The night was silent too silent. Even the city lights from Adrian's penthouse seemed to dim, as if the world itself bowed its head in mourning. The glass walls reflected the skyline, but none of its brilliance could touch the trembling figure on the sofa.
Valeria sat there, knees pulled close, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. Her eyes were open, yet she saw nothing. The faintest tremor rippled through her fingers, as if her body hadn't yet realized the nightmare was over.
Adrian De Vere Leone stood a few steps away, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the room. He had seen horrors political betrayals, human greed, blood-soaked power struggles. But nothing had ever hollowed his chest the way this sight did. The woman who once met the world with fire in her eyes now looked as fragile as porcelain, one wrong breath away from breaking.
Without a word, he walked over and placed a cashmere blanket around her shoulders.
"You should rest," he said quietly, voice deep, controlled. "I'll call someone to help you clean up—"
Her cold fingers clutched his wrist.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "I don't want anyone to see me."
He froze. The fear in her voice sliced through him sharper than any blade. He knelt before her, his expression softening. "Should I… help you instead?"
For a long moment, she didn't move. Then, slowly hesitantly she nodded.
Adrian rose and extended a hand, wordless, steady. She placed her trembling fingers in his, and he led her toward the marble bathroom that gleamed like moonlight. Steam began to fill the room as he turned on the tap, the scent of lavender and rose oil spreading gently through the air.
He helped her remove her bloodstained clothes leaving her bare naked , his gaze fixed only on her face. Not once did his eyes falter. Not once did he see her as anything but sacred. His movements were quiet, reverent, as though he feared the wrong touch might make her vanish.
The water rippled as he washed away the crimson stains from her face, collarbone every inch of her skin with each motion slow and deliberate. When his fingers brushed through her hair, he was unbearably gentle, as if every strand was something precious. The soap foam slid down her shoulders, carrying away the last traces of horror but the pain in her eyes remained.
Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the water and the faint rhythm of his breath.
When it was done, he wrapped her in a soft towel, helped her into a clean night suit, and dried her hair. His hands moved carefully through the strands, the air warm against her neck. He didn't know why his heart hurt this much only that he wanted to shield her from the world, even from memories.
He thought of calling a psychologist, of bringing help. But then she looked up eyes wide, glistening, still lost and he stopped.
Not tonight.
She's already lived enough pain for one lifetime.
He guided her back to bed and tucked the blanket around her. The room lights dimmed, leaving only the bedside lamp casting a soft golden halo around her.
"Try to sleep," he said quietly, his voice a gentle command.
But she didn't close her eyes. Her lashes trembled, catching the light. After a pause, she spoke in a voice that barely existed.
"I can't…"
He hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed. "What do you need? My fragile treasure"
Her fingers clutched the bedsheet tightly. "Can I… ask you something?"
"Anything," he said, his tone softening instantly.
Her lips parted. "Can you… sing me a song?"
For a second, the world stopped. Adrian blinked, stunned. He, a man who had signed billion-dollar treaties, commanded armies of corporations, and faced heads of state without flinching, was now being asked to sing a lullaby.
And yet, looking at her so small beneath the covers, so broken, yet still breathing how could he refuse?
He gave a quiet chuckle, barely audible. "Alright," he murmured. "Just this once."
His voice, when he began, was low and rough, but steady. It wasn't the voice of a businessman or a royal; it was the voice of a man who, despite everything, still knew how to care. The melody was an old one something his mother once sang when he was afraid of thunder as a boy.
The song drifted through the room like a soft tide, wrapping her in warmth words could never offer.
Her breathing slowed. Her lips curved into the faintest smile a fragile, innocent thing that pierced through his heart.
When she finally drifted into sleep, Adrian didn't move. He sat beside her, eyes lingering on her face. Every rise and fall of her chest, every quiet sigh it all felt unreal.
He didn't know what to call this ache in his chest. Pity? No—it was something deeper, something dangerously close to devotion.
As the night stretched on, Adrian leaned back in his chair, gaze never leaving her.
If peace was something he could buy, he thought, he'd spend his entire empire to give it to her.
And for the first time in years, the ruthless king of the corporate world sang softly to a sleeping girl his voice steady, his heart trembling.