I didn't fall asleep immediately.

But I did eventually. Maybe thirty minutes later.

Val didn't.

She lay there beside me, still as glass, her breathing too shallow, too careful, like she was afraid the quiet between us would shatter if she moved too much. I could feel it, even half-asleep: the weight of her thoughts, the way she kept turning slightly, then stopping, like she wanted to reach for me but couldn't.

And maybe she didn't sleep at all. Because every time I stirred, her side of the bed was warm, not the kind of warmth that came from rest, but from someone who'd been lying awake too long.

If I'd opened my eyes, maybe I would've seen her staring at the ceiling, hands clutching the sheets, eyes red and glassy, fighting back tears that had nowhere to go. Maybe I would've seen the guilt written all over her face, the way she bit her lip to keep herself from making a sound.

But I didn't. I just slept, thinking distance would make it easier.

It didn't.

And she stayed there beside me, in the dark, her heart breaking quietly next to mine.

---

I woke up to find her watching me.

Val was seated on her knees beside the bed, hands resting on her lap, her eyes fixed on me in that quiet, uncertain way that made my chest tighten. For a second, I thought I was still dreaming. But then I saw her eyes — red around the rims, tired in a way sleep could've fixed if she'd let it.

She hadn't slept. Not even for a minute.

Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something… but the words never made it out. They just trembled there, caught somewhere between her throat and her heart.

I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and sat up slowly, the sheets rustling. "Val?"

She flinched a little, as though my voice broke whatever fragile thought she was holding. Then she smiled—weakly, like she had to convince her face to do it.

> "M… morning, husband."

The way she said it, soft, uneven, hit something deep. She looked fragile, too fragile. Even with everything that had happened, with the anger that still sat somewhere under my ribs, seeing her like that made the sharp edges dull for a moment.

I rubbed my face, trying to find my voice. "Did you even sleep?"

She shook her head, then looked away. "I wasn't really tired."

That was a lie. Anyone could see it. But I didn't push.

"You look pale," I murmured. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly, almost too quickly.

The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was heavy, stretched thin between us like a thread ready to snap. She was holding herself together, the same way she always did when she didn't want me to see her fall apart.

Then, quietly, she asked, "Are you… still mad at me?"

Her voice cracked halfway through the question.

I looked up. Her eyes met mine, wide and glassy, and for a second, I forgot what anger even felt like. There was no defiance in her, no argument, just fear. Not the kind born from guilt, but from someone terrified of losing the one person she couldn't bear to.

Was I still mad?

Yeah.

But looking at her, I couldn't even tell what the anger was aimed at anymore. Her? Her father? The way the entire world seemed to enjoy twisting the knife deeper?

Because the truth was, what if she really didn't know? What if all of it wasn't her fault at all?

But then again, how could I believe that? The way she'd spoken at the conference—so sure, so precise—it wasn't the voice of someone caught off guard. It was the voice of someone who knew the work like the back of her hand.

Still… watching her now, her fingers fumbling with each other, her shoulders trembling slightly as she tried to hold herself together, I couldn't bring myself to say yes.

Because more than the sting of yesterday, more than the whispers and the stares and the headlines, what hurt most was seeing her hurt.

I sighed and leaned back against the headboard. "I'm not upset," I said quietly.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment I thought she'd stop breathing altogether. "Promise?" she whispered.

I turned my head toward her. Her eyes shimmered like the light would break them if it got too close.

"Promise," I said.

And we both knew I didn't mean it.

She moved closer, cautiously, like she was afraid I might flinch. "Can I… get a hug?"

I didn't answer, not with words. Just exhaled, long and tired.

She took it as a yes.

Her arms slid around me, soft and trembling, her forehead pressing against my chest. For a second, neither of us moved. Then I felt it, the small shudder of her body, the silent apology she couldn't say loud enough.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

And maybe she was. Maybe she wasn't.

But in that moment, holding her felt like holding both the reason I was breaking, and the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.

---

She lingered there for a while, wrapped around me like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go. Eventually, she rose, whispering that she'd take a quick shower before making breakfast. I just nodded. I didn't trust my voice not to crack.

The sound of running water filled the silence that followed. I sat on the edge of the bed, hands pressed against my face, breathing through the ache in my chest.

That's when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

At first, I thought it might be a message from Trent, or some work update. But when I saw the name flashing across the screen, my stomach tightened.

Unknown Number.

For a second, I actually considered ignoring it. I should've. But curiosity — and something darker — made me answer.

I swiped to answer.

"Hello?"

There was a short pause, then a familiar, steady voice slid through the speaker. "Kai,"

The sound of his voice made my stomach twist.

"Mr. Moreau," I said quietly, fingers tightening around the phone.

His voice came smooth and calm, like always, carrying that controlled, detached tone of someone who never said anything without purpose. "How are you doing, son? Everything all right at home?"

I froze. "You know damn well it's not."

He gave a small hum, the kind people make when they're pretending to care. "Ah, I assumed as much. I imagine things are… a bit tense between you and my daughter after yesterday."

I clenched my jaw. "How did you get this number?"

"I own one of the largest corporations in the country, Kai," he replied smoothly, amusement threading through his words. "Finding a phone number isn't exactly difficult. But don't worry, this isn't about business."

There was a smile in his voice now, one of those condescending, polished ones. "I called out of… concern."

"Concern," I echoed flatly.

"Yes. For you, actually." He paused. "You've got talent, Kai. That much, I can't deny. If you'd taken the position I offered that night, maybe you'd be sitting beside Celestia now instead of watching from a distance."

My fingers tightened around the phone. "I'm not watching from a distance."

"Of course you are. You just don't know it yet." He chuckled softly. "The Meridian Initiative was always meant to belong to the Moreaus. You, however brilliant, were always going to be… temporary."

"Funny," I said, voice low, "because I don't remember being temporary in your daughter's life."

The smile in his tone didn't falter. "Oh, you misunderstand me. I'm not questioning her feelings, Kai. I'm questioning your place in her world. The sooner you realize that, the easier this will be for both of you."

I swallowed hard, jaw aching from how tightly I was clenching it. "If this is your way of mocking me—"

"It's not mockery. It's advice," he interrupted smoothly. "You're bright. You could have had everything if you'd just chosen the right side. Instead, you chose loyalty. Noble, but… impractical."

My pulse thundered in my ears.

"Then maybe I'll prove you wrong."

He hummed again, amused. "You can try. But remember, Kai, my daughter's loyalty is beautiful, but it has limits. And when those limits are tested, she will always protect her family name. The sooner you accept that, the less it'll hurt when she does."

The line clicked.

For a few seconds, I just sat there, the phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing. The water was still running in the bathroom, muffled by the door.

I looked toward it and suddenly, the truth hit me harder than anything he'd said.

Maybe she really hadn't known. Maybe she'd been just as blindsided as I was.

But that still didn't mean we were okay.

Not with the way things stood.

Not with her father in the middle of everything that was ours.

I dropped the phone onto the nightstand and exhaled slowly.

For the first time since this all began, the fear that had lived in the back of my mind, the one whispering that I'd never be good enough for her family, shifted into something else entirely.

Resolve.

I wasn't going to let him win.

Not this time.

Not because of the project, not because of the company...

But because of her.

Because if I was going to fight Charlie George Moreau, I was going to fight for the only thing that ever truly mattered to me.

For Val.

For us.

---

To be continued...

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