The drive to Sinclair Medical Centre unfolded beneath a sky that couldn't decide what it wanted to be — half drenched in sunlight, half cloaked in grey. Rain had stopped only an hour ago, leaving behind roads slick with silver, trees bending beneath the weight of leftover droplets.
Amara sat quietly in the back seat of Damian's car, a blanket draped around her shoulders. Her reflection in the window looked like someone she barely recognized — pale, thin, fragile. Yet there was something else there too. A strange calm. A fragile hope she didn't dare name.
Damian drove in silence, his eyes fixed on the road. He didn't try to fill the air with words. He seemed to understand that after everything — the fever, the heartbreak, and the gossip that nearly sparked — she didn't need talk. She needed peace. And perhaps, someone who could hold it for her.
The car turned past a set of iron gates, gliding through a long lane lined with jacaranda trees. Their blossoms scattered violet petals across the path, soft as fallen stars. At the end of the drive stood a building that looked less like a hospital and more like a quiet villa — sunlight spilling across its marble terraces, wide open balconies framed by climbing vines.
Amara blinked. "This… is a hospital?"
Damian smiled faintly. "A private wing. Technically part of Sinclair Medical, but most patients call it the Villa."
"It doesn't feel like one," she murmured. "It feels like… a sanctuary."
"Exactly the point," he replied softly.
Inside, the atmosphere was warm and hushed — cream walls, tall windows, the faint scent of lavender and eucalyptus drifting through the halls. No beeping monitors, no rushing nurses. Just the quiet rhythm of recovery.
Her room overlooked a garden courtyard where sunlight touched everything with gold. Birds perched on the fountain's edge, unbothered by human presence. A nurse helped her settle in, checking her vitals, adjusting her pillows, offering tea before leaving them alone.
Damian lingered by the window, one hand in his pocket. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a softness Amara hadn't heard before.
"I know you don't like being watched over," he said. "But humour me for a while, will you?"
She gave a faint smile. "You make it sound like I'm difficult."
He looked at her, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. "You are." Then, softer — "But not in the way you think."
Their gazes held a second too long. The sunlight between them shimmered, quiet but charged, like a thread neither dared to touch.
Amara turned away first, pretending to fuss with her blanket. "You didn't have to go this far," she murmured. "I could've recovered at the public wing."
"No," Damian said, his tone firm but gentle. "You needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere that's yours."
The words lingered. Yours.
Something about the way he said it made her heart skip — not from romance, not yet, but from the ache of being seen.
That evening, the light turned amber through the villa's windows. Damian brought her soup — not from the hospital kitchen, but from a nearby café. She noticed he'd changed into a fresh shirt, but his exhaustion clung to him still, like a shadow he couldn't shake.
"You haven't been home, have you?" she asked quietly as he set the tray down.
He paused, his gaze lowering. "…No."
"Damian, you don't have to do this."
He looked up, and there it was — that flicker of emotion she didn't know how to name. "Amara, what you need isn't too much."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. He said it simply, without pity, without hesitation — just truth. And it disarmed her more than any comfort could have.
She didn't know what to do with it, so she just whispered, "Thank you."
He smiled faintly. "Eat before it gets cold."
The soup was warm, light, perfectly seasoned. The quiet between them wasn't awkward — it felt full. Safe.
The next few days passed quietly.
Damian didn't hover. He respected her silence, her need to be alone. He only came by during meals or when her nurses needed direction. Sometimes, they shared small conversations — about books, or the view outside her window — but mostly, they sat in silence.
And somehow, that silence became comforting.
Amara was grateful. Damian never brought up his confession. He never asked her about Kael again. He treated her not as someone broken, but as someone who deserved space to heal.
Sometimes, she caught herself looking at him from her bed, wondering how he could still be so gentle after everything.
But Damian didn't want thanks.
He didn't want acknowledgment.
He just wanted her to rest.
By the end of the week, her fever had long gone, and her strength had returned. So Damian decided it was time.
The morning was crisp and golden when they left the hospital. The sun had finally broken through the grey clouds that had hung for days. Amara sat quietly in the passenger seat, her gaze lost on the scenery blurring past. Her hands rested on her lap, fingers intertwined loosely.
"We're almost there," Damian said softly, eyes focused on the road.
