I knew something was wrong the moment I walked into my apartment.
The hotel was sterile, efficient — a perfectly designed bubble for the campaign, but it wasn't home. Not really. The rooms blurred together after a while, all marble and muted lighting, with just enough luxury to feel like a reward for surviving another day on the public stage. But they never felt like mine.
My apartment was different. It was quieter — not in the way that hotel rooms were quiet, but in the way that silence settles around the things you know are yours. The worn spots on the carpet, the faint smell of old books and lavender, the way the afternoon light filtered through the cracked blinds just so.
Coming back here was my anchor.
No matter how many cities we raced through, how many events Aidan and I prepped for, this was the place where I could pretend I wasn't always on — where the masks slipped and the pressure thinned.
So even though the hotel was just a few blocks away, and even though it offered every comfort and convenience imaginable, I needed to be here. I needed to be somewhere that felt real, where I wasn't a strategist, or a PR puppet, or a woman trying to keep everything from falling apart.
I dropped my bag by the door, closed it behind me, and for the first time in days, let myself breathe without pretending.
Maybe it was the stillness. Or the sudden absence of movement after days spent inside a whirling storm of cameras, speeches, and perfectly scripted soundbites. But the silence didn't feel peaceful. It felt hollow.
I dropped my bag by the door and stood there for a moment, breathing in the air that somehow felt both familiar and foreign. My coat still smelled like the hotel's laundry detergent and the lingering trace of Aidan's cologne — a warm, woodsy scent that shouldn't have followed me here, but did.
I shrugged it off, changed into sweatpants, and told myself I'd sleep.
Instead, I started to shiver.
The fever came fast — subtle at first. A dry scratch in the back of my throat. A nagging ache behind my eyes. I ignored it, made tea, curled under the blanket on my couch. But by midnight, my body was shaking like I'd been dropped in ice water, my skin hot and clammy at once.
I tried to text Jordan, then Aidan.
Then stopped myself.
This wasn't part of the plan. I didn't get sick. I didn't slow down. I didn't unravel.
But this—this felt like unraveling.
By morning, I could barely sit up. The fever had climbed higher, my chest ached with every breath, and a pounding headache turned every sound into a drumbeat against my skull. Even the light filtering through my curtains felt aggressive.
I reached for my phone, just to check messages, but dropped it onto the floor with clumsy fingers. I didn't have the energy to retrieve it.
Instead, I lay there — cocooned in fever and silence.
Alone.
Which, maybe, was the safest way to be. If no one saw you break, then maybe it didn't count.
Because breaking in silence meant you could still pretend. Pretend you were fine, that you were still in control, still the person everyone believed you to be. There was a kind of power in private pain — invisible, unspoken. It didn't stain your image. It didn't make anyone uncomfortable. It didn't get passed around in whispers behind conference room doors or immortalized in headlines next to unflattering photos.
If no one saw the cracks, then maybe they weren't real.
Maybe you were still whole.
It was the public unraveling that terrified me — the kind where people tilted their heads in sympathy, or worse, pity. The kind where someone reached for your hand like you were fragile. I didn't want anyone's hand. I wanted space. I wanted silence. I wanted to come undone on my own terms, in a room no one else had the key to.
So I didn't tell anyone I felt like I was falling apart.
I didn't ask for help.
I just curled into the quiet and told myself that as long as I suffered alone, I could still call it strength.
Because if no one saw you break, you could still call it resilience.
Even if it wasn't.
Around noon, there was a knock at the door. I didn't answer. Couldn't. It came again, louder this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.
I frowned through the haze. Only two people had keys to my place.
"Jesus, Sophie."
Aidan's voice cut through the fog.
I turned my head toward him, vision blurry, but I knew it was him. That voice — sharp with concern, soft with something else — had started to feel like a language only the two of us spoke.
He crossed the room in two long strides, kneeling beside me.
"You didn't answer your phone. Jordan was worried." His hand brushed my forehead. I flinched. "You're burning up."
"I'm fine," I whispered, even though we both knew I was lying.
Aidan didn't argue. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with water and two aspirin, gently lifting me enough to take them.
"You should be in Chicago," I mumbled after I'd swallowed.
"I canceled the afternoon. I'll fly back tomorrow."
"You can't just—"
"I already did."
His tone left no room for debate.
I blinked at him, surprised by the certainty in his voice. "Why?"
He paused. "Because I needed to make sure you were okay."
The words shouldn't have mattered. But they did.
He helped me sit up a little, adjusted the blanket, then sat on the floor beside the couch like he intended to stay.
"You don't have to do this," I said softly. "This isn't part of the job."
"Maybe not," he said. "But maybe I'm done only doing what's expected."
I closed my eyes, breathing carefully.
The silence stretched between us again — this time softer, full of things unsaid.
"I've never seen you like this," Aidan said eventually. "You're always… composed. Unshakeable."
"Guess the flu doesn't care about PR strategy," I said weakly.
He smiled, just a little. "Even sick, you're trying to be clever."
I turned my face toward the window, too exhausted to pretend anymore. "I don't know who I am when I'm not working. Not performing."
There. A truth. Ugly and vulnerable.
Aidan didn't fill the silence right away. When he did, his voice was low. "I know exactly what that feels like."
I glanced at him. He was staring ahead, fingers loosely laced together. He looked thoughtful, not pitying. Like he'd been there too.
Like maybe he still was.
"It's easy to hide behind the version of ourselves we give to the world," he said. "But sometimes… you get tired of hiding."
I swallowed, throat dry and tight.
"I didn't want you to see me like this," I admitted. "Weak."
"You're not weak," he said firmly. "You're human."
I didn't know how to respond to that.
So I didn't.
I just leaned back and let the quiet settle again, grateful for his presence even if I didn't know what it meant.
Eventually, I drifted off, fever lulling me into fitful sleep. I dreamed of hotel hallways and the way he'd looked at me in the dark, of almost-moments and things left unsaid. When I woke again, the light had changed — softer, golden. Aidan was still there, sitting with his back against the couch, head tilted back, eyes closed but not quite asleep.
"Still here?" I croaked.
He turned toward me with that half-smile I'd started to memorize. "Told you. I'm not going anywhere."
And in that moment — I finds myself away from the polished, controlled environment I used to — the world of media, image management, and scripted. In that vulnerable state, I let myself believe that Aidan is being sincere.
Even if I didn't know what will come next.
Even if I was still afraid to find out.