Chapter Forty-Five: The Faithful Clock
The city had shifted from the deep indigo of night to the pale, watery grey of dawn when Amaya's eyes blinked open. For a disoriented moment, she didn't know where she was. The bed was unfamiliar, the light was wrong, and a dull, persistent ache pulsed in her ankle.
Then memory crashed in: the fall, the car ride, the stegosaurus shirt, the chocolate coin. Aris's apartment.
She pushed herself up carefully. Her phone, retrieved from her tote bag which Aris had presumably brought in, was on the nightstand. The screen showed a string of notifications, but one series stood out: five missed calls and three texts from Richard, the last sent just an hour ago.
Richard (2:14 AM): Finished at the Warwick. Hope your evening wound down alright.
Richard (3:47 AM): You're usually home and checked in by now. Everything okay?
Richard (6:02 AM): Amaya. Call me when you get this.
Guilt, sharp and acidic, twisted in her stomach. She always texted him when she got home after a late shift, a habit born more from his expectation of order than any romantic need. It was part of the unspoken contract—predictability, accountability. She had broken it.
She looked at the time. 6:45 AM. He'd be awake, sipping his single-origin coffee, reviewing the pre-market data on his tablet.
Her thumb hovered over his name. The easy lies lined up in her mind, slick and convenient. Phone died. Fell asleep at Chloe's. Was dealing with a patient crisis. They were the excuses of the girl she used to be, the one who lived in daydreams and half-truths.
But she wasn't that girl anymore. She was a woman who had faced down her own failures and was trying, painstakingly, to build an honest life. A life where she didn't hide, even when the truth was messy. Especially when it was messy.
She tapped his name and put the phone to her ear. It rang once.
"Amaya." His voice was crisp, tinged with relief and a layer of tightly controlled concern. "There you are. I was beginning to think I'd have to call the hospital morgue." It was meant as a light joke, but it fell flat.
"I'm sorry I didn't call," she said, her voice still husky with sleep. "Something… happened."
A pause. She could picture him setting his coffee down, his full attention captured. "What kind of something?"
She took a breath, staring at the geometric pattern of light on the far wall. "I lost my keys. I think I left them at the hospital. When I got to my building, I tripped in the hallway and sprained my ankle. Badly. I couldn't get in, and I couldn't walk."
A longer pause now, heavy with processing. "Good god. Where are you now? Which hospital? I'll come immediately."
"I'm not at a hospital." The next part was the hurdle. "My… my supervising consultant, Dr. Rowon, was dropping off some paperwork he'd forgotten to give me. He found me in the hallway. He assessed the injury and determined the most logical course was to bring me to his apartment for immediate first aid, ice, and elevation. To avoid the wait and chaos of an ER."
The silence on the other end of the line was absolute. She could almost hear the whirring of his analytical mind, categorizing, risk-assessing.
"He took you to his apartment." Richard's voice was perfectly, dangerously calm.
"Yes. It was the middle of the night, Richard. I was locked out and injured. He acted as a doctor. He treated me as a patient." She emphasized the last word, willing him to understand the clinical context.
"A patient who is also his subordinate. And his former neighbor. And a woman." Each noun was a bullet point in a damning presentation. "Do you have any idea how that looks? The liability? The sheer impropriety?"
The anger she expected was there, but it was a cold, corporate anger. It wasn't jealousy over her being with another man; it was fury at the breach of protocol, the potential damage to reputations—hers, which was tied to his, and Rowon's, which was a professional connection he might have leveraged one day.
"It looks like a medical professional helping someone in need," Amaya replied, but her voice lacked conviction. In the clear light of day, through Richard's lens, it did look questionable.
"Where is he now?" Richard's tone was that of a CEO initiating an internal investigation.
"In his own part of the apartment, I assume. He checked my ankle a few hours ago. He's going to get my keys from the hospital this morning so I can get a locksmith."
"Unacceptable." The word was final. "I am sending a car for you immediately. We'll have a doctor come to the Warwick to look at you properly. You will not spend another minute in that man's home."
"Richard, moving me is contraindicated. The swelling—"
"I will hire a nurse. A private medical team. You will have the best care, in a proper, neutral setting. This… situation is untenable." She heard the rapid tap of keys—he was already making arrangements. "The car will be there in forty minutes. Text me the address."
"Richard, wait—"
"Amaya, listen to me." His voice softened, adopting the reasonable, persuasive tone he used in negotiations. "This isn't about trust. I trust you. But we must think about appearances. About your career. If word got out that you spent the night at your supervisor's apartment, regardless of the circumstances, it could be misconstrued. It could harm you. I cannot allow that. The car will be there at 7:30. Be ready."
He hung up.
Amaya lowered the phone, a hollow feeling spreading through her chest. He hadn't been jealous. He'd been… managerial. He was handling a PR crisis. Her pain, her vulnerability, her bizarre night—it was all an operational snafu to be contained and resolved.
She looked down at the little dinosaur shirt. She thought of Rihan' solemn offering, of Aris's weary, furious pain when he spoke of his son. That world was messy, emotional, and real. Richard's world was about damage control and proper settings.
The bedroom door opened. Aris stood there, already dressed for the day in dark trousers and a button-down shirt, though no tie. He held two ice packs. His gaze went immediately to the phone in her hand.
"I heard," he said simply. He'd likely been in the kitchen and overheard her side of the conversation. "The cavalry has been dispatched."
"He's sending a car. A private doctor," Amaya confirmed, unable to meet his eyes. She felt foolish, like a child whose playdate had been abruptly canceled by a disapproving parent.
Aris entered, his expression unreadable. He swapped the ice packs with his usual efficiency. "His response is logical. From a risk-management perspective."
"Is that all you see? Risk management?" The words came out sharper than intended.
He finished his task and looked at her. "I see a man who wishes to protect his asset. It is a predictable response." He said it without malice, a simple statement of fact. "The car will take you to a suitable medical facility. Your ankle will be treated. The problem will be solved." He picked up the old ice pack. "It is a… neater solution."
Neater. Yes. Richard specialized in neat solutions. He would sweep up the messy reality of her night—the kindness, the confusion, the shared, silent understanding with a little boy—and dispose of it efficiently.
Aris turned to leave, then paused. "For what it is worth," he said, his back to her, "the offer to retrieve your keys still stands. I will leave them with your building's concierge." He didn't wait for a response.
She was left alone again, the faithful clock of her engagement ticking loudly in the sterile room, reminding her that her life was not her own to make messy. It was a shared asset, and the other shareholder had just vetoed her current location.