing too fast. Her legs shook with each step.
As soon as we reached the bottom, I went straight to the fridge, grabbed the juice I made Mrs. Higgins stock, twisted the cap, and held it out to her.
"Drink."
She did, hands trembling.
The entire time, my mind was racing in a way it never does. Not even during billion-shilling deals. Not even during emergencies at work.
This was different.
This was personal.
She finally finished, and I exhaled didn't even realize I'd been holding my breath.
"You should've called me," I said quietly.
"I didn't want to bother you."
My jaw clenched. "You were collapsing."
"I'm used to handling it alone."
I swallowed down the frustration and kept my voice steady. "Not anymore."
Her face softened. Barely. But I saw it.
Then she whispered, "I miss my dad."
And it hit me in a place I don't let get hit.
I understood.
More than she knew.
"I know," I said, because it was the only thing I could say without my voice breaking.
I stayed with her until her numbers stabilized.
I stayed until her breathing evened out.
I stayed because the idea of leaving her alone in that moment felt wrong.
When I walked her back upstairs and told her to call my name if she needed anything, she nodded in that quiet, tired way that said she wouldn't but wanted to.
I still didn't sleep.
I sat on the edge of my bed until the sky turned gray.
When I finally forced myself downstairs, she was already in the kitchen or at least trying to be.
She moved slowly, carefully, like her body wasn't fully hers yet. She had tried to make toast, but the fancy toaster confused her. She stared at it like it was plotting against her.
Her hair was messy.
Her eyes tired.
Her shoulders slumped.
And yet when she saw me, she straightened, forced a smile, and said,
"Morning."
I wanted to tell her not to fake it.
I wanted to say she didn't have to pretend around me.
But she always does.
"You should still be resting," I said.
"I'm fine."
Liar.
Stubborn, irritating liar.
But my liar.
"You're not going to work today," I added.
She opened her mouth, probably to argue, but I raised a hand.
"That's not a request."
Her mouth snapped shut.
She glared at me.
Good. That meant she had energy to fight.
"Mrs. Higgins left you breakfast. Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You fainted yesterday," I remind her. "And you dropped to fifty-six last night. Sit."
She sat.
She ate.
I watched every bite.
She hated that.
At one point she muttered, "Do you ever stop staring?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you worry me."
She froze.
Then looked down at her plate like she didn't know what to do with that information.
When breakfast was over, she stood and said quietly, "Thank you… for last night."
My chest tightened again the same way it did when I found her on the stairs.
"You don't have to thank me," I said. "Just call me next time."
She nodded, even though I knew she wouldn't.
Not yet.
Trust takes time.
As soon as I left the house, the irritation hit.
Not at her.
At everything else.
Because now that I'd seen her sick really sick I couldn't stop thinking about it.
At the office, everyone noticed I was off.
I snapped at my head of finance.
I dismissed two meetings early.
I rejected a proposal that was perfectly fine because the presenter used the word "approximately," and my brain couldn't handle uncertainty today.
But all day, images kept flashing through my mind:
Her shaking hands.
Her pale face.
Her voice when she said, "I miss my dad."
The way her body leaned into mine when she lost her balance.
I couldn't reset.
Couldn't switch back into CEO mode.
I hated that loss of control.
But I hated the idea of something happening to her when I wasn't there even more.
Around noon, I checked the home security system.
Then I checked it again.
Then again at two.
Marcus eventually said, "Sir, you've checked the cameras eleven times."
"And your point?" I snapped.
He shut up.
By late afternoon, I was done pretending I cared about quarterly projections.
I left work early something I never do and drove home faster than I should have.
Because all day, one thought kept repeating:
I cannot lose someone else.
Not again.
Not like that.
Not her.
When I walked through the door, she was on the couch under a blanket, half-asleep, a mug of tea in her hand.
She looked small.
And tired.
And safe.
She blinked up at me, confused. "Why are you home so early?"
I didn't answer.
Instead, I asked, "How are you feeling now?"
"Better," she said softly.
I nodded once and sat on the chair across from her not too close, not too far. She watched me like she wasn't sure what version of me she was getting.
The cold one?
The irritated one?
The quietly terrified one from last night?
Even I wasn't sure.
But I knew one thing:
She wasn't going through anything alone ever again.
Not grief.
Not sickness.
Not fear.
Not that hollow sadness that kept sitting behind her eyes.
Not while she lived under my roof.
Not while I could stop it.