After that fateful revelation, the weight lingered, floating in the room.
Kaly didn't know what to say. There were no words that could fix it. So she did the only thing she could think of: she tried to distract her friend's mind.
"Do you know what happened to the math teacher?" she asked suddenly, with a false lightness that fooled no one.
Eli blinked.
"What?"
"Her dentures fell out in the middle of class. Seriously. I swear."
Eli didn't laugh. But her lips tightened into something that almost looked like the ghost of a smile.
Kaly didn't give up.
She told her high school gossip. Who was seeing whom. Who had failed the history exam. Who had cried in the bathroom. Eli listened reluctantly at first, but little by little, her friend's words began to fill the void.
They spent the rest of the afternoon like that.
Talking about nothing. Laughing at everything. As if there wasn't a contract waiting outside. As if her parents hadn't sold her. As if Noah wasn't going to return the next day.
At one point, between jokes, Eli let out a laugh.
It was brief. Small. She almost swallowed it as it came out.
But Kaly heard it.
And for a second, everything was okay.
"There it is," Kaly whispered, with a sad smile. "I missed you."
Eli didn't respond. She only squeezed her hand.
Time passed without either of them noticing. The hospital lights dimmed. The beeping of the monitors became more noticeable as the noise of their voices died down.
Kaly looked at her phone.
"I have to go," she said, her voice lower. "My mom is coming to pick me up."
Eli nodded. She didn't want her to leave. But she didn't want to ask her to stay, either.
"Are you going to be okay?" Kaly asked, hesitating in the doorway.
Eli took a second to respond.
"Yes," she lied.
Kaly knew it. But she said nothing. She just blew her a kiss and disappeared down the hallway.
The door closed.
The silence returned.
Eli stared at the white ceiling. The machines kept beeping around her. The coldness of the air conditioning chilled her fingers.
She closed her eyes.
And she thought.
About what would come tomorrow.
About Noah.
About his blue eyes. About his deep voice. About what he had said before leaving: "If all goes well… you'll stay with me."
She clenched the sheets in her fists.
Tomorrow he was coming back.
Tomorrow he was taking her away.
And she… she didn't know if she was ready.
But she had no choice.
She closed her eyes tighter.
And for the first time in a long while, she was afraid to wake up.
A ray of light enters through my hospital room window.
It makes me open my eyes slowly.
I have no sense of time. I don't know what time it is. I only know that I woke up so many times during the night… feeling the presence of the nurses. Worried, they came to check on me every so often.
I couldn't sleep well.
But now… now something is different.
I open my eyes completely. I focus on everything around me.
And there he is.
Sitting. In the chair in the corner. With his legs crossed. In the same dark suit from yesterday, but without the jacket. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his forearms.
I don't know how long he's been there.
I don't know how long he's been watching me.
"What are you doing here?" comes out of my mouth before my brain can stop it.
My voice sounds raspy. Broken. As if I hadn't spoken in days.
He doesn't answer.
He just observes me.
His blue eyes don't pull away from mine. He doesn't blink. He doesn't move. He's just there, looking at me as if he has all the time in the world.
A few minutes pass.
But the awkward silence makes it feel eternal.
My heart beats faster. I don't know if it's fear. I don't know if it's something else. I only know that I can't look away.
"How are you?" he finally says.
He stands up.
He approaches my bed slowly.
It isn't an invasive distance. But it isn't respectful, either. It's the distance of someone who knows they can get closer whenever they want.
I say nothing.
I don't react.
I just stay there, looking at him. Trying to understand.
Who is he? Why is he here? Why did my parents listen to him? Why does he have papers? Why does he look at me like that?
So many questions.
Zero answers.
"Well," he says with a sigh.
And that sigh…
It isn't tiredness.
It isn't impatience.
It's something heavier. Colder. As if he, too, is carrying something he doesn't want to name.
"The doctor says you're ready to continue your recovery at home," he adds, with that deep voice that asks no permission. "Your discharge is being processed."
My chest tightens.
Discharge? Already? So fast?
"Who are you?" I say to him without thinking.
The question comes out on its own.
Because I need to know.
Because I can't go away with a stranger.
Because I'm afraid.
He looks at me.
And for a second, I think he's going to answer.
But no.
He just tilts his head slightly, as if my question seems almost… adorable to him.
"I already told you," he finally replies. "We'll introduce ourselves when you're better."
I clench the sheets in my fists.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're going to get for now."
He takes a step back. He crosses his arms.
And he looks down at me.
Not with a threat.
With patience.
As if he knows that, sooner or later, I'm going to stop asking.
And that…
that scares me more than any threat.
Minutes pass.
The silence between us doesn't break. He remains there, standing with his arms crossed, looking at me as if I were a puzzle he already knows how to solve.
I say nothing. I don't know what to say.
But then the door opens.
"Elizabeth Anderson," the doctor says, entering with a folder in his hand. "Your discharge papers."
My heart stops.
He looks at them. He sees them. I know what they mean.
Discharge.
I can leave.
But leaving means leaving with him.
"Are you ready?" Noah asks, without taking his blue eyes off me.
I don't answer.
Because I'm not.
"It's time," he says, and his voice isn't an offer. It's an order. Soft. But an order nonetheless. "Let's go."
I try to get out of bed. My legs are still shaking. Everything hurts. But I start to gather my things… or at least what I have nearby.
