Viola's POV
I woke up slowly. The smell was sterile, cool, and quiet—the controlled atmosphere of a highly secure private wing. I was in a hospital bed, my body exhausted, my mind a slow, agonising loop of the night's final moments: the music, the laughter, the sudden fear when everything happened, and the absolute, paralysing inability to speak.
I tried to move, to call out, but my throat closed. I was completely mute, the shock of the collapse having locked down my system. I was surrounded by the evidence of my own structural failure.
My eyes scanned the room. Kyle was standing at the far window, his back to me. He was still wearing the tuxedo, his posture rigid and broken, staring out at the distant, uncaring city.
The full weight of the emotional cost of the night—my terror, his guilt, it all hit me. I couldn't speak, so the grief poured out.
Tears spilled from my eyes, silent, continuous, and hot against my temples. I stared at his unmoving back, a physical embodiment of my own profound, mute pain.
Kyle turned, slowly, as if sensing the shift in the room's energy. He saw the tears.
His composure shattered. The sight of my silent, continuous crying dissolved the powerful, carefully constructed man. He crossed the room in two strides, dropped to his knees beside the bed, and buried his face in the sheets, his body convulsing with a silent, heart-wrenching anguish.
"Love," he choked out, his voice thick with desolate pain. "I should have watched you. I should have protected you. I am so sorry. I am so…sorry."
The strategist was gone. Only a broken man remained, humbled by the devastating simplicity of human vulnerability.
Kyle's POV
The journey back from the private hospital wing felt like a retreat from a war we had lost. The doctors confirmed that the trauma of the sudden collapse, coupled with the systemic shock, had resulted in temporary aphonia…the physical inability to speak. Her body, the most complex machine I knew, had simply locked down its core function.
When we stepped into the penthouse, the air was thick with the heavy perfume of the red roses. The arrangement, once a symbol of my triumph, now felt like a tragic memorial. Viola walked past the sea of blooms without a flicker of acknowledgment. She moved with a chilling, detached efficiency, retreating to the master suite as if seeking refuge in a high-security vault.
I immediately began sleeping in the guest room. The physical distance was necessary. It was a strategic retreat to prevent my presence, my touch, from adding to her trauma. I had to become a non-invasive support system, observing from a safe distance.
I spent the next four days observing the data of her profound withdrawal, each detail a devastating diagnosis of her broken state.
• The Ring: The emerald ring, my statement of permanent, non-negotiable value, was gone. It wasn't on her hand, nor was it anywhere I could see. She had structurally decommissioned our engagement, symbolically severing the tie to a future she no longer felt safe enough to claim.
• The Armor: Despite the high temperatures, Viola remained constantly and completely covered. She had discarded the elegant silks and the cashmere I bought her, opting instead for thick, shapeless layers of cotton and heavy fabric. Her wardrobe had become a fortress: high-necked shirts, long sleeves, and full-length trousers. Every inch of skin was aggressively occluded, a silent communication that her boundaries were absolute and sealed off from the world.
• The Silence: The mute button remained on. To me, she was silent. She communicated in slow, barely perceptible gestures to Angela, but her eyes, once fierce and analytical, were veiled with a terrifying vacancy. She hadn't touched her laptop or phone, nor did she go to the office. The Architect of Ruin—the woman who commanded the market with words and insight—was trapped in a silent, self-imposed prison.
• The Lifeline: My one strategic decision that paid off was Angela. She arrived every day, sitting with Viola for hours in the silence, her familiar presence a quiet, steady hum of humanity. It was the only external input her system would accept.
My nights in the guest room were spent in relentless analysis, searching for the flaw in my protective systems. The guilt was a cold, precise weight: I looked away for three seconds. That single point of failure had resulted in this profound, shattering collapse.
By Friday evening, I recognised the need to test the system's external capacity. I had to get her out.
I waited in the living room, surrounded by the beautiful, agonising roses. When she finally emerged, my heart clenched with pain.
She was wearing a heavy, ankle-length trench coat. Beneath it, her clothes were buttoned high to her neck. But the final layer—the ultimate erasure—was a simple, beige head scarf that completely obscured her hair, tied neatly beneath her chin. She had become a ghost, hidden behind layers of material and profound silence.
I didn't try to touch her. I simply offered my arm, allowing the small, precise distance she required. "Ready, Love," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "There's a fancy French menu that awaits."
I knew the dinner wasn't about eating. It was about forcing a temporary, controlled re-entry into the external world. I would keep her safe. I would show her that the threat was neutralised and that the structural integrity of her life was now my absolute, non-negotiable purpose.
The French restaurant was perfect—dim, quiet, and discreet. We sat at a corner table, shielded from the other diners. Viola remained encased in her layers, the beige scarf and trench coat forming a complete barrier between her and the world. I studied the menu, giving her space, but acutely aware of the rigid, untouchable structure she had become.
Just as the waiter approached, a flurry of motion appeared at our table. A florist, orchestrated by Marshall, delivered an immense, vibrant bouquet of sunflowers.
The sight of the huge, audacious yellow heads, completely out of place against the quiet elegance of the restaurant, was the first thing all week to break through her containment.
Viola lifted her gaze from the table. She stared at the flowers—the color, the sheer, unapologetic joy of them. Sunflowers were a loud, simple, non-intellectual flower; they were her favourite.
I watched her face carefully. A tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth.
"Marshall's latest attempt at 'structural re-engagement'," I murmured, leaning forward. "He sent a memo detailing the statistical correlation between increased exposure to the color yellow and accelerated mood elevation. I filed it under 'Unnecessary Logistical Overkill'."
Viola didn't speak, but her vacant eyes sharpened. She reached out a tentative hand and brushed a sunflower petal.
"He also suggested," I continued, lowering my voice and keeping my face utterly serious, "that if the mood elevation failed, I should resort to bringing out the salt-and-vinegar popcorn from my pocket, crushing it violently, and demanding you analyse the resultant dust for structural defects."
I paused, waiting. Then, it happened. A tiny, choked sound escaped her—a puff of air, the beginning of a genuine, beautiful laugh. It was muffled, trapped behind her scarf, but it was there, a spark of the old fire.
She lifted her eyes, and they were moist, but the vacancy was gone. Her hand, resting on the table, flexed. She reached for a napkin and, with shaking fingers, scribbled words:
"Marshall is a lunatic."
It was the first actual communication, the first use of language—even written—since the hospital.
"I concur," I said, my relief a dizzying rush. "But his logistical support is, as always, flawless."
She scribbled another, shakier message: "I missed you."
I took her hand, the action careful and slow, holding it gently on the table. "I missed you, too, Love. Now, let's analyse this menu. I propose the simplest structural meal: soup. Low risk, high nourishment."