The clock blinked 2:48 a.m.
Again.
Leonard Vale lay wide awake in the massive king-sized bed that had cost more than some people's entire houses, his eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling above him. The silk sheets were smooth. The temperature in the room was perfectly regulated. Outside, the world slept peacefully beneath the veil of midnight rain.
But inside the penthouse, sleep was a stranger. Always had been.
His temples ached with tension. His jaw was tight, fists clenched at his sides. The weight of another restless night pressed heavily on his chest—another night of hearing the echo of his own breath and the ticking of that damn clock.
Three years.
Three years since he'd last had a full night's sleep.
A part of him had come to accept it. After all, Leonard was not a man who had the luxury of rest. CEO of Vale Group, heir to a billion-dollar empire, and a leader with more enemies than allies—sleep felt like weakness. Vulnerability.
And Leonard Vale had no space in his world for either.
He sat up and reached for the bottle of sleeping pills by his nightstand, fingers brushing against the glass. But he stopped. His doctor had warned him. The pills were losing their effect. Even double doses barely made him drowsy.
He sighed. What was the point?
Leonard swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the cold marble floor beneath his feet grounding him in the silence. He walked to the wide windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a view of the city below—still glowing, still alive, even at this ungodly hour.
Like him.
Restless. Awake. Drowning in his own thoughts.
"Sir?" a soft voice crackled from the intercom.
Leonard pressed the button. "What is it, Alan?"
"Apologies for disturbing you. Dr. Huxley has sent over the contact details for the private care specialist he mentioned. I took the liberty of forwarding it to your inbox."
Leonard leaned against the cold glass. "I told him I wasn't interested."
"I believe he insisted, sir," Alan said gently. "She has a reputation for… solving the unsolvable."
Leonard raised an eyebrow. "What is she, a magician?"
"She's a private nurse. A discreet one. Highly recommended."
Silence stretched for a moment.
Leonard considered it. Another specialist. Another person poking around his brain, telling him to breathe deeply and think positive thoughts. Waste of time.
Still… there was something about tonight that felt heavier. Like the weight of all his sleepless nights was finally pressing down hard enough to leave a mark.
"Fine," he muttered. "Schedule a consultation."
"Yes, sir. First thing in the morning."
Leonard didn't reply. The line went silent.
He remained at the window, watching the clouds shift and curl over the skyline. For the first time in months, a flicker of curiosity tugged at the edge of his mind.
Who exactly was this nurse that had made even Dr. Huxley, his chronically skeptical physician, sound hopeful?
---
8:00 A.M. – Vale Group Tower
"Her name is Arina Belle," Alan said, sliding a tablet across the desk.
Leonard glanced down at the profile on the screen. No photo—only a resume and a list of past clients, each name redacted for confidentiality.
"She's worked with war veterans, trauma victims, political figures, and..." Alan hesitated, "a well-known royal who suffered from chronic PTSD."
Leonard looked up. "Why no picture?"
"She requests anonymity until initial approval. High-profile clients only. Very private."
Leonard's eyes scanned the minimalist profile. Impressive background in psychiatric nursing and sleep therapy. Fluent in multiple languages. Ten years of spotless service.
"Sounds too polished," he muttered.
Alan didn't respond.
Leonard stared at the name for a moment longer, then tapped the screen. "Get her here by tonight."
---
7:10 P.M. – Penthouse, Vale Residence
Leonard stood at the far end of the living room, arms crossed, watching the elevator doors with unreadable eyes. He wasn't nervous. That would be beneath him. He was... intrigued. Curious.
Alan appeared first, escorting a figure into the room.
Arina Belle was not what he expected.
She wasn't dressed like the typical medical professional. No sterile white coat or stethoscope. Just a soft gray blouse tucked into tailored black slacks, and a lightweight coat that fell just below her knees. Her long, dark hair was pulled into a low twist at the nape of her neck. Simple. Elegant. Unassuming.
But her eyes—that was what caught him off guard.
They were warm. Deep brown. Gentle, but perceptive. The kind of eyes that didn't flinch when met with power or arrogance.
"Mr. Vale," she said, stepping forward with a calm, clear voice. "It's a pleasure."
Leonard studied her for a beat too long before responding.
"You don't look like a nurse."
She smiled faintly. "And you don't look like someone who hasn't slept in years."
Touché.
Alan cleared his throat and quickly excused himself from the room.
Now alone, Leonard turned away and walked toward the bar. "Drink?"
"No, thank you," Arina said. "I never mix alcohol with first impressions."
He smirked. "Smart."
He poured a glass of whiskey anyway, but didn't drink it. Just held it. Another ritual. Another excuse to avoid eye contact.
"So," he said, voice low, "you're the miracle worker."
"I'm just someone who listens better than most," she said, not missing a beat.
"And what exactly do you plan to do? Watch me toss and turn all night?"
"If that's what it takes," she said calmly.
Leonard turned to face her fully now. "Do you always speak this freely with your clients?"
"Only when they need someone who doesn't lie to them."
Another pause. A longer one.
Leonard couldn't help it. He laughed. A short, surprised chuckle that came from somewhere deep in his chest—an area unused for years.
Arina didn't flinch at the sound. She waited patiently, hands folded in front of her.
He gestured toward the hallway. "Fine. I'll show you to the guest room. You can set up your base there."
"I don't need the guest room," she said simply.
Leonard narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"
"I'll be staying in your room," she clarified. "That's part of the arrangement."
He blinked. "You're joking."
"I'm not." Her tone didn't change. "If I'm going to observe your sleep patterns and interrupt the cycle in real time, I need to be where you are. Proximity is essential."
Leonard stared at her for a long moment.
She didn't break eye contact.
Eventually, he sighed. "You've got guts, I'll give you that."
"And you've got chronic insomnia," she replied. "We both have our strengths."
---
11:46 P.M. – Master Bedroom
Leonard lay on the bed, fully clothed, eyes open. Arina sat in a chair a few feet away, jotting something down in a small leather notebook. There were no bright lights, no machines, no wires—just quiet observation.
She didn't speak. Didn't ask questions. Just watched. Breathed. Matched the rhythm of the room.
After a while, Leonard broke the silence.
"Is this your idea of therapy?"
"Yes," she said.
He turned his head slightly toward her. "Doing nothing?"
"Not nothing," she said softly. "I'm creating space. Your brain has been conditioned to see bedtime as a battleground. My job is to change that."
Leonard chuckled bitterly. "Good luck."
She closed the notebook gently. "You're not broken, Mr. Vale. You're just exhausted in ways no one has dared to understand."
For a second—just one—he let that sink in.
His chest ached. Not from fatigue. From something else.
He didn't speak again that night. But somewhere between midnight and dawn, Leonard Vale drifted into the deepest sleep he'd had in three years.
And when he woke... she was still there.
Sitting in that same chair.
Watching over him like a ghost with kind eyes and too many secrets.