Chapter 4: Pretence
1875words
Sleep had been elusive since moving in three days ago. Every night, I'd lie awake in the too-soft bed, my mind racing with doubts about the bargain I'd made.
With a sigh, I slipped out of bed. Maybe some tea would help.
I padded silently through the darkened penthouse, guided by the faint glow of Manhattan's skyline through the windows. As I approached the kitchen, I noticed a light spilling from Alexander's home office—a room he'd shown me briefly during my "orientation" tour.
I hesitated, then moved toward it. The door was ajar, and through the gap, I could see Alexander hunched over his desk, surrounded by stacks of documents. Even at this hour, he wore a dress shirt, though the sleeves were rolled up and the top buttons undone. His usually perfect hair was disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it.
He looked... human. Vulnerable, even.
I must have made some small sound, because his head suddenly snapped up, eyes finding mine in the doorway.
"Elena." His voice was rough with fatigue. "Is something wrong?"
"I could ask you the same thing," I replied, pushing the door open further. "It's after three in the morning."
He glanced at his watch as if surprised by the time. "I have a board meeting tomorrow. These quarterly reports needed review."
Now that I was closer, I could see the shadows beneath his eyes, the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for his coffee mug. He looked exhausted—not just tired, but bone-weary in a way that suggested this wasn't a one-night occurrence.
"When was the last time you slept?" I asked, moving into the room.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Define 'slept.'"
"More than two consecutive hours."
He seemed to consider this seriously. "Tuesday, perhaps. Last week."
I frowned. "That's not sustainable, even for you."
"Sustainability isn't the goal. Results are." He rubbed his eyes, a rare gesture of weakness. "Did you need something?"
"Just making tea. Would you like some?"
He looked surprised by the offer, as if kindness was a foreign language he didn't quite understand. After a moment, he nodded. "Thank you."
In the kitchen, I found an impressive collection of teas organized with military precision. I selected chamomile—soothing, with natural sedative properties. Perfect for insomniacs, whether they admitted to the condition or not.
When I returned with two steaming mugs, Alexander had pushed aside his work and was staring out the window at the sleeping city.
"Chamomile," I said, placing a mug before him. "It helps with sleep."
"Sleep and I have a complicated relationship." He accepted the tea nonetheless, his fingers briefly brushing mine in the exchange. Even that fleeting contact sent an unexpected warmth through me.
"Insomnia?" I asked, settling into the chair across from his desk.
He nodded. "Since childhood."
I sipped my tea, studying him over the rim of my mug. In the soft lamplight, with his defenses lowered by fatigue, Alexander looked different—still handsome, but more approachable. Less the untouchable billionaire, more the man.
"My father had trouble sleeping during his first round of chemo," I said. "The doctors suggested establishing a routine. Same bedtime, same wake-up time. No screens an hour before sleep."
Alexander's lips curved slightly. "Are you prescribing a bedtime routine for me, Elena?"
The way he said my name—soft, with just a hint of amusement—made my pulse quicken. "Just sharing what worked for my father."
"And did it? Work for him?"
I nodded. "Eventually. Though the nightmares were harder to manage."
Something flickered in Alexander's eyes—recognition, perhaps. "Nightmares can be... persistent."
We fell into silence then, drinking our tea while the city slept around us. It was strange how comfortable it felt, this quiet moment in the middle of the night. No pretense, no performance. Just two people sharing space and warmth in the darkness.
"You should try to sleep," I finally said, rising to take our empty mugs. "Even billionaires need rest."
He looked up at me, his gray eyes softer than I'd ever seen them. "Thank you for the tea, Elena."
"You're welcome, Alexander."
As I turned to leave, he spoke again. "Elena?"
I paused in the doorway. "Yes?"
"Why did you really come in here tonight?"
The question caught me off guard. "I told you—I couldn't sleep."
"No," he said quietly. "You could have made your tea and returned to your room. Why did you come to my office?"
I considered lying, but something in his expression made me offer the truth instead. "You looked lonely."
Surprise flickered across his face, quickly masked. "I'm accustomed to solitude."
"That's not the same as not being lonely."
Before he could respond, I slipped away, leaving him to ponder the difference.
---
A scream tore me from sleep hours later—raw, primal, filled with terror. I bolted upright, heart pounding, momentarily disoriented in the unfamiliar darkness.
Another cry echoed through the penthouse, and I realized with a jolt that it was coming from Alexander's room.
