WHAT THE VOWS DIDN'T SAY

I didn't sleep, again.

Not even for a second.

The rose stayed exactly where I left it, on the floor, beside the photo that made my skin crawl. I didn't dare pick either up. I didn't dare move much at all.

I sat in the living room, curled on the couch, staring at the door like it might swing open at any moment. My ears strained for footsteps, the clink of keys, the telltale shift of the elevator that meant Marcus was coming home.

But he never came.

Not that night. Not by dawn. Not even by the time I was supposed to get dressed and head to work.

I nearly didn't. A part of me wanted to stay frozen in that apartment, too numb to move and too scared to care. But another part of me-maybe the stronger part, or maybe just the part that still knew how to pretend, got up, took a shower, dressed in something muted, and left like nothing happened.

Except everything had.

The limp in my step was worse today. My muscles were sore from tension, and the bandage I hastily wrapped around my palm throbbed beneath the fabric of my glove. The cold bite of the morning air didn't help. I winced with every movement, but I didn't complain. I never did.

Hale Corp's glass doors opened like the gates to another world-a place where I didn't have to be a wife. Just an assistant, just Isla, just... tired.

I went about the day quietly, answering emails, organizing Sebastian's schedule, and avoiding mirrors. Every time I sat, I tried not to flinch. Every time I stood, I tried not to gasp. And every time I caught my reflection, I tried not to look too long.

I thought I was doing a good job hiding it.

Until I wasn't.

"Stop."

The word came sharp, firm, Sebastian's voice, slicing through my mental fog like a blade.

I looked up from my desk. He was standing in his office doorway, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me.

"I...sorry?"

He didn't reply right away. Just walked toward me, eyes dropping briefly to the hand I instinctively hid behind my skirt. Then to my feet. The way I stood. The way I didn't lean on one side.

I stiffened.

"Come inside. Now!" He said.

"I'm fine," I lied.

"You're limping. And your hand.." he paused, jaw tight.

"You're bleeding through your bandage."

I looked down.

Damn it.

I hadn't even realized the gauze was soaked through. I moved to pull my sweater sleeve lower, but he stepped closer, too fast.

I flinched.

Not dramatically. Not noticeably, I hoped.

But enough.

He stilled. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I didn't say you would."

"You didn't have to."

The air between us shifted. I didn't want this. I didn't want him seeing too much. Knowing too much. Because knowledge made things dangerous,for both of us.

Still, I followed him into his office. Slowly, reluctantly.

The door closed behind me with a soft click that felt deafening.

Sebastian motioned to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."

"I'm okay..."

"Sit!"

There was no softness in his tone this time. It wasn't a request.

I sat.

He disappeared into the private lounge attached to his office and returned seconds later with a first aid kit.

"This really isn't necessary," I tried again, but my voice lacked conviction.

"You need help," he said, kneeling in front of me before I could argue again. "Let me help."

My breath caught as he took my hand. Gently. Carefully. Like he thought I might shatter if he held on too tight.

And maybe I would.

"I can do it myself," I said, voice shaking.

"I'm already here."

He peeled the soaked gauze away. His brows furrowed as he saw the deep cut.

"This wasn't from an accident," he muttered.

I said nothing.

He cleaned it in silence, hands steady, touch warm. I didn't realize I was watching him so closely until he looked up...his eyes meeting mine.

We froze. Just for a second.

It was stupid. I hated that it made my heart beat louder.

His eyes searched mine like he was trying to ask a question without words. I didn't have an answer even if he had.

"I see everything, Isla," he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. "Even when you try so hard to hide it."

"You shouldn't," I murmured, finally looking away. "You really shouldn't."

"Why?"

I hesitated. "Because it makes things worse. For you."

He placed a clean bandage over the wound and taped it in place with a care that made my throat tighten.

"I'm not afraid of worse."

"Well, I am."

I regretted saying it the moment it left my lips. Because it made me sound weak. And I hated sounding weak in front of him.

But instead of pity, he nodded...like he understood. Maybe he did.

When he finished, he sat back on his heels. "And your limp?"

"I'll manage."

"That's not what I asked."d

I hesitated. My mouth opened, then closed. "Just a fall." I lied. I can't tell him all my injuries are from broken cups.

His jaw tensed. "You fell. And cut your hand. And you're still walking like that."

"I'm fine."

He stood. The silence swelled again, heavy and full of things I couldn't say and he wasn't allowed to.

"Next time you're hurt," he said, walking to the door and opening it, "come to me first."

I paused in the doorway. I wanted to tell him there's a probability I might not come to him if there's a next time.

And I shouldn't have turned around. But I did.

Our eyes met again. Just briefly.

Just enough.

Something unspoken hovered in the air between us. Something quiet. Something fragile.

I didn't name it.

Neither did he.