The next morning, I awoke to a strange sensation—stillness. The kind that only comes when something shifts in your life, just slightly, just enough to remind you that you're not standing in the same place anymore.
Richard didn't say much after I told him about my aunt. He just nodded and disappeared into his room. But something about the way he'd asked "Are you okay?" lingered in my chest like the echo of a song you couldn't quite forget.
No one had asked me that in a long time. Not without expecting something in return.
He was my husband, that much is expected from him—but in a contractual marriage, was it?
I visited the hospital again that afternoon.
My aunt was more lucid this time, which came with its own difficulties.
She looked up at me through half-lidded eyes and said, "You finally made something of yourself."
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You married rich." She gave a half-hearted laugh. "Took you long enough."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to ask her why she never said she was proud of me before. Why it only mattered now.
But I didn't.
I just said, "I hope you get better soon," and sat in the corner quietly, watching her drift in and out of sleep.
When I returned home, Mira was waiting for me in the hallway.
"Mr. Calein left something in your room," she said.
I raised an eyebrow. "In my room?"
She nodded.
I entered cautiously. The door creaked open. And there, sitting neatly on the edge of my desk, was a folder with a yellow sticky note on top:
"For your aunt's bills. No questions. —R."
I opened the folder and saw it—papers from a private hospital. Surgery sponsorships. A paid-in-full receipt. Everything handled.
My heart lodged itself somewhere between gratitude and discomfort.
He hadn't asked me if I needed help.
He'd just done it.
Not to control me. Not to guilt me.
But because he could.
And maybe, just maybe, because he wanted to.
That evening, I found him in the west garden. He stood near the white roses, hands tucked in his coat pockets.
I walked up behind him and said softly, "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," he said, still not facing me. "That's why I did."
I stood beside him. The wind was cold, but the silence wasn't.
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything."
And then, after a pause, he added, "But I'm not doing this out of pity. Don't mistake it for that."
"I'm not," I whispered.
He finally looked at me. His eyes were sharper than usual, like he wanted to say something more. But he didn't.
Instead, he said, "If you want to see her every day, take the car. Don't call a cab again."
I blinked. "How did you know?"
"I get alerts every time one of my drivers logs your name at the gate. It's protocol."
My lips parted slightly. "That's… oddly specific."
"It's not surveillance," he added. "Just safety."
I smiled. "Then thank you. For the concern. Even if it's protocol."
His eyes softened just enough.
He was about to say something —but didn't. Just left
The next few days passed quietly.
He was busier than usual—early mornings, late nights, endless meetings. But something had changed. He didn't vanish behind closed doors anymore. He told me when he'd be late. He left coffee on the table before I woke up. He asked how my aunt was doing, every day.
Little things.
Things no one else had ever done for me.
And for the first time in a long time, I stopped bracing myself for disappointment.
I let myself feel… warm.
One evening, as I sat at the piano bench, idly pressing random notes, he entered the room and stood behind me.
"You're off-key."
I rolled my eyes. "Thanks. I was trying to be."
He leaned over and gently moved my hand. "Here. Like this."
I froze.
His hand stayed on mine for a second too long. His breath close to my ear. The world narrowed down to that small space between us.
When he pulled back, neither of us said anything.
But my heart hadn't stopped racing.