Chapter 110: A Caring Friend
"I don’t see it that way," Henry interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. "No matter how hurt someone is, they don’t treat the woman they supposedly love like that. Dragging you out, throwing you to the ground? If you’d lost the baby in that fall, would you still be defending him? Singing this same tune?"
The words hit her like a slap, and Eliana fell silent, her honey eyes filling with fresh tears. She pulled her hand away, hugging her knees to her chest despite the sting of her wounds.
Henry exhaled, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest. For a man who always carried himself with ambition, certainty, and control, his voice now trembled with something raw—an emotion he could no longer bury. "Eliana," he began, his eyes searching hers, "you know I’m in love with you. I have been honest with you since the moment we found each other again. But I buried those feelings, pushed them aside, because your happiness mattered more than mine. It still does." His throat tightened, and he forced the words out, each one edged with truth. "That’s why I encouraged you to go to him. I thought he was your joy... your future. But I was wrong."
He stepped closer, his tone firm but aching. "This isn’t about me. It’s not selfishness. I’m stopping you because I honestly believe if you go back, you won’t return the same. Maybe not even in one piece—physically, emotionally, spiritually. And I couldn’t live with that."
Eliana’s composure shattered. Her lips trembled, her chest heaving as sobs broke free. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently, the sound of her grief filling the small space between them. "You’re... you’re right about the baby," she choked out between tears, her words muffled by her palms. "That little life is more important than the wreckage of my feelings for him. But Henry—" her voice cracked, her hands lowering to reveal eyes red and glistening with despair—"it hurts so much. It feels like my heart’s being ripped apart from the inside... like I’m being torn in two."
Her confession hung heavy, raw and jagged, and Henry’s chest tightened at the sight of her breaking. In that moment, his ambition, his dreams, his carefully built walls—all of it faded against the single truth he could no longer ignore: protecting her, no matter the cost, was the only future that mattered.
He pulled her into a gentle hug, his voice soothing. "I know. And I’ll be here every step. Let’s get you home—to my apartment. You’ll be safe there."
Back at Henry’s apartment—a place that seemed too spacious now, its wide windows and clean lines echoing with silence—the days slipped by like shadows, blurring into a fog she could not escape. Two weeks passed, yet for Eliana, time felt broken, suspended in the hollow ache of grief. She rarely left the guest room. The curtains remained drawn, blocking out the city lights and sunshine alike, as though the outside world had grown too loud, too cruel to face.
She lay curled beneath the blankets, her once-bright presence reduced to a fragile outline. Eating became its own battle. Plates Henry carried in—colorful, carefully arranged with fresh greens, grilled chicken, bowls of steaming rice, smoothies rich with fruit and vitamins meant for the baby—sat untouched on the bedside table until the food grew cold. Her appetite had been swallowed whole by sorrow.
Each morning, Henry came in with a tray balanced in one hand, his expression gentled by worry. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he’d try to coax her, his tone somewhere between tender and teasing. "Come on, just a few bites," he urged one morning, lifting a spoonful of oatmeal toward her. His sharp features softened, a flicker of humor sparking in his eyes as he added, "If you don’t eat this, I swear I’ll feed you like a baby bird. And my bird impression is terrible. It comes with actual squawking. Don’t make me embarrass myself."
The corners of her mouth twitched despite herself, and once or twice she managed a weak smile. But just as quickly, the weight inside her chest cracked her open again, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I’m trying, Henry," she whispered, her voice thin, trembling. "I really am. But... everything tastes like ash."
Her confession broke him in quiet ways he never showed, but still he persisted. Spoon by spoon, bite by bite, he stayed patient, never rushing, never judging. His kindness became a tether—fragile but steady—pulling her back each day from the abyss she kept slipping into.
And though the guest room was heavy with silence, his presence filled it with something else too: a quiet promise that she would not face this darkness alone.
Nights were the worst. Sleep eluded her, her mind replaying Rafael’s fury, the guards’ rough hands, the fall. She’d cry into her pillow, the sounds muffled but piercing Henry’s heart through the walls. He felt helpless, pacing the living room like a ghost, wracking his brain for ways to pull her from the abyss.
Two weeks of watching Eliana wilt in silence had worn Henry thin. At first, he’d told himself she just needed time, that grief had to bleed itself out. But as the days bled into nights, and the nights into endless mornings where she barely moved from the guest bed, something inside him snapped. Enough was enough.
Rafael might have cooled by now, he reasoned. Tempers burned hot, but flames eventually dimmed. Perhaps, if approached carefully, logic could find its way through the wreckage of anger. It was a fragile hope, but Henry clung to it as though her sanity—and the child’s safety—depended on it.
That Monday, he rose earlier than usual, the weight of his decision pressing against his ribs. Dressing felt like donning armor: a fitted button-down stretched across his athletic frame, dark slacks chosen not just for comfort but for the silent authority they projected, and a tie knotted with precision. If he was going to confront Rafael, he needed to look composed, controlled—like a man impossible to dismiss.
Before leaving, though, he lingered in the kitchen, the quiet hum of the refrigerator the only sound as he prepared breakfast with deliberate care. Scrambled eggs, soft and fluffy, a few slices of buttered toast, and a side of fresh fruit arranged with almost obsessive neatness. He poured orange juice into a glass, steadying his hands against the counter as though ritual could silence the storm in his chest.
Carrying the tray into the guest room, he found her still curled beneath the covers, her hair a tousled halo against the pillow, eyes heavy with the kind of exhaustion no sleep could cure. Forcing cheer into his voice, he set the tray down on the nightstand.
"Room service," he said lightly, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Chef’s special today: eggs, toast, and fruit. Five-star quality, I assure you."
Eliana blinked up at him, her gaze dim but searching. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a flicker of the woman she used to be—the one who laughed easily, the one who fought for her place in the world. It was gone as quickly as it came, swallowed again by sorrow, but Henry held on to that brief spark as he straightened his tie.
Today, he would fight for her. Even if it meant walking straight into the lion’s den.
"Eat up," he said, watching her pick at the food. "You need your strength."
She nodded numbly, forcing down bites under his watchful eye. Once satisfied, Henry grabbed his keys, his heart pounding like drums. "I’m heading to school for a bit—classes and all that aspiring doctor stuff. Won’t be long."
Eliana looked up, her eyes shadowed but trusting. "Okay. Be safe, Henry."
He nodded, stepping out the door with resolve, feeling as if he were marching to face the devil himself. The lie sat heavy on his tongue, but he couldn’t raise her hopes only to shatter them again. Today, he’d confront Rafael—for her sake.