The file sat unopened on my desk all night.
It was the first thing I saw when I walked into the office that morning. Neat, unassuming, sitting on top of a stack of acquisition documents worth billions and yet, somehow, that folder carried more weight than all of them combined.
I hadn't wanted to open it.
Not because I was afraid of what I'd find fear wasn't something I entertained but because, once I did, I knew things would change. And I hated change.
But by noon, my patience had finally worn thin.
The morning had been a disaster. I'd closed two major deals before breakfast, outperformed every analyst on projections, and yet, when it came time for my ritual coffee run to The Grind, something was missing.
Someone was missing.
She wasn't there.
Aria Davis the only barista on Earth who managed to both irritate and intrigue me in equal measure was nowhere to be seen.
Mel, the manager, noticed me immediately when I walked in. She looked ready to faint, probably assuming I was there to complain about service.
"Good morning, Mr. Gray," she chirped nervously. "Your usual?"
"Yes." I scanned the room again, searching for that dark head of hair. "Where's Aria?"
Her smile faltered. "Oh… she called this morning. Said there was a family emergency. She asked for a few days off."
Family emergency.
The words didn't sit right.
Ben, the nervous young guy behind the counter, prepared my espresso. The moment I took a sip, I nearly spat it back out. "Christ," I muttered. "What is this?"
Ben blanched. "Uh, coffee?"
"No," I said, setting the cup down with disgust. "It's an insult to caffeine."
He stammered something about trying again, but I was already walking out, irritation clawing under my skin.
I told myself it was because of the coffee. That was the lie I clung to all the way back to my office. But the truth was simpler I didn't like not knowing. I didn't like caring.
By the time I got back, the file on my desk felt like it was burning a hole through the polished surface.
I sat down, stared at it for a long moment, then flipped it open.
Aria Davis.
Her entire life, neatly printed in black and white.
Employment history, medical reports, financial statements. A story told through numbers, and every one of them screamed struggle.
And there it was the medical note. John Davis. Terminal stage. No further treatment recommended. Comfort care advised.
My chest tightened.
I sat back, rubbing a hand across my jaw. "Goddamn it."
"Elaine!" I barked.
My assistant appeared instantly, tablet in hand. "Yes, sir?"
"Cancel my meetings for the rest of the day."
She blinked. "Sir?"
"Cancel everything. Push them to next week."
Elaine froze. "Are you you never postpone"
"Do I look like I'm in the mood for questions?"
She straightened immediately. "No, sir. I'll take care of it."
Within minutes, I was in the car, the file on my lap, the address circled in red.
The drive was short, but my thoughts weren't quiet. I kept seeing John's name on the page, his handwriting on old notes I remembered as a kid the careful loops, the steady hand that used to guide mine when he taught me how to drive.
When we pulled up to the small house, my driver glanced at me through the mirror. "Sir?"
"Wait here."
The house was modest. A little weathered, but cared for. I knocked.
After a moment, an elderly woman opened the door. Her silver hair was pinned neatly, her expression sharp and assessing.
"Yes?"
"Good afternoon. I'm looking for John Davis."
Her eyes narrowed. "And who might you be?"
"I'm.." I hesitated. "A friend of his."
She gave a disbelieving snort. "You? In that suit? Driving that car?"
Actually, I didn't drive. I have a fucking driver ma'am.
But I didn't tell her that.
I exhaled slowly. "Look, Ma'am "
"Mrs. Evans," she supplied curtly, crossing her arms.
"Mrs. Evans," I continued, forcing patience I didn't have. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm here to see. John Davis was… important to me once."
Something in my tone must have broken through her suspicion. Her expression softened, just a little. "You said was," she murmured.
"I read he's not well so I really need to see him."
Her eyes flickered with sadness. "He isn't. They took him to the hospital last night. He… he didn't look good."
The words hit like a punch. "What hospital?"
"St. Mark's.
"Thank you."
She hesitated before closing the door. "Aria's there with him. She hasn't left his side."
Of course she hadn't.