When she looked up, she gasped faintly.
Before them stood the Sinclair Villa — a breath-taking estate of timeless elegance. The tall wrought-iron gates opened soundlessly to reveal a long, tree-lined driveway, leading to a grand white mansion bathed in sunlight. The gardens stretched endlessly — rows of blooming flowers, marble fountains, and gentle slopes dotted with fruit trees.
It looked like a dream.
Far more beautiful than the cold, modern grandeur of the Navarro mansion.
But Amara couldn't feel it.
Her heart was still too numb to see beauty.
When Damian parked the car, she stepped out slowly. The breeze brushed against her hair, carrying the scent of roses and jasmine. The air here was softer, quieter — yet inside her chest, the same heaviness lingered.
"Welcome home," Damian said quietly.
A group of staff emerged to greet them with polite bows. "Welcome, Young Master Sinclair. Miss Castellanos."
"Prepare the east wing room," Damian instructed. "Make sure it's stocked with whatever she needs."
"Yes, sir."
Amara wanted to protest, to say she didn't need an entire wing, but the words wouldn't come. All she could do was follow him inside.
The villa's interior was just as magnificent. Polished marble floors gleamed beneath the chandeliers, the air filled with faint hints of lavender and polished wood. The staircase curved upward like white silk, and sunlight poured in through the tall glass windows.
It was a place meant for happiness, laughter, and comfort — but Amara felt like a ghost walking through it.
"Your room's here," Damian said gently, opening a door at the end of the east hall. Inside, the room was spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden. "If you need anything, just press the button near the bed. The staff will come right away."
She nodded, forcing a faint smile. "Thank you."
He hesitated at the doorway, wanting to say something — anything — but when he saw her distant eyes, he swallowed his words.
"Rest," he said instead. "I'll check on you later."
When he left, the silence swallowed her whole. Amara sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the soft fabric of the sheets. Outside, the world glowed with sunlight, but her heart felt dim and cold.
She closed her eyes and whispered to herself, Just a little more. Just a little more time.
That night, when Damian was certain she was asleep, he stepped out onto the terrace. The sky was velvet-dark, scattered with stars. He took out his phone, hesitating for a moment before dialling a familiar number.
The call connected after two rings.
"Damian?" a warm voice answered. It was Mrs. Castellanos, Amara's mother.
"Good evening, ma'am," Damian said politely. "It's Damian Sinclair."
"Oh, Damian," she said, her tone brightening slightly before turning anxious. "Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing's wrong," he assured her quickly. "I just wanted to let you know that Amara's been hospitalized for a few days due to a high fever. She's fine now — resting here at our family's villa."
There was a sharp gasp. "Hospitalized? My God… what happened? Was she hurt?"
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "No. She overworked herself and got caught in the rain. It led to a bad fever, but she's stable now. The doctors said she just needs rest."
Mr. Castellanos's voice came through next, deep and calm but laced with worry. "Why didn't she tell us? We would've come immediately."
"She didn't want to worry you," Damian said softly. "But I think she'd feel better if you visited. I'll send a car to bring you here tomorrow."
There was silence, and then Mrs. Castellanos said softly, "You've done so much for her already. We don't know how to thank you."
"You don't need to," Damian replied. "Just seeing her heal is enough."
When the call ended, Damian stayed on the terrace for a while, the night wind brushing against his face. He exhaled slowly, guilt and affection twisting inside him.
He hadn't wanted to worry her parents. Amara would hate that he told them. But he had no choice—she would be on leave for a month, and if Kael came looking for her, he might turn to her family first. He couldn't let that happen.
Besides, he knew something deep in his gut:
Her parents might be the only ones who could truly reach her heart now.
He could guard her, protect her, even make her laugh someday—but healing?
That had to come from the people who loved her first.
He looked up toward her window, faintly illuminated by the moonlight. Inside, he could see the outline of her resting form—peaceful for once.
Damian leaned against the railing, his voice barely a whisper.
"Even if you never look at me the same way… I'll still stay by your side."
His words melted into the quiet night air, and a single tear traced down his cheek before he could stop it.
Because he knew—
if loving her meant standing in the shadows while she healed from someone else,
then he would gladly live in the dark.
As long as Amara found her light again.