"It's not necessary," Noah says, and his tone becomes firmer. "At my house, you'll have everything you need."
I look at him.
"I don't want anything of yours."
He doesn't flinch. He just takes a step closer.
"It's not an offer."
I grit my teeth. I know I'm not going to win this fight. But I try one last thing.
"Can I at least take my phone?"
There is a second of silence. He looks at me. Evaluates. As if every word of mine is a coin he decides whether or not to accept.
"Fine," he says at last.
I grab the phone from the nightstand. I have no one to call. But it's something. It's mine.
A nurse enters with a wheelchair.
"This way, please," she says, with a professional smile.
Noah doesn't stop her. He nods. He helps me sit in it without making any comments. Without rushing. Without that coldness I expected.
The nurse pushes the chair down the hallway. Noah walks beside me. He doesn't look at me. But he's there.
The hospital corridor feels longer than it should. The stares of the nurses, of some patient, of an old lady waiting in a chair… they all look at us. At him, in his dark suit. At me, in a hospital gown and a weakness I can barely hide.
We reach the entrance.
A black car is waiting for us. Big. Shiny. Dark as night.
The driver—a serious man in a gray suit—opens the back door.
Noah approaches me. Without asking, he puts one arm under my legs and the other behind my back. He lifts me up.
"What are you doing?" I protest, my voice higher than I'd like.
"Getting you in," he responds, as if it were obvious.
He sets me in the back seat with care. Too much care. As if I would break if he let go of me roughly.
Then he turns to the nurse.
"You can take the chair," he says, without looking at her. "It won't be necessary."
The nurse nods and leaves with the wheelchair.
Noah sits beside me. The driver closes the door.
The car starts.
The silence is immediate. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
I look out the window. The hospital buildings are left behind. Then the streets I know. Then others I don't.
I don't know where we're going.
I don't know what's going to happen.
"Why did you do that?" I ask finally, without looking at him.
"Do what?"
"You didn't let me keep the wheelchair. How am I supposed to walk now?"
There is a second of silence.
Then, his voice. Low. Almost amused.
"You aren't going to walk. I'm going to carry you."
I turn my head and look at him.
"Seriously?"
"I don't like you depending on things I can't control," he says, as if it were the most logical explanation in the world. "The wheelchair is one of them."
"And you think I'm going to let you carry me everywhere?"
He traces a small smile. It isn't warm. It isn't kind. It's… certain. As if he knows something I don't.
"I'm not asking for permission."
I clench my fists over my legs.
"You're sick."
"Perhaps."
"Why are you doing all this?" I insist, my voice trendier than I'd like. "How do you expect me to stay with you? To move into your house? To pretend this is normal?"
He doesn't respond instantly.
When he does, his voice is deeper. More serious.
"I don't expect you to pretend anything. Only that you stay."
"And if I don't want to?"
"We'll see."
The car stops.
I hadn't seen the road. I hadn't seen the massive gates, the trees, the private entrance. Only now do I look up.
And I lose my breath.
The house is enormous. It's not a house. It's a mansion.
White columns. Enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. A perfectly manicured garden with fountains and stone paths. Everything is grand, imposing, cold.
It looks like something out of a movie. One of those where rich people live in another world.
A world I don't belong to.
The driver gets out. He opens the door.
Noah gets out first. And before I can move, he's at my side again.
"I can walk," I say, my voice harder than I feel.
"No," he says, and it's not a whim. It's a statement.
He carries me again. This time I don't protest. Because it wouldn't do any good.
He carries me in his arms toward the entrance. The doors open on their own—or someone opens them, I can't quite see—and we enter.
The interior is even more impressive.
Marble floors. A massive staircase in the middle of the foyer with dark wood railings. Chandeliers hanging from the ceiling as if money were no object. Paintings on the walls. A giant table in the center with a vase of white flowers.
Everything is beautiful.
Everything is cold.
Noah doesn't stop.
He climbs the stairs with me in his arms. Step by step. Without losing his breath. Without looking away from the front.
We reach a door at the end of the hallway.
He opens it with one hand, without letting go of me.
And we enter.
The room is enormous.
A giant bed in the center, with gray sheets and black pillows. Thick curtains that completely block out the light. An open walk-in closet with clothes hanging—women's clothes, clothes that aren't mine. Everything in dark, cold tones.
He sets me down on the bed with care.
Too much care.
I stay there, sitting, looking at him. Without understanding. Without knowing what to do.
He stands a few steps away. He looks at me.
"This is yours," he says, and his voice sounds strange. Almost… insecure. "The room, the clothes, everything. If anything is missing, tell Elena. She's in charge of the house."
"Elena?"
"The woman who will bring you dinner. And who will make sure you have everything you need."
I squeeze the sheets between my fingers.
"And you? Where are you going to be?"
Noah doesn't answer instantly.
He looks at me. And for a second, I think I see something in his eyes. Something I can't name.
"Close," he says at last. "Always close."
He turns toward the door.
"Rest," he says without looking at me. "We'll talk tomorrow."
And he leaves.
The door closes behind him.
I hear a click.
I don't know if it's my imagination.
I don't know if it's a lock.
But fear runs through my entire body.
And I stay there, alone, in a stranger's bed, in a house that feels like a golden prison.
Without knowing what's going to happen.
But knowing that I can no longer go back.