POV Norah
I didn’t think the room would feel this bright. Or this cold.
The nurse adjusted the stirrups and told me to relax… like that was even possible. The sterile smell clung to my skin, and my heartbeat was loud in my ears.
I gripped the sides of the bed so tightly my knuckles hurt.
“You’re holding your breath,” Xander’s voice cut through the beeping of some machine.
Calm. Low. That CEO tone that always sounded like he was in control of everything.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You’re not.”
I turned my head, startled to see him sitting beside me.
Suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He reached for my hand without hesitation. His palm was warm, steady, and I didn’t even realize how badly I needed something to hold on to until my fingers closed around his.
“This is… awkward,” I whispered.
“Good thing I don’t care about awkward,” he said, watching me, not the doctor. “Look at me, not them.”
So I did.
His gaze didn’t waver once. Not when the nurse prepped the instruments, not when the doctor began the procedure, not even when I winced. He squeezed my hand, firm and grounding.
“Breathe,” he reminded me again, softer and quieter this time.
By the time it was over, I felt like I’d run a marathon without moving. The doctor was all smiles—“Clinically successful” were her exact words—but I barely heard her.
I was too aware of the fact that Xander still hadn’t let go of my hand.
It was only when we walked out into the hallway that he finally released me.
“You’re moving into the penthouse,” he said, like it was already decided.
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“For optimal monitoring,” he clarified, already pressing the elevator button. “The doctor suggested reduced stress, balanced meals, regular check-ins. You’ll have all of that there.”
I crossed my arms. “You mean you want to keep an eye on me.”
“That too.” The elevator dinged, and he stepped inside, holding the door. “Bring what you need tomorrow.”
And just like that, my address changed.
His penthouse was… ridiculous.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, marble floors so polished I could see my reflection, and a skyline view so unreal it felt stolen from a movie set. Beautiful, yes—but cold. Like him.
Every piece of furniture seemed perfectly placed for a magazine spread, not for actual living.
I had barely dropped my bag in the guest room when he appeared in the doorway, expression unreadable.
“The doctor said minimal stress and strict routines are essential,” he said. “You’ll be more comfortable here.”
“Comfortable?” I raised an eyebrow, glancing around at the pristine space. “It’s like moving into a museum.”
His mouth twitched—just enough to make me wonder if it was amusement. “You’ll adapt.”
By midday, I was still unpacking when I wandered into the kitchen for water. That’s when I saw it—my favorite tea sitting neatly on the counter, a brand so specific I knew I’d only mentioned it once, in passing.
I stared at the box. “Did your assistant buy this?”
“No,” he said from behind me, making me jump. “I did.”
“You remembered?”
“I don’t forget details that matter,” he replied simply, already turning away before I could process the way my chest tightened at that.
Later that afternoon, when I ventured into the living room, I noticed something else.
One corner had been rearranged into a reading nook, complete with a deep armchair, a side table, and a folded blanket that smelled faintly of fresh laundry.
It hadn’t been there this morning.
“You didn’t have to—” I started, but he cut me off without looking up from the file in his hand.
“Eat something first. The chef followed the nutritionist’s list.”
I blinked. “You had the chef…?”
“Non-negotiable.” His tone left no room for debate.
It wasn’t a warmth exactly. But it wasn’t the icy detachment I’d braced for, either.
By evening, I took a long shower, letting the water pound against my skin, hoping it would strip away the restless energy that had haunted me all day. Steam clung to me as I stepped into the bedroom, hair dripping down my back.
I was still naked, digging through the dresser for pajamas, when the door swung open.
I whipped around—too late.
Xander froze in the doorway, a file folder in his hand, his knuckles white around the knob. His eyes landed on me—on all of me—before I snatched for the towel on the bed.
My fingers fumbled, dragging it around me, but not before his gaze lingered, sharp and unyielding.
My heart slammed against my ribs, heat rising everywhere at once.
“Ever heard of knocking?” I bit out, clutching the towel tight, as if it could erase what he’d already seen.
His throat worked. For once, he didn’t have that cool, composed tone—his voice was low, edged, almost strained.
“I… forgot you were in here. Sorry.”
But he didn’t leave. His gaze flicked up, caught mine, and held. The air went electric, every second stretching too long, until the silence itself burned.
Then, with a sharp exhale, he turned and pulled the door shut, the click sounding louder than it should have.
I collapsed onto the edge of the bed, pulse racing, skin fever-hot.
It was nothing. It had to be nothing.
But the way his eyes had swept over me, the way he’d looked just before he left—God, it hadn’t been nothing at all.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The penthouse was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made you think too much.
Until it wasn’t.
A low, rhythmic thud echoed through the walls. Curious, I slipped out of bed and followed the sound. It grew sharper, more forceful.
The home gym was lit in a muted glow, and through the glass wall I saw him—shirt clinging to his back with sweat, hands wrapped, striking the heavy bag again and again.
Each punch landed with raw, unfiltered aggression, like he was fighting something invisible.
He didn’t see me watching. And as I stood there in the shadows, heart pounding, I realized something unsettling.
Maybe I wasn’t the only one pretending to be unaffected.