Chapter Forty-One: The Fall
The elevator doors closed, sealing Amaya in a humming silence that was somehow more oppressive than the charged quiet of the car. The day—Lina's fragile hand, the confrontation with Aris that had somehow ended in a fragile truce, the bone-deep exhaustion—crashed over her in a final wave. All she wanted was to be inside her apartment, to fall onto her bed, and to let the world fade away.
She stepped out into the hallway of her floor, the plush carpet muffling her footsteps. As she approached her door, she fumbled in her leather tote bag for her keys, her fingers numb and clumsy. Her mind was a thousand miles away, back in a hospital room with a sleeping child and a yellow blanket.
The keys weren't in the usual side pocket. A flutter of annoyance. She set her bag on the floor with a soft thump and knelt, digging through the contents with more urgency. Notebook, wallet, a half-eaten protein bar, pens, her tablet… no keys.
Did I leave them on my desk? The hospital seemed a lifetime ago. In Lina's room? The thought was a cold splash. She'd been holding the rabbit, then holding Lina… she could have set them down on the small table.
A spike of panic, sharp and immediate, cut through the fatigue. Her apartment building was secure; the super wouldn't be in until 8 AM. Richard had a key, but he was at the Warwick, a thirty-minute drive away in good traffic, and the idea of calling him, of explaining her incompetence at midnight, was unthinkable. The hospital was an hour's drive back, and she had no way to get there.
"Perfect," she muttered to the empty, dimly lit hall. "Just perfect."
She stood up too quickly, her mind racing through dismal options. A hotel? With what money? Her wallet was in the bag, but the thought of trudging back out into the rain to find a cab to a lobby, of having to explain herself… it was too much.
In her distracted agitation, she didn't notice the small, uneven seam in the hallway runner. As she took a step towards the emergency stairwell, thinking vaguely of the superintendent's basement office, the slender heel of her pump caught. A sickening crack echoed in the quiet hall, and her ankle twisted violently beneath her.
A sharp, white-hot pain shot up her leg. A cry was torn from her lips as she stumbled, her balance utterly gone. She fell hard, her shoulder and hip connecting with the unforgiving wall before she crumpled to the floor in a heap of silk and sudden, debilitating agony.
For a moment, she just lay there, breathing in ragged, shocked gasps. The pain in her ankle was a throbbing, nauseating crescendo. Tears of pain and sheer, overwhelmed frustration sprang to her eyes. The keys. The ankle. The midnight hallway. Of course.
Gritting her teeth, she tried to push herself up using the wall. The moment she put weight on her injured foot, the pain flared so intensely she saw stars. A sob escaped her. She was trapped. Locked out, hurt, and utterly alone.
She slumped back against the wall, pulling her legs towards her body. Her broken heel lay a few feet away, a pathetic symbol of her crumbling evening. She buried her face in her knees, the cool silk of her dress a mockery against her hot cheeks. What was she supposed to do now? Crawl to the stairwell and hope someone came by in the next six hours?
The elevator at the end of the hall chimed softly.
Her head snapped up, heart leaping with a foolish, desperate hope. Maybe it was a neighbor. The bachelor in 4B, the one who played loud video games. She could ask to use his phone, call a locksmith… explain this humiliating scene.
The elevator doors slid open.
It wasn't the neighbor.
Aris stood there, silhouetted against the elevator's light. He was still in his coat, his hair damp from the drizzle outside. He held a small, white paper bag in one hand. His gaze swept the hallway and found her immediately, crumpled against the wall like discarded laundry.
For a split second, he looked utterly startled—a rare crack in his composed facade. Then his expression shifted into one of swift, analytical assessment. He strode towards her, his footsteps silent on the carpet.
"What happened?" His voice was low, but the clinical edge was back, sharpened by the unexpected circumstances.
"I fell," Amaya said, her voice thick with unshed tears and humiliation. "My heel broke. My ankle… I think it's sprained. Or worse." She gestured weakly towards her discarded shoe. "And I can't find my keys. I think I left them at the hospital."
He didn't ask why she hadn't called someone. He didn't offer platitudes. He knelt beside her, setting the paper bag down carefully. "Let me see."
"It's fine, I just need to—" she began, but he was already gently pushing her hands away from her leg.
His fingers were careful but firm as he probed the swelling area around her ankle. His touch was clinical, impersonal, but it sent a different kind of heat through her, a confusing mix of relief and acute awareness. He manipulated her foot slightly, and she couldn't suppress a sharp hiss of pain.
"No obvious deformity. Likely a grade two sprain," he diagnosed, his voice a detached murmur. "Needs ice, elevation, possibly imaging to rule out a fracture." He looked up at her, his hazel eyes catching the hall light. "You cannot stay here."
"I don't have a choice," she whispered, the reality of her situation crashing down again.
He stood up, looking from her to her apartment door, then back down the empty hall. A muscle ticked in his jaw. A decision was being made behind those gold-flecked eyes.
"You left your light off," he said, as if that explained his presence. "I was waiting to see it turn on before I left. Protocol." It was a flimsy excuse, and they both knew it. He'd been waiting. Ensuring she got inside safely, despite everything.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, but he didn't dial. Instead, he crouched down again. "Put your arms around my neck."
Amaya blinked. "What?"
"You cannot walk. I cannot leave you here. The most efficient solution is to take you to a place where you can receive appropriate care. My car is downstairs. Now, your arms."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was the only logical course of action, and he was implementing it. Still, the thought of being carried by him, of that much physical proximity, sent a fresh wave of dizziness through her that had nothing to do with her ankle.
"Aris, I can't—"
"You can, and you will." The impatience was back. "This is not a debate, Amaya. It is a medical necessity."
Defeated, in too much pain to argue further, she slowly looped her arms around his neck. He slid one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lifting her with an effortless strength that stole her breath. He was solid, warm, and he smelled like rain and crisp cotton and him. She stiffened, every nerve ending screaming in protest and awareness.
He didn't look at her. He adjusted his grip, picked up the forgotten paper bag with the hand under her knees, and turned towards the elevator. "Your bag," he stated.
"Leave it," she mumbled into his shoulder, mortified beyond caring.
He didn't. In a move of impressive dexterity, he hooked the strap of her tote with his fingers, carrying her, her purse, and the mysterious bag without a hitch.
The elevator ride down was an eternity of silent, shared body heat and the rhythmic, pain-filled throb in her ankle. He stared straight ahead at the descending numbers, his profile a mask of stone.
Outside, the rain had stopped. He carried her to the passenger side of his car, somehow managing to open the door and deposit her inside with minimal jostling. He leaned across her to buckle her seatbelt, his arm brushing against her, his scent enveloping her. She held her breath.
He straightened, closed her door, and went around to the driver's side. As he started the engine, he handed her the small white paper bag he'd been carrying.
"What's this?" she asked, her voice small.
He pulled away from the curb, his eyes on the road. "A pastry. From the hospital cafeteria. They're… acceptable. You missed dinner."
She stared down at the bag, then out the window at the passing, rain-slicked night. He'd gone back inside the hospital after dropping her off. He'd bought her food. He'd waited for her light to turn on. And now, he was taking her… where?
The complexity of the man holding her captive in his silent, speeding car was suddenly as overwhelming and painful as her injured ankle. She was locked out, broken, and entirely at the mercy of the one person she'd spent years trying to prove she didn't need.