The morning sun spilled gently through the sheer curtains, casting pale golden streaks across the walls.
Emilia sat up slowly, her hair tousled, eyes heavy from a restless night. But something in her chest felt different.
Not lighter.
But steadier.
The fear hadn't disappeared — it still clung to the corners of her mind like cobwebs — but she refused to let it rot her from the inside. She had let too many things define her before. This wasn't going to be one of them.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood.
Her bare feet met the cold marble floor, but she didn't flinch.
She moved with quiet resolve — brushing out her hair, slipping into a soft blouse and linen trousers. Nothing dramatic. Just… fresh. Awake. Present.
> "I'm not hiding today," she whispered to her reflection in the mirror, jaw set.
Emilia stepped out of her room, the hallway unusually silent for this time of day. She could smell brewed coffee in the air — distant, comforting.
As she neared the dining room ,The sound of footsteps carried through the penthouse Joann, maybe. Or Sir Gary.
As she reached the dining room, she slowed.
There was no Joan. No Sir Gary.
Just Jonathan.
He was at the head of the table, leaning forward with both hands braced on the edge like he was holding himself up, His white shirt was torn at the sleeve and chest, faintly stained with blood. His skin gleamed with sweat and dirt, bruises blooming across his cheekbone, jaw, and collar. His lip was slightly split. His knuckles — bandaged but still red. The crystal tumbler beside him still had amber liquid in it — not coffee, no — but whatever was left of last night's alcohol. The sharp, bitter scent clung to the air, mixing with something metallic beneath it.
Dried blood.
His face was shadowed with exhaustion, eyes unreadable, jaw clenched like he was at war with something inside him.
Emilia paused at the doorway, eyes widened.
He looked like something that had crawled out of a warzone. And yet—there was still something calm about him. Controlled. Powerful.
Like violence was his church, and he had just come back from prayer.
Their eyes met.
The air tightened.
Jonathan didn't say a word — he simply looked at her. Not in anger. Not in cruelty. Just… looked, void of emotions.
Emilia stepped forward, alarm written all over her face. "Jona—my God, what happened to you?"
He didn't respond.
Didn't move.
Just stood there, drinking, the muscles in his jaw shifting under his bruised skin.
Emilia stepped closer, slower now, eyes scanning every visible wound. The dried blood. The sweat. The swollen knuckles. He was holding himself up like his body was threatening to give out — but his stare stayed sharp, cutting.
She swallowed. "You're hurt."
Still, nothing.
Only the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth — not quite a smirk, not quite a wince.
"I'm fine," he said finally, voice low and raw like gravel. Like it scraped its way out of his throat.
Emilia's brows drew together. "You don't look fine. Jonathan, sit—let me—"
"I said I'm fine."
The snap in his voice wasn't loud, but it sliced through the air with finality. He straightened slowly, like every inch of motion took effort, like he'd been stitched together by sheer willpower alone.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "You're covered in bruises and dried blood, you're sweating, and you reek of alcohol—don't tell me you're fine!"
His eyes narrowed "I've had worse," he muttered, reaching for the tumbler like the liquor might offer him more strength than her concern.
Emilia stepped forward again, defiant. "And you think that makes it okay? You think brushing it off makes you stronger?"
"I don't need you to play nurse, Emilia." His words were sharper now, colder — but still not cruel. "Go back to your room."
"No."
It wasn't a plea.
It was a declaration.
Stubborn. Sharp. Like a slammed door.
That made him pause.
A full heartbeat passed before he lifted his head again and met her gaze.
There was something flickering there. Behind the weariness. Behind the calm. Something barely holding together.
She stepped even closer, her voice softening. "You may not need me… but I'm here. Whether you like it or not."
He said nothing.
Just stood there.
Silent.
Emilia didn't wait for permission.
She turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps quick and purposeful. Jonathan didn't follow her with his eyes — didn't move at all. He simply stood there, the weight of his demons still clinging to him like smoke.
A minute later, she returned — first aid kit in hand.
Her approach was cautious, measured. She half expected him to snap again, to shove her away or leave the room entirely. But he didn't.
He just stood there, watching her in silence as she placed the kit gently on the table and opened it with a soft click.
"I won't ask again," she said quietly, kneeling beside him. "So don't worry. You won't have to say a word."
Still, no reaction.
Carefully, she reached for his hand — the one less bandaged — and began unwrapping the bloodied gauze. His skin was hot, angry with swelling. She winced when she saw the deeper cuts beneath, but he didn't so much as flinch.
She cleaned them slowly. Gently. As if touching something breakable — not a man who ruled empires with a single command.
He watched her.
Not with suspicion.
Not even resistance.
Just quiet… curiosity. Like he didn't understand why she was doing this, or what it meant.
Minutes passed. Neither of them spoke.
Only the soft sound of antiseptic, torn bandages, and the gentle rhythm of her breath filled the silence.
Then—
"Why did you lie?"
The question hit the air like thunder.
Emilia's hands paused mid-wrap, her head snapping up to meet his gaze.
He was staring at her, his voice unreadable. Calm. Almost too calm.
But his eyes — those cold, calculating eyes — were sharper now.
Less broken.
More dangerous.
She blinked. "I—what?"
His jaw clenched slightly. "That night. When I asked, where were you"
Her throat tightened.
"You lied ," he continued, his voice low but steady. "you said you went for a walk."
The silence between them turned heavy.
Dense.
He didn't look angry.
Just empty.
Expressionless.
Like emotion had long since been scrubbed from his face and replaced with something colder. Harder.
A wall.
Emilia didn't flinch under the weight of his stare. She didn't backpedal or explain herself quickly — she simply turned back to his hand, resuming the careful wrap of gauze with slow, precise movements.
"I didn't lie," she said finally, her voice quiet but steady. "I went for a walk at the park."
Her fingers adjusted the bandage, smoothing it flat across his bruised skin. She didn't look at him.
"After I went to see Katherina," she continued, her tone even. "Then my... Gabriel Salvador."
She leaned in and gently blew across the freshly cleaned wound — a soft, steady stream of air brushing over broken skin.
Jonathan exhaled quietly.
It wasn't pain he felt.
It was... relief.
Strange. Unexpected.
The coolness of her breath against the burn of the antiseptic sent a shiver down his spine — not discomfort, but something startlingly close to comfort. A sensation foreign to him, like the flicker of a match in a long-dark tunnel.
His body, still tense, betrayed him for just a second — his eyes fluttered shut.
And Emilia noticed.
She didn't say anything.
Didn't gloat. Didn't smirk. Didn't soften.
She simply reached for the small brown bottle again and soaked a fresh cotton pad.
"Hold still," she murmured, her voice low. "This might sting."
She pressed the soaked pad to the deeper cut along his side — hydrogen peroxide, sharp and biting. It hissed on contact, fizzing and bubbling like it was trying to burn the wound clean.
She expected him to flinch. To curse. To pull away like most people would.
But Jonathan didn't.
Not a sound.
Not a twitch.
He simply kept his gaze locked forward, muscles held tight like iron cables — unmoving, unshaken.
Emilia paused, staring up at him.
And something in her chest twisted.
He was always like this. Always enduring. Always silent.
But in that moment, she wished — more than anything — that he'd wince. That he'd let it show. That he'd feel.