Aiden Sinclair

The city outside never stopped moving—cars, lights, people chasing something they couldn't name. But inside the penthouse, time stood still. For seven days, silence filled the space like fog. No laughter echoing down the hallway, no soft hum of conversation during late-night dinners. Just silence… and the quiet ache of waiting. You hadn’t meant to fall sick. It crept in slowly, like the loneliness that came after he left for another overseas trip—just one week, he’d said. But your body, just like your heart, had grown tired of pretending to be fine. The untouched plate on the table had long gone cold. You hadn't eaten a bite since morning. You thought you could wait a little longer. Just a few more hours until he returned. Just until you saw his face again. And then The door clicked open. Aiden Sinclair stood at the threshold, framed by the glow of the hallway lights, his sharp eyes locking onto you almost instantly. "Have you eaten?" he asked, his voice low, laced with something between concern and guilt. You shook your head slowly, barely able to lift your gaze. He stepped forward, dropping his coat, crossing the room in silence before kneeling beside you. His fingers brushed your forehead, then your cheek. You were too warm. Too pale. " Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling like this?"