I didn't know when I had fallen asleep, but I knew, with a certainty that felt foreign and sacred, that it had been deep and dreamless. It was the kind of sleep that repairs cracks in the soul, the kind I hadn't experienced since my world began its slow, painful crumble. I was curled in my own bed, nestled under the familiar weight of my duvet. The last thing I remembered was the gentle, rhythmic pressure of Carlos's gloved fingers massaging my scalp on the sofa, the scent of him a lullaby, and the solid warmth of his chest as I finally, completely, broke down.
Wait—Carlos. Sofa. Breakdown.
But I was in my bed.
The realization seeped in slowly, then all at once. He had carried me. He had lifted me in his arms and tucked me into bed. My heart didn't just do a happy dance; it performed a full, soaring ballet against my ribs.
Was he still here?
I turned my head, the pillow cool against my cheek. The other side of the bed was empty, but the room held a lingering sense of him, a silent echo of his presence. My eyes darted to the digital clock on my bedside table.
11:34 AM.
Panic, cold and sharp, jolted through me. My flight! I had missed my 8:00 AM flight to Texas. I sat up so fast my head spun, the peaceful cocoon of sleep instantly shredded by reality's claws. Why was this happening? I scrambled for my phone, fumbling as I unplugged it from the charger, my thumbs already navigating to the airline's app to book another, more expensive, last-minute flight.
The screen lit up with an incoming call—an unknown number. Frustration bubbled up. Not now. I swiped to answer, pressing the phone to my ear.
"It's Hannah speaking," I said, my voice still husky with sleep and laced with alittle stress.
"It's Carlos, darling." His voice, smooth as aged whiskey and just as intoxicating, flowed through the line, instantly slowing my frantic pulse. "Save this number; it's my personal contact."
My breath hitched. His personal number. He'd given me a direct line to the man behind the empire.
"You missed your flight," he stated. It wasn't an accusation; it was a simple, calm fact.
"I did," I admitted, slumping back against my headboard. "I was just about to book another flight before I got your call."
"I will take you to Texas. There is no need to book another flight, sweetheart."
The world tilted. He will take me? "Wait... Are you serious?" I said, standing up and padding out of my room toward the kitchen, needing to move, to do something with this sudden, dizzying shock of hope. "How did you even know I was going to Texas?"
"I know a lot, darling. And yes, I'm serious." His tone was infuriatingly, wonderfully calm. "Go check your fridge."
A nervous, disbelieving laugh escaped me. "Umm, you're scaring me and I'm excited at the same time," I confessed, my hand hovering over the fridge handle. What now? Had he filled it with champagne and caviar? That felt like a lifetime ago.
I pulled the door open.
And I froze.
It wasn't extravagant. It was… domestic. It was care. The fridge, which had been echoing and barren for days, was fully, thoughtfully stocked. Fresh fruits and vegetables filled the crisper. Yogurt, milk, and orange juice stood neatly organized.And on the center shelf, covered in cling film, was a beautiful plate of fluffy scrambled eggs, roasted cherry tomatoes, and avocado slices, artfully arranged as if from a five-star hotel. It wasn't just food; it was care, plated and perfected.
"Wait, Carlos, wait," I stammered, my eyes stinging. "This is really crazy. Am I seeing double?"
"No, you aren't, darling." The endearment, spoken so easily, made a blush warm my cheeks.
"Did you… did you cook for me? And get me groceries?" The question was a whisper, laden with a vulnerability I couldn't hide.
"Yes, I did."
The simplicity of his answer undid me. I wanted to do a backflip and a few splits right there on the kitchen tiles. Not only had he carried me to bed and stayed the night, but he had also silently provided the most fundamental care: food. Sustenance. A reason to not fall apart completely.
"Oh my goodness, Carlos, no you didn't," I breathed, a real, unburdened smile spreading across my face for the first time in weeks. "When did you even do this?"
"When you were asleep this morning." He said it as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a billionaire to play personal chef and grocery shopper at dawn.
A new, thrilling thought occurred to me. "Wait, you slept over?"
"Yes, I did. On the sofa." His large, powerful frame curled on my small, slightly saggy sofa. The image was both absurd and profoundly touching.
"You could have just come to bed, Carlos," I said softly, the boldness of the suggestion surprising even me.
There was a beat of silence on the other end, and I could almost feel his smile. "This is my first," I continued, my voice thickening with emotion. "No man has ever done anything like this for me. Thank you." I wanted to cry, but this time, they were tears of overwhelming, grateful relief.
"Anything for you, Tesoro." His voice dropped, intimate and warm.
The new, foreign word sent another wave of heat to my cheeks. "What does that even mean?" I asked, leaning against the counter for support.
"Darling," he translated, and the way he said it, with that low, possessive rumble, made my knees weak. "My treasure."
Oh my gosh. I blessed the day I had stumbled, champagne-filled and humiliated, onto that balcony.
"You're doing so much for me, Carlos, and I feel bad. I haven't done anything in return," I whispered, the old insecurity surfacing.
"You don't have to do anything in return," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. "Your presence is always enough for me."
The tears finally spilled over, tracing warm paths down my cheeks. They were not tears of grief, but of being seen. Of being valued not for what I could do, but simply for who I was in his presence.
"You're too good for me, Carlos," I managed, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand, a happy, watery laugh mixing with my crying.
"Eat, Tesoro. I will come to get you when you are ready." The promise in his voice was a balm, a shield against the storm I still had to face.
As the call ended, I stood in my sunlit kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of his care. For the first time since Maya's silence and Austin's devastating news, I didn't feel like I was drowning. I felt anchored. I felt, against all odds, cherished. And for a girl who hadn't had a good night's rest in what felt like an eternity, that feeling was more precious than any private jet.