The sterile light of dawn filtered through the hospital blinds, soft and cold against Damian Sinclair's sleepless eyes. The world outside was stirring to life again — cars murmuring in the streets below, nurses changing shifts, the faint hiss of morning rain against the windows — but inside this small white room, time had stopped.
Damian hadn't moved for hours. He sat slouched in the chair beside Amara's bed, his head resting on his hand, dark circles shadowing his eyes. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie long discarded, and his watch had stopped ticking hours ago.
But he didn't care.
All that mattered was the slow, steady rhythm of the heart monitor beside her — proof that she was still here.
His gaze never left her face. Even in sleep, she looked fragile — too pale, her lashes clumped with traces of tears, her lips parted in uneven breaths. There was something unbearably delicate about her now, as if the world had bruised her one too many times, and one more touch might shatter her completely.
Damian leaned closer, brushing his thumb lightly over the back of her hand. "You scared me," he whispered. "You have no idea how close I was to losing you."
His voice cracked on the last word.
For a man who built empires, who commanded boardrooms and silenced entire rooms with a glance, it felt almost absurd to be this helpless — sitting beside a woman who didn't even know how completely she had undone him.
He wanted to believe she'd wake soon. That she'd open her eyes and look at him the way she once did — curious, shy, and warm. But a darker voice inside him whispered otherwise.
What if she didn't want to see him?What if she remembered only pain when she saw his face?
He had taken her from the company that night. He had fought for her, but perhaps it hadn't looked like protection. Perhaps to her, it had been yet another reminder of chaos — of being torn between two men, two worlds, and two versions of herself.
Damian exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I should've been there sooner," he muttered, guilt lacing every syllable. "You shouldn't have been alone that night. You shouldn't have…"
He stopped himself. The image was too raw — her crumpled near the door, her feverish body limp in his arms, the terror that had nearly paralyzed him as he carried her through the rain.
He couldn't relive it again.
So he stayed quiet. The only sound was the faint beeping of the monitor and the whisper of rain against glass.
Then, at last — a sound.
A faint rustle.
Damian's head snapped up. Amara stirred, her brow twitching slightly, her breathing hitching. His heart stopped as he rose from the chair, every nerve in his body tightening with desperate hope.
Her eyelashes fluttered once, twice — then her eyes opened.
For a heartbeat, Damian forgot how to breathe.
Her gaze was hazy, unfocused at first. Then slowly, like a camera lens adjusting to light, she blinked and looked at him.
"...Damian?"
His name came out broken — soft and unsure, barely more than a whisper — but it hit him like a lightning strike.
He exhaled shakily, relief washing over him so powerfully that it almost hurt. He moved closer, his voice trembling despite his best effort to steady it.
"Yes," he said quietly. "It's me. I'm right here."
Amara's lips parted, confusion flickering across her face. She tried to sit up, but pain or exhaustion made her wince. Damian immediately reached out, pressing his hand gently to her shoulder.
"Don't move," he said quickly, almost pleading. "You've been through a lot. Just rest."
She looked around weakly, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings — the white walls, the IV in her arm, the faint scent of antiseptic. Then her gaze returned to him, lingering on his dishevelled appearance.
"You… stayed here?"
Damian swallowed hard. "I didn't want to leave you."
Something unreadable passed through her eyes — a flicker of emotion he couldn't quite name. Gratitude, maybe. Or disbelief. Or something deeper.
She tried to speak again, but her throat was too dry. Damian immediately reached for the small cup of water on the bedside table, lifting it carefully to her lips. His hand trembled slightly as she sipped, her gaze never leaving his.
When she pulled back, she whispered, "You look… tired."
A breathless, broken laugh escaped him. "I could say the same about you."
Silence settled between them again, fragile but strangely comforting.
Then, quietly, Amara asked, "What happened?"
Damian hesitated. He didn't want to remind her of that night — of the rejection, the heartbreak, the storm. But he couldn't lie to her either.
"You collapsed at home," he said gently. "You had a fever and severe exhaustion. When you didn't answer, I…" He paused, his throat tightening. "I used the code you gave me and found you on the floor."
Her eyes widened faintly. "You… found me?"
He nodded. "I brought you here."
Amara lowered her gaze, her lashes trembling. "I don't even remember… walking home."
"You shouldn't have been out there alone in the storm," Damian said softly, unable to keep the pain from his voice. "You could've—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Never mind. You're safe now. That's what matters."
She looked at him again, studying his face — the shadows under his eyes, the unshaven stubble, the raw exhaustion in every line of him. "You didn't sleep, did you?"
He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. "Couldn't."
"Why?"
Damian hesitated, then met her gaze fully — the kind of gaze that stripped both of them bare. "Because I thought I'd lost you."
The words hung between them, fragile and heavy at once.
Amara blinked rapidly, her breath hitching. "Damian…"
He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his hair as if to compose himself. "You don't have to say anything. I just—" His voice cracked. "I needed you to know."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The world outside the window grew brighter, the rain softening into a misty drizzle. Inside, the stillness between them deepened — not empty, but full of everything unspoken.
Amara finally whispered, "I'm sorry."
Damian's head lifted. "What for?"
"For making you worry. For being… weak."
"You're not weak," he said fiercely. "You're human. You've been hurt more times than anyone should have to bear, and yet you still get up every morning. That's not weakness, Amara. That's strength."
Her eyes glistened. "Then why does it still hurt?"
"Because you cared," he said quietly. "Because you loved."
The word "loved" lingered between them like the echo of something fragile and sacred. Amara's fingers curled slightly around the bedsheet, her chest rising unevenly.
"I don't even know what I feel anymore," she confessed, voice breaking. "Everything's just… blurred. Kael, you, the company— it's all too much."
"I know," Damian murmured. "And you don't have to figure it out right now." He hesitated, then reached out, gently covering her trembling hand with his own. "Just heal. That's all I want."
Her gaze softened. "You're always saying that."
"Because it's the truth."
Amara let out a shaky exhale, her lips twitching in something close to a faint, bittersweet smile. "You're too good to me."
"I'm not," he said quietly. "I'm just trying to make up for every time I wasn't there when you needed someone."
The room fell quiet again — the kind of silence that hummed with warmth rather than emptiness. Damian stayed by her side as she slowly drifted back into light sleep, his hand still wrapped around hers.
For the first time in days, he let his body relax. The tension in his shoulders eased, and his heartbeat steadied in rhythm with hers. He didn't know what tomorrow would bring — what decisions, what heartbreaks — but for now, she was safe.
And that was enough.
But as the morning light brightened across the white walls, a shadow fell briefly across the hallway outside.
A tall figure in a pale coat paused by the window, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile.
Clariss Moonveil.
She glanced through the small glass panel of Amara's room door — watching Damian's sleeping form beside the girl's bed — before turning away silently, her heels clicking softly against the floor.
The tide had shifted again.And this time, it wouldn't be mercy that followed.