I turned back to the car. "St. Mark's Hospital," I told my driver.
He didn't need to ask why. He just needs to drive.
Hospitals always smelled the same antiseptic, metal, and loss.
The moment I walked through the automatic doors, heads turned. The nurses straightened. Receptionists paused mid-sentence. It wasn't arrogance it was the simple reality of being Dalton Gray. The power followed me, an unspoken presence that filled the space before I did.
"Mr. Gray," one of the staff said quickly, recognizing me. "We weren't expecting you, sir."
"I'm looking for John Davis. ."
"Of course, sir. Right this way room 312."
No forms. No ID checks. No questions. Just a quiet, efficient escort down the corridor.
The perks of being me.
I stepped into the room quietly.
And there he was.
Aria wasn't here.I wonder where she went.
He looked so much smaller than I remembered. The man who once towered over me, who'd carried me on his shoulders when I was eight, who'd patched up my first scraped knee now lay pale and frail, a tangle of IV lines and quiet breathing.
For a long moment, I couldn't move.
Then, he stirred. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first. "Aria?" he murmured.
"No," I said softly, stepping closer. "It's Dalton."
It took him a few seconds, but then recognition. His eyes widened slightly. "Dalton… Gray?"
I nodded. "Yeah, it's me."
A weak, watery smile crossed his face. "You grew up."
"Yeah," I said, my throat tight. "You got old."
He chuckled, the sound frail but warm. "Guess we both did."
We talked quietly for a few minutes about nothing and everything. About the old days. About my father. About how long it had been.
Then his eyes grew serious. "You didn't come all this way just to talk about the past."
I hesitated, then admitted, "I read your file. I know you're sick."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Can't hide that one anymore."
"I can help," I said. "I can get you the best doctors, treatment abroad, whatever it takes.."
He lifted a trembling hand. "No, son. It's too late for all that."
The finality in his tone cut deeper than I expected.
He looked at me for a long time, his gaze calm, resigned. "If you really want to help me… there's one thing you can do."
"Anything," I said immediately without hesitation. "Name it.
His eyes, suddenly clear and sharp, found mine. "I have a daughter. Aria."
"I know," I said softly.
"When I'm gone… she'll have no one left. She's been so strong for so long, but she can't carry everything forever. She'll break." His voice wavered, a single tear tracing down the side of his face. "I need to know someone will be there for her. Please… take care of my girl."
The words hit like a punch. Take care of Aria Davis? The woman who fought me with every look, every word? The one who could shatter my control just by existing?
My throat went dry. "John, I..."
"You don't owe me," he said gently. "But you were like a son to me once. I loved that boy. And I'd sleep better knowing that boy's grown-up self will make sure my daughter doesn't end up alone please Dal."
But looking at John, I saw it the fear, the love, the helplessness of a father running out of time. This man had once been a steady hand on my shoulder when my world was chaos. He'd been kind when no one else was. And now he was asking for one last promise.
I reached out and placed my hand over his, the motion feeling strange and heavy. "You have my word, John," I said quietly. "I'll take care of her. I promise."
Relief spread across his worn features. His breathing eased, his shoulders relaxed, and a faint smile touched his lips. "Thank you," he whispered, eyes closing. "My good boy… thank you.
I pulled a chair closer and sat beside him. We talked for a while longer about Aria, about the years he spent trying to keep her safe, about how much he missed her laughter when she was a little girl.
I listened, and for once in my life, I didn't think about work or control or logic. I just listened.
And for the first time in years, I felt like that young boy again the one who'd sit beside John Davis in the driver's seat, listening to him hum along to the radio while the world outside felt safe.
The door creaked open.
Aria Davis
Fuck.
"Dad, I.."
Her voice froze mid-sentence.
I turned, and there she was standing in the doorway, her hand gripping the edge like she needed the support to stay upright.
Her eyes darted between me and her father, confusion and disbelief flooding her expression.
For a second, no one spoke.
And then, in a voice laced with exhaustion and irritation, she muttered, "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."