The air was thick with tension, but Ayla told herself it was only her. The moment her eyes locked with Silas's across the wide marble floor of the business lounge, her blood ran cold. She had been in the middle of a polite conversation with one of the core partners of the investment firm that had recently poured capital into Silas's struggling company. A firm she had quietly reached out to—through old networks and silent favors—to save him when he'd refused her help directly.
She had kept her distance. Had moved like a ghost. Hidden her name in the paperwork. Let only those she trusted speak on her behalf. She had done everything right.
But now…
Silas stood by the glass door, briefcase in hand, eyes unmoving, locked on her like a blade.
Her stomach turned. Her breath hitched.
He knows.
The thought sliced through her with the force of a blow.
She couldn't even finish the conversation. Her lips faltered over a goodbye, and she turned sharply, muttering a vague excuse. She walked fast—too fast—her heels tapping unevenly across the floor, heart pounding in her ears.
She wasn't even sure where she was going. The elevator felt too slow. The lobby too open. By the time she stepped out onto the quiet street, her hands were trembling.
He was going to hate her.
She had interfered.
He had told her no. And she went behind his back anyway. Not because she didn't trust him—but because she couldn't stand to see him suffer. But would he believe that? Or would he only see it as an overstep?
What if he thought she pitied him?
The thought made her nauseous.
Panic bubbled in her chest, rising like boiling water. Her breaths came faster, too shallow. The noise around her faded. The honk of a distant car, the chatter of passing pedestrians—all fell away. Her fingers clenched into fists.
She couldn't breathe.
She ducked into a side street, leaning heavily against the cool stone wall of a building. Her vision blurred. Her chest tightened painfully. Her legs felt like they might give out any moment.
What had she done?
Why did she help him?
Because I love him.
The answer came unbidden, raw, and sharp.
And now he would hate her for it.
A sound behind her made her freeze. Soft, slow footsteps.
She didn't need to look.
She felt him. Like gravity. Heavy and undeniable.
She tried to straighten up, to pull herself together, but her body wouldn't obey. Her breath shuddered in her lungs, hands trembling violently at her sides. Her knees buckled slightly—and that's when she felt him step closer.
No words. No questions.
Just his presence, anchoring her.
He didn't touch her right away. He simply stood beside her, close enough that she could feel his warmth. That familiar scent—clean linen, cedarwood, and something sharper—wrapped around her like a second skin.
Ayla pressed her hand against her chest, trying to calm her wild heartbeat.
She waited for him to speak.
To ask.
To confront.
But he didn't.
Instead, he offered a small water bottle. Without a word, he unscrewed the cap and held it out to her.
Her hands were shaking too hard to accept it.
He gently took her hand in his and wrapped her fingers around the bottle.
Still no words.
She drank slowly, her throat tight, each sip an effort.
Then he stepped to the side, blocking the view from the street behind her, shielding her silently. One hand slipped into his pant pocket, the other resting loosely by his side. He didn't try to make her look at him. Didn't press her with questions or accusations.
Just stood there.
A quiet, steady presence.
Ayla's panic ebbed slowly, like a tide pulling back. Her breaths, while still ragged, became more even. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she blinked them away.
She expected coldness. Distance. Maybe even a cutting remark.
But there was only silence.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just… solid.
Eventually, when her legs felt stable again, she moved away from the wall. She still couldn't meet his eyes. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse.
"I'm sorry."
Silas said nothing.
Her shoulders shook slightly. "I didn't mean to interfere. I just… I couldn't watch you struggle. I thought… I thought if I helped without you knowing, maybe it would be okay."
Still no response.
She forced herself to look up.
His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something quiet, and deep, and not nearly as cold as she had feared.
He raised a hand slowly.
Ayla flinched—only slightly—but enough to make his movement stop midway. Then, he let it fall.
She hated herself for reacting like that. He wasn't Ray, he wasn't anything like her father.
Silas turned slightly and started walking.
She stood frozen.
Then, after a few steps, he paused and looked back.
A small gesture.
Come with me.
No words. No commands. Just that one, quiet invitation.
And somehow, that broke her more than any anger ever could.
She followed.
They walked in silence. Back to the apartment. Back to the place where she had tried to make a home. Where she had hoped—foolishly—that her presence meant something more than just shared space.
When they reached the apartment, he opened the door for her. Waited till she stepped in. Then closed it softly behind them.
She went to the living room, sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Silas returned moments later. Set a warm cup of milk on the table in front of her.
Still, not a single word.
And yet…
She felt spoken to. Cared for.
Understood.
Not forgiven. Not entirely. But not hated either.
The silence between them stretched long, but it wasn't as suffocating as before.
Maybe this was his way.
Maybe, even if he didn't say it—he didn't want her to disappear.
And for Ayla, that was enough to breathe again.
Even if her heart still ached.
Even if the fear still lingered.
She stayed.