Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Unsolicited Proposal
The image of Rihan's small, solemn wave haunted Amaya through a sleepless night. It wasn't just the boy; it was the whole, silent tableau. The meticulous care, the watchful stillness, the way Aris's entire being had softened and focused on that tiny point of his universe. She had seen the weight he carried, not just as a doctor, but as a father to a child whose inner world was a fortress.
The protectiveness that surged in her was instinctive, primal. It had nothing to do with Aris Rowon, the man who had broken her heart. It was for the child with the too-serious eyes. It was the future psychologist in her, the one trained to listen to silences, seeing a puzzle that desperately needed solving. It was the human in her, unable to witness quiet struggle without wanting to reach out.
But mixed with that pure instinct was a toxic, churning residue of anger. He doesn't deserve my kindness. The memory of his cold congratulations, the implication that her wedding would be merely "well-organized," stung. He saw her still as the chaotic, delusional girl, a disruption to be managed. He had looked at Richard and seen a suit, a fixture in her "well-organized" life, and had dismissed them both.
Stupid me, she thought, pacing her apartment as dawn bled into the sky. He'll think I'm making an excuse to be near him. He'll see it as a pathetic ploy from the hopeless girl who couldn't take no for an answer.
Yet, the image of Rihan's retreat into his father's leg wouldn't leave her. That wasn't just shyness. It was a retreat. A defense.
By 7 AM, fueled by strong coffee and a furious, conflicted resolve, she knew she had to say something. Not for him. For the boy. She would be professional, detached, and make it absolutely clear this was about her developing clinical eye, nothing else.
She arrived at the hospital early, her stomach a knot of nerves. She didn't go to the intern's lounge. She went straight to his office, before the day's buffer of appointments and crises could make it harder.
She knocked, the sound too loud in the quiet hallway.
"Enter."
He was at his desk, already immersed in a journal, a cup of black coffee steaming beside him. He looked up, and his expression—expecting a colleague, perhaps, or an early administrative query—hardened instantly when he saw her. The vulnerability of the restaurant was gone, sealed away behind the familiar, impermeable mask of Dr. Rowon.
"Dr. Snow. The intake assessment is not due for another two hours." His tone was a dismissal in advance.
"This isn't about the assessment." She stepped inside, closing the door but remaining standing, putting physical space between them. She held her tablet like a shield. "It's… an observation. From last night."
His pen stilled. He leaned back in his chair, the movement slow and deliberate. His gaze was a physical weight. "I was under the impression our personal lives were not appropriate topics for supervision."
"This isn't about our personal lives," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. She took a breath, forcing calm. "It's a clinical observation. Of your son."
His entire body went still. The air in the room chilled by several degrees. "Explain." The single word was a threat.
"I couldn't help but notice Rihan's behavior. The profound stillness, the avoidance of eye contact after initial curiosity, the retreat into physical contact as a shield against social demand. The way he processed the menu—it was analytical, not anticipatory." She kept her voice flat, reporting. "Given your field, you've certainly had him assessed. But what I saw last night, from a developmental and behavioral perspective, suggested complexities that might benefit from specific, nuanced psychological intervention beyond… beyond medical management."
She was treading on a minefield, and she knew it. Accusing him, the brilliant psychiatrist, of not having the full picture for his own son.
He didn't speak for a long moment. He just looked at her, and in his hazel eyes, she saw the storm gathering. Not hurt. Not gratitude. Icy, controlled fury.
"You observed him for less than five minutes in a novel, over-stimulating environment," he said, each word clipped and precise. "And from that, you feel qualified to suggest my approach is lacking."
"I'm not suggesting it's lacking. I'm suggesting it might be incomplete." The words tumbled out, driven by her conviction. "Psychiatry gives you the lock. Psychology can help you find the key. Or at least, understand the lock's mechanism better. I've been studying the latest play-based assessment models for minimally verbal children, and there are new neurocognitive therapies—"
"Stop." He stood up, cutting her off. He wasn't tall just in memory; he was tall in reality, and he used that height now, looming over the desk. "Let me be unequivocally clear, Dr. Snow. My son's health is not a topic for your professional curiosity. It is not a 'case' for you to solve to prove your burgeoning competence. It is certainly not an avenue for you to attempt some form of… misplaced personal restitution."
The blow landed with brutal accuracy. He had seen right through her tangled motives and attributed the worst one. He thought this was about him. About her.
The anger she had banked all night erupted, white-hot and purifying. It burned away the nerves, the protectiveness, everything but a clear, sharp rage.
"You think this is about you?" Her voice dropped, trembling with intensity. "You arrogant, self-absorbed… bastard."
He flinched, ever so slightly, as if the crude word was a physical shock in his sterile office.
"I looked at that little boy and I saw a child who might be struggling in a world that's too loud and too bright, and I, as a human being and a future psychologist, felt a desire to help. That's it. But of course, Aris Rowon assumes the entire universe revolves around his magnetic presence." She took a step closer, ignoring the dangerous proximity. "Let me spell it out for you, since you seem to have a pathological need to misinterpret me. I do not have feelings for you. I am engaged. To a man you saw last night. Why on earth would I be interested in you? A man who rejected me so completely he became the blueprint for my greatest failure?"
His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He said nothing, but his eyes were blazing.
"And what happened five years ago?" she continued, the words pouring out like poison she needed to expel. "That was a childish mistake. I was a sixteen-year-old with a hopeless crush who grew into an eighteen-year-old idiot who thought love was a grand gesture. That girl is gone. This woman in front of you? She is not her. So don't you dare look at every professional shortcoming, every offer of help, and see the ghost of that delusional girl. You are not that special. You are my supervisor. That is all."
She was breathing hard, the silence in the office roaring in her ears. She had crossed every line. She had called him a bastard to his face. Her career here was probably over.
His expression was unreadable. The fury was still there, but it had been overlaid with something else—a kind of cold, analytical shock. He was dissecting her outburst as if it were a novel symptom.
Finally, he spoke, his voice dangerously quiet. "Are you finished?"
She straightened her spine, the fight draining out of her, leaving only a hollow ache. She had said what she needed to say. For herself, if not for Rihan.
"Yes."
"Then get out."
She turned to leave, her hand on the doorknob.
"Dr. Snow."
She didn't turn around.
"Your… offer," he said, the word dripping with sarcasm, "is noted. And rejected. Do not mention my son again. Consider that a direct order. And your assessment is now due on my desk in one hour. I suggest you use the time to cool your evidently volatile temper and focus on the work this hospital is paying you to do."
She walked out, closing the door softly behind her. The hallway swayed. She had done it. She had offered help from a place of genuine instinct, and she had destroyed any semblance of a professional relationship in the process. He thought her kindness was a disguised bid for his attention. He had insulted her character, her motives, and she had, in turn, lit the fuse on her own career.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought, leaning her forehead against the cool wall. But as the panic subsided, a strange, grim clarity took its place. She had drawn her line. She had told her truth. He could think what he wanted. She knew why she had done it. And for the first time in five years, the ghost of the girl in the wedding dress felt truly, finally, laid to rest.