The night was unbearably long for Damian Sinclair.
He sat in the darkness of his penthouse, the city's neon lights glinting faintly through the glass wall behind him, their colors bleeding into the polished floor like ghosts. The faint hum of the rain outside echoed through the silence. Normally, nights like this calmed him—rain muffling the city's noise, the world slowed to something manageable. But tonight, it only amplified the ache in his chest.
He hadn't changed out of his suit. His tie hung loose, his sleeves rolled up, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it again and again. The air felt heavy, suffocating, as though the walls themselves were closing in.
His mind replayed the day like a cruel film stuck on repeat.
Amara—standing outside Navarro Corporation—drenched beneath the streetlight, hugging herself as if to hold her pieces together. Her eyes had been empty. The same eyes that used to light up whenever she nervously smiled, whenever she caught him teasing her gently at work. He had watched that fragile light die, and done nothing but stare from behind the glass.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, breathing hard.
"Damn it, Amara," he whispered, voice hoarse. "Why didn't I go to you?"
He already knew the answer. Because he had promised himself he wouldn't cross her boundaries. Because she had just heard his confession that very afternoon—his love, raw and unhidden—and she'd looked at him as if the world had tilted. She wasn't ready for him. He had seen it in her trembling hands, in the way her breath hitched when she couldn't answer.
He had told himself he'd give her space. That loving her meant restraint.
But restraint was killing her.
When his men reported that she had gone to the seashore—alone, sitting through the storm, drenched and motionless—something inside him snapped.
He had asked them to watch from a distance, to make sure she returned home safely. And she had… barely. They'd said she went home, soaked through, silent, her apartment dark all night.
Now the image wouldn't leave him.
Her walking home through the rain, each step heavier than the last. Her clothes clinging to her skin. Her shoulders trembling. Her lips pale.
He could see her in his mind as clearly as if she were standing in front of him, and the thought that she was alone—completely, utterly alone—made him feel something close to madness.
He shot to his feet, pacing the room. The marble floor echoed beneath his shoes.
His reflection in the window was pale and strained. The man staring back at him looked nothing like the composed executive the world knew. His eyes were hollow, rimmed with red, his jaw locked with barely restrained desperation.
He had always prided himself on control. On keeping calm when others fell apart.
But not tonight.
Tonight, control felt like cowardice.
Damian grabbed his phone. He opened his email app and stared at the blank screen for several long seconds before typing.
Subject: Sudden Leave Notification
Body: Effective immediately, I will be unavailable for one week. Please redirect urgent matters to my assistant.
—Damian Sinclair
He didn't reread it. He just hit send.
Then he opened Amara's file and typed a second message.
Subject: Medical Leave
Body: Amara Castellanos is on immediate medical leave for one month. Health reasons.
—D. Sinclair
Let HR question it later. He didn't care. They could fire him, sue him, destroy his reputation—it wouldn't matter.
He needed to see her.
He grabbed his car keys and strode out of the penthouse.
The elevator ride felt endless, the silence so heavy he could hear the faint pounding of his pulse. When the doors opened, the night air rushed in cold and sharp. He crossed the lobby without acknowledging the security guard's startled greeting.
Outside, the rain had quieted to a drizzle. The streets shimmered under the glow of the streetlights, slick and silver.
His car—a black Aston Martin—sat waiting beneath the canopy. He got in and slammed the door. The engine roared to life, a deep growl that vibrated through his bones.
He drove fast. Too fast.
The world blurred outside his windows—the neon signs, the streaks of passing cars, the empty intersections. He ran two red lights without hesitation.
For once, he didn't care about his status or image. The law, propriety, caution—all of it fell away beneath the weight of one thought pounding in his head: She needs me. She needs me now.
His grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. Each second felt like a lifetime.
When he finally reached her apartment building, he barely turned off the engine before getting out. His shoes splashed through puddles as he sprinted across the lot and up the stairs—he didn't even wait for the elevator. By the time he reached the fourth floor, his lungs burned and his chest ached.
He jabbed at the doorbell. The sound echoed faintly inside her apartment.
Once. Twice.
No answer.
He pressed again.
And again.
"Amara!" His voice cracked. "Amara, please—open the door!"
Still silence.
A sick dread crept through him. His hand went to his pocket, fumbling for the paper where she'd once written her door code. She had laughed when she gave it to him, saying, 'It's just in case I lock myself out, okay? Not because I expect you to barge in.'
He had teased her about her carelessness.
Now, that code might save her life.
His fingers shook as he punched it in.
Beep. Click.
The lock released.
He pushed the door open—
—and froze.
"Amara…"
She lay crumpled near the doorway, as if she had tried to reach it before her body gave out. Her clothes were still damp, her hair tangled, her skin chalk-white. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing faint.
For a second, he couldn't move. The world tilted, sound vanished, and everything inside him went cold.
Then he was on his knees, lifting her into his arms.
"God… no, no, no." His voice broke as he felt her burning skin. "Amara! Amara, wake up!"
He shook her gently, brushing her wet hair from her face. "Please, look at me. Say something. Anything."
Her lips didn't move. Her eyelids fluttered once, then stilled.
Her pulse—he pressed trembling fingers against her wrist—was weak. So weak it terrified him.
"Hold on," he whispered, clutching her tighter, his breath coming ragged. "Please, just hold on for me."
She was feather-light in his arms, her head resting against his chest. He could feel her heat even through his soaked shirt.
He carried her down the stairs, not caring who saw, not caring that his vision blurred from tears he refused to shed. His entire body was trembling—not from exertion, but from terror.
In the car, he laid her gently on the passenger seat, fastening her seatbelt with shaking hands. He brushed her cheek once—just once—and then slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
The hospital wasn't far, but every red light felt like an insult. Every second she wasn't moving was agony.
"Just breathe, Amara," he whispered again and again, voice breaking. "Don't you dare give up now. You're stronger than this."
His world narrowed to the sound of her faint breathing, the rhythm of the windshield wipers, and the desperate beating of his heart.
When he screeched to a halt in front of the hospital, he didn't wait for help. He carried her inside himself, his shout echoing through the sterile halls.
"Help! Somebody—please!"
Nurses came running. Stretchers rolled. Hands reached for her.
He refused to let go until they physically pulled her from his arms.
"Sir, please—you need to wait outside."
He stood frozen as they wheeled her through the emergency doors, the sound of their hurried voices fading into the corridor beyond.
The doors swung shut.
And for the first time that night—
the world went silent.
He stood there, drenched, trembling, his pulse echoing in his ears. The antiseptic smell, the flickering lights, the faint hum of machines—it all blurred into a haze.
His knees nearly buckled, and he caught himself on the wall, staring blankly at the closed doors.
His wealth couldn't save her. His power couldn't protect her. All his control, his reputation, his rage—it meant nothing if she didn't wake up.
He pressed a shaking hand to his face.
"Please…" he whispered to no one. "Please be okay."
The clock ticked on. The rain outside grew heavier again, tapping against the windows like the heartbeat he feared might stop.
And Damian Sinclair, the man the world called ruthless, brilliant, and unbreakable—
waited in silence.
For her.
For forgiveness.
For a miracle.