DALTON
The hospital corridor was quiet now unnervingly quiet. The kind of silence that followed tragedy, heavy and thick, like the air itself knew it was intruding on grief.
I stood by the door for a long time after the monitors went still, after the nurses left, after the world just… stopped.
John Davis was gone.
The man who'd taught me patience, who used to turn in his seat and say, "You'll get there, son, just don't rush the gears," was gone. And the only sound left was Aria's quiet, broken sobbing from inside the room.
She hadn't moved in nearly an hour. Still clinging to him. Still whispering words I couldn't hear.
I had made a lot of calls in my life mergers, negotiations, asset recoveries, the usual balancing acts of the elite but nothing had ever felt as difficult as what I had to do next.
I took out my phone and stepped into the hallway, away from that suffocating stillness. My voice sounded alien to me when I finally spoke.
"Dr. Patel."
The attending physician picked up immediately, his tone careful. "Mr. Gray. I'm… sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," I said quietly. "There's something we need to discuss."
A brief pause. He knew what I meant. "Arrangements?"
"Yes." I exhaled slowly, staring out the window where dawn was just starting to bruise the sky. "I'll handle everything. The funeral, the expenses, the paperwork. Just… give her time."
"Of course." His voice softened. "She's taking it very hard. Refused to leave his side."
"I know," I muttered. "Don't push her. Let her… process it."
It felt strange saying that giving instructions about grief. You can't process it. You just learn to breathe through the shards.
When the call ended, I made another to my assistant.
"Elaine. I need you to contact Light Funeral Home. Tell them I want everything arranged for a private service simple, respectful. He was a good man. No media. No press."
She hesitated for a fraction of a second unusual for her. "Of course, Mr. Gray. And the family?"
I glanced back toward the hospital room. "I'll handle her."
The lie felt heavy in my throat. Because I had no idea how.
I ended the call and leaned against the cold wall. My reflection in the glass looked like someone I didn't recognize the perfectly pressed suit, the steady posture, all of it just armor. Underneath, there was a noise in my chest that I couldn't silence.
Two days ago, I'd promised John I'd take care of his daughter. I'd said it without hesitation because back then it was just words a vow to honor a man who had once been kind to me. But now, watching her crumble inside that room, the weight of that promise settled differently.
It wasn't a promise anymore. It was an anchor tied to my ribs.
I went back to the doorway. Aria was still there. The light from the monitors painted her in dull blue and gray. Her head rested against her father's hand, and her body shook with silent sobs.
"Aria," I said softly.
She didn't move.
"The staff will need to come in soon. You can't stay here."
That got a reaction. A raw, broken sound tore from her throat. "Go away." The words were muffled against the sheets. "Just leave."
"I'm not leaving."
She lifted her head slowly. In the dim light, her face was a mask of tear-streaked devastation. The fire I was used to was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out emptiness that was somehow more unsettling.
"Why are you still here?" she whispered, her voice scraped raw. "He's gone. Your… your obligation is over. You don't have to pretend to care anymore. You can go back to your perfect life."
I took a step closer, my hands clasped behind my back. "This has nothing to do with pretense. I made a promise to your father. His death did not change the terms."
A bitter, choked laugh escaped her. "The terms? He's not a business deal, Dalton! He's my dad!" Her voice broke on the word, fresh tears welling in her eyes. She looked away, back at his still form. "I only told him I'd accept your help so he would die in peace. So he wouldn't worry about me. But he's gone now. You're free. I don't want your help. I don't need it. So please, just go."
Fuck! This isn't as easy as I'd hoped.
This wasn't our usual sparring. This wasn't the sharp, witty defiance I'd come to expect. This was the grief talking, a pain so profound it was stripping her down to the bone. Arguing with it would be as productive as arguing with a hurricane.
I observed the tremor in her shoulders, the way she listed slightly, as if the core of her had been removed. She was in no condition to make rational decisions. She was a system in critical failure.
"Your opinion on the matter is currently irrelevant," I stated, my tone leaving no room for debate. "You are in shock. You are not thinking clearly. And you are in no position to handle what comes next."
Her head whipped around, a flicker of the old fire igniting in her eyes. "How dare you.."
"The funeral arrangements," I continued, cutting her off smoothly. "The death certificate. The bills. The logistics of a life that has ended. You are incapable of managing it right now. Therefore, I will."
"I don't want you to!" she cried, pushing herself unsteadily to her feet. "I can handle my own life!"
" Look at you Aria the evidence suggests otherwise," I replied coolly, gesturing vaguely to encompass the room, her exhaustion, her crumbling world. "This is no longer a discussion, Aria. I gave my word. And I do not break my promises."
I took another step forward, closing the distance between us. She had to tilt her head back to look at me, her small frame swaying. I made my voice as solid and immovable as steel.
"You may not want my help. You may actively fight it. But I am not leaving you alone to shatter. So, you had better get used to seeing me. Because starting now, I am the most consistent reality of your life."
I held her gaze, letting the weight of the statement settle in the cold, silent room. The fight seemed to drain out of her again, replaced by a weary, hopeless confusion.
Without another word, I turned and walked out, pulling the door shut behind me. I didn't need to look back to know she had collapsed back into that chair, alone with her grief.
But she wasn't truly alone. Not anymore.
I left the room after that, giving her the space she clearly needed. But as I walked down the corridor, I couldn't shake the image of her sitting there, broken and lost beside the only person who ever made her feel safe.
The logical part of my mind was already moving: funeral dates, transport, paperwork. But underneath that, a quieter voice whispered something I didn't want to acknowledge.
That maybe this promise wasn't just about obligation anymore.
Maybe it was already becoming something else.
I went back to my apartment hours later, long after midnight. The city outside was asleep, but I couldn't be. My shirt still smelled faintly of hospital antiseptic, and my mind replayed the sound of her sobs over and over.
I sat in the dark, elbows on my knees, staring at nothing. The apartment felt sterile, like the life had been vacuumed out of it too.
I thought about John the way he'd smiled that last time. The peace in his face when he'd said She's strong. She'll be okay.
And then I thought about her.
The stubborn, sharp-tongued, impossible woman who had just lost everything.
I had no idea how to help her only that I would. Because I'd promised.
And if there was one thing I understood better than love or grief or comfort, it was this:
A promise, once given, is binding.
Even if it breaks you to keep it.