The change in the apartment was subtle at first—like the way winter creeps in slowly, unnoticed, until one morning you wake up shivering.
Silas started leaving early. Earlier than usual. He used to wake before her anyway, slipping into his routine with the quiet discipline of a man who didn't know rest. But now, he was gone before dawn, his side of the bed untouched—if he even came home at all.
Ayla noticed. Of course she did.
His jacket disappeared from the hallway. His shoes never moved. The coffee mug he used every morning remained untouched on the counter. And sometimes, she wouldn't see him for two days—just a quiet apartment, the ghost of his presence lingering like a forgotten scent in the air.
When he did return, it was always late. Past midnight. His steps were heavier. His face—sharper, more sunken. A permanent crease now etched between his brows. She heard the door click softly, the sound of keys on the table, and sometimes his weary sigh before he collapsed on the couch. He didn't even change out of his clothes.
Once, she tiptoed out of her room, wanting to at least put a blanket over him. But when she stood near him, she saw the tension in his body even in sleep—jaw clenched, fingers twitching, like he was fighting something even in his dreams. She didn't dare disturb him.
Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
And when she asked, he told her nothing.
"Work," he said simply, brushing past her one morning when she gathered the courage to press. "It's just work."
But Ayla wasn't stupid. She knew when something was falling apart.
The clues came together painfully slowly.
Muted phone calls. Whispered curses. Long hours locked in the study. The one time she walked in by mistake, only to find him hunched over a laptop, face pale, eyes sunken with exhaustion—and the screen filled with graphs and numbers, all flashing red.
And then, the confirmation came.
She overheard it. By accident. He was in the hallway, speaking sharply on the phone.
"I need time. You pulling out now would kill the project. I'll find another source, but I need—dammit, listen to me, don't walk away now."
Ayla froze in the kitchen, her heart sinking.
Investors.
They were pulling out. His company—his dream—was bleeding, and he was trying to hold it together with trembling hands.
And yet… he said nothing to her.
That night, she waited. Sat on the couch until well past midnight, curled in silence, waiting for the sound of the key turning. He didn't come.
The next morning, she made breakfast and left it on the table. Just in case.
She didn't know what to say. But she needed to try.
When he finally returned the following evening, she approached him hesitantly, her hands clasped tightly together.
"I heard something… about the investors," she said gently, eyes pleading. "Silas, let me help. I can—"
"No."
The rejection was instant. Like a slap to her face.
His tone was colder than winter winds, his eyes flat and unreadable. "Don't get involved."
She stared at him, the sting blooming fast in her chest.
"I just want to help—"
"I said no, Ayla." His voice was sharper now. "Stay out of it."
And just like that, he walked past her.
She stood there, stunned, her heart cracking open in painful silence.
It wasn't just the rejection.
It was how easy it seemed for him to cast her out of the equation. How little her care seemed to matter. Like her presence in his life was nothing more than a shadow he tolerated.
That night, she cried alone in her room, face buried in her pillow, not because he shouted—he hadn't even raised his voice much. But because he didn't let her in. Because he was breaking, and he wouldn't even let her offer a hand.
She told herself she would respect his wishes.
But her heart wouldn't listen.
Because love wasn't about pride. It was about standing beside someone even when they swore they didn't need you. It was about giving without expecting gratitude. And Ayla… Ayla loved him too deeply to watch him fall apart alone.
So she made a decision.
She opened her laptop and contacted the only people she knew who could do something—old friends from her finance days, former colleagues, and one trusted mentor who now held influence with an angel fund.
They didn't know about Silas. Not directly.
And she didn't tell them everything. She simply said she'd come across a project with immense value but short on emergency funding. A young founder, struggling after a sudden investor exit. She gave them the business deck anonymously, careful to hide her name. She forged a pseudonym. Disguised her digital trail. Avoided anything that could trace the help back to her.
She wasn't just a normal employee, after all.
She had once been one of the youngest core investment analysts in a competitive VC firm—until she walked away from it all. But she still had connections. She still had power. And she used it.
Carefully. Quietly. For him.
Over the next few days, she coordinated everything through email, encrypted channels, and secret meetings under another name. She couldn't be seen. Silas couldn't know. Not now. Not when he had so clearly pushed her out.
By the end of the week, she got the message she'd been hoping for:
"Funding secured. Disbursed within 48 hours."
She stared at the message for a long time, her chest filled with a strange ache.
Relief. Pain. Love.
He wouldn't know it was her.
He didn't need to.
All that mattered was that he would be okay. His company would survive. His dream would live on.
She watched him from the kitchen the next morning as he checked his phone, a frown slowly softening as he read something on the screen. She saw the tension in his shoulders loosen, just a little. The weight he carried shifting—almost imperceptibly.
She turned away before he could look up.
He didn't need to see her tears.
Because she would never ask for credit. Not even thanks. All she wanted was for him to be okay.
And maybe, just maybe… for her love to matter.
Even if he never knew.