Weeks had passed since Austin stood on my doorstep and shattered the foundations of my world. The days bled into one another, a monochrome blur of quiet grief and paralyzing silence. I moved through my life at Zalira like a ghost, performing tasks with robotic efficiency, the vibrant colors of my world—the bold hues of my wardrobe, the glossy pages of fashion magazines—all muted to shades of gray and beige. The constant, silent mantra in my head was a desperate prayer: My mother is going to die if we don't get a donor. The cruelest twist of fate was that I couldn't even be her savior. I wish I could be my mom's donor, offer her that piece of myself without a second thought, but I was a survivor in my own right, literally surviving with one kidney since the car accident that had taken my father. The universe, it seemed, had a vicious sense of irony.
And in the crushing, suffocating quiet of my apartment, another silence screamed at me, just as painful: Maya's. I'd called, I'd texted, I'd even written and deleted a dozen long, rambling emails. Nothing. Radio silence. The absence of my best friend, the person who was supposed to be my fortress in this storm, in the midst of this familial crisis was a unique, isolating agony that compounded everything else.
When my phone rang, slicing through the quiet, I flinched. I didn't want to talk to anybody. I knew it wouldn't be my boss, John; he was aware of my situation and had graciously given me a leave of absence. My only focus was logistical: I had to go home. I had to be there for my mom. I had to book my flight to Texas and face the ghosts I'd left behind.
Then, my phone rang again, the same insistent, cheerful tone. Irritation, sharp and sudden, flared in my chest. Who had the audacity to demand my attention now? On the fourth ring, I finally snatched it up, my voice tight. "Hello?"
"Am I speaking to Miss Hannah Reynolds?" a polished, female voice inquired. It was familiar, a voice from another lifetime, but I couldn't place it amidst the fog of my grief.
"Yes, you are," I said, my tone clipped, wanting to be done with this conversation as quickly as possible. "How may I help you?"
"This is Daniela, Mr. Carlos Blackwood's personal assistant. We have spoken before, though I didn't properly introduce myself then." Daniela. Of course. The architect of the first summons. What could she possibly want now? I wasn't in the mood for games or grandeur. I was in the mood for packing and panicking.
"Okay," I replied, the word flat and utterly devoid of interest.
"Mr. Blackwood requests your presence once again for a date this evening. Please be ready at 8:00 PM. A car will be sent to pick you up." She delivered the lines with the same rehearsed efficiency as before, a royal decree without an RSVP option.
Before I could muster the energy to scream that I wasn't interested, that my world was falling apart, the line went dead. I stared at the phone, a bitter laugh caught in my throat. The timing was almost comically tragic.
---
At exactly 8:00 PM, my doorbell rang. I had been sitting on my sofa, staring blankly at the analog clock on the wall, watching the second hand tick-tock its way toward my 8:00 AM flight, my suitcase a half-packed monument to dread by the door. The bell rang again, more insistent this time. Probably one of the stoic bodyguards, here to collect a no-show.
I stood up, slipping my feet into my worn, panda-print comfy slippers. I was dressed for a night of anxious solitude, not a Blackwood-caliber date, in tiny cotton shorts and one of my oldest, softest band t-shirts, my hair piled into a messy bun. I was pale, I knew I was, with dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could hope to hide.
Opening the door, I prepared to lash out, to tell his messenger exactly where he could take his "requested presence." But the words died on my lips.
It was Carlos.
He stood there, impossibly tall and solid on my welcome mat. A few yards away, his usual detail of bodyguards stood at a respectful distance, and behind them, my modest street was clogged with a small motorcade—up to five obscenely expensive cars, their dark, polished surfaces gleaming under the streetlights. He never failed to make an entrance. He was dressed in a immaculate dark gray suit, a stark contrast to the shadowed, casual luxury he'd worn at Vesper, and his hands were clad in sleek black leather gloves.
He looked… taken aback. His piercing eyes scanned me from my slippers to my messy bun, a faint line of concern appearing between his brows. "You aren't dressed," he observed, his voice lower, softer than I remembered. "You look pale. Are you alright?"
I couldn't hold his gaze for long; the intensity felt like it would see straight through to my crumbling core. "I'm not going on any date, Carlos. And I'm fine," I said, the lie brittle and transparent.
I forced myself to look up, a spark of defiance cutting through the numbness. "I'm a human with feelings, you know. Disappearing for weeks and then having your PA 'request my presence' isn't cool. It's strange, and frankly, I don't like it." I brought a hand to my forehead, the beginnings of a stress headache pulsing behind my eyes. "I need to go to bed early. I have an early flight tomorrow. Have a good night."
I moved to close the door, a feeble attempt to shut out the overwhelming reality of him and retreat back into my safe, miserable bubble.
"Wait, darling."
The word stopped me cold. Darling. My heart, that traitorous organ, performed a frantic series of gymnastics against my ribs. Even in my despair, a tiny, unwilling smile touched my lips. It was the first time he had ever used an endearment.
He took my hesitation as an opening. "Can I come in, at least?"
"Why?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
"Please." It wasn't a command. It was a request, layered with a sincerity I hadn't heard from him before.
I hesitated for a moment longer before sighing and opening the door wide enough for him to enter. He had to duck slightly under the frame, his powerful presence making my cozy apartment and its doorframe seem suddenly, comically small. I closed the door, sealing us in, the outside world of bodyguards and black cars vanishing. I retreated to the safety of my sofa, curling into one corner while he remained standing, a giant in my living room.
"You can sit down," I mumbled, gesturing vaguely.
He did, perching on the edge of the armchair opposite me, his gloved hands resting on his knees. The fine wool of his suit looked out of place against my worn velvet cushions.
"I'm deeply sorry," he began, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "Deeply sorry for not reaching out to you sooner." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "You also said you had an early flight tomorrow?"
"Apology accepted. Just… don't go radio silent on me like that. And yeah, I did. I'm going home." I focused on my fingers, twisting them in my lap, unable to look at him.
"Okay. And can I ask why?"
My first instinct was to shut him out, to build the walls higher. "Mmm, no," I said, finally meeting his piercing, ice-blue eyes.
He didn't push. He simply waited, his silence a patient, open space.
That quiet patience was my undoing. The dam broke. "Okay, fine," I whispered, the words tumbling out in a broken rush. "It's for my mom. She's… she's in the hospital. She needs a kidney donor, and it's… it's bad." I felt the hot press of tears and quickly wiped them away with the back of my hand, angry at my own display.
Then, I felt his arms around me. In one smooth, decisive motion, he had crossed the space between us and pulled me from the sofa into his lap, holding me close against his solid chest. I was too stunned, too emotionally bankrupt, to resist.
"I don't know what to do," I sobbed, the confession ripped from a place I kept locked away. "I would have totally been my mother's donor, but I'm literally surviving with one. I can't even do that for her." My voice cracked on the last part, the ultimate failure. "I miss the mom that she was to me before she married that man," I cried, the childhood longing surfacing through the adult fear. I buried my face in the fine wool of his suit, his scent of amber and sandalwood, usually so intimidating, now feeling like the only safe harbor in a raging sea.
I felt his gloved hand come up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers gently massaging my scalp through the fabric. It was an intimate, soothing gesture, so at odds with the man I thought I knew. He didn't offer empty platitudes or try to fix the unfixable. He just held me, a silent, solid anchor in the storm of my grief, while I finally, truly, fell apart.