Without thinking, I threw back the covers and rushed toward the sound, guided by instinct and the faint glow of dawn seeping around the edges of the blinds. Alexander's bedroom door was closed, but the agonized sounds from within propelled me forward.
I hesitated only briefly before turning the handle. The room beyond was dark, but I could make out Alexander's form thrashing against the sheets, locked in some terrible dream.
"No!" he cried out, his voice raw with anguish. "Don't leave me here! Please!"
I approached cautiously, uncertain whether to wake him. I'd heard somewhere that it could be dangerous to startle someone from a nightmare.
"Alexander," I called softly, keeping my distance. "Alexander, you're dreaming."
He didn't hear me, still caught in whatever horror his mind had conjured. His face was contorted in pain, sweat glistening on his forehead.
"Mom!" The word was torn from him, so full of desperation that it broke my heart. "Dad! Don't go!"
I couldn't bear it any longer. I moved to the edge of the bed and gently touched his shoulder. "Alexander, wake up. It's just a dream."
His reaction was instantaneous and violent. His hand shot out, gripping my wrist with bruising force as he bolted upright, eyes wild and unseeing.
"Alexander!" I gasped, wincing at his grip. "It's me, Elena. You're safe. It was just a nightmare."
Awareness slowly dawned in his eyes. His gaze focused on my face, then dropped to where his fingers were digging into my skin. He released me immediately, recoiling as if burned.
"Elena." His voice was hoarse, disoriented. "What are you doing here?"
"You were having a nightmare," I explained, rubbing my wrist. "You were screaming."
Comprehension washed over his face, followed quickly by something that looked like shame. He ran a trembling hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
"I apologize," he said stiffly, his walls already rebuilding. "And for... hurting you."
"You didn't hurt me," I lied, hiding my wrist behind my back. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." The word was clipped, dismissive. "It was just a dream."
But the haunted look in his eyes told a different story. Whatever he'd been reliving, it was far from "just" anything.
---
The morning brought awkward silence. Alexander emerged from his room perfectly composed in a charcoal suit, hair immaculate, expression unreadable. If not for the shadows beneath his eyes, I might have imagined the night's events.
"Good morning," I ventured, looking up from my coffee.
He nodded curtly. "I have meetings until late tonight. Don't wait up."
And just like that, he was gone, leaving me alone in the vast, empty penthouse.
By evening, I'd received a call from James, Alexander's driver. "Ms. Winters? There's been an... incident. Mr. Blackwood asked me to call you."
My heart lurched. "Is he hurt?"
"No, ma'am. But he's... not well. We're outside the building now."
I rushed down to find Alexander in the backseat, his breathing rapid and shallow, eyes fixed on something I couldn't see. His tie was loosened, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his face despite the car's cool interior.
"He received a phone call during our drive back," James explained quietly. "Shortly after, he began experiencing... difficulty breathing."
A panic attack. I recognized the symptoms from my father's episodes during his illness.
"Alexander," I said gently, sliding into the seat beside him. "Can you hear me?"
His eyes flickered to mine, pupils dilated with fear. He nodded once, a jerky movement.
"I'm going to help you upstairs, okay?"
In the elevator, his breathing grew more erratic. "Can't—" he gasped, clutching at his chest. "Can't breathe."
"Yes, you can," I said firmly, taking his hand and placing it against my sternum. "Feel my breathing. Match it. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
His eyes locked on mine, desperate for an anchor in the storm of his panic. I breathed slowly, deliberately, until gradually his breathing began to synchronize with mine.
By the time we reached the penthouse, some color had returned to his face. I guided him to the sofa, then fetched a glass of water.
"How did you know what to do?" he asked after several sips.
"My father had panic attacks during his treatment," I explained, sitting beside him. "The fear, the uncertainty—it would overwhelm him sometimes."
Alexander nodded, staring into his water glass. "I haven't had one that severe in years."
"What triggered it?" I asked gently.
He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. Then, "A phone call. From the hospital where my parents died."
My heart constricted. "The same hospital?"
"They're renovating the wing named after my family. Wanted to discuss the dedication ceremony." His laugh was hollow. "Twenty-two years later, and a simple phone call can still reduce me to this."
"Trauma doesn't operate on a timetable," I said softly. "My father still can't hear certain songs that played during my mother's funeral. Triggers can ambush us when we least expect them."
Alexander looked at me then, really looked at me, as if seeing past my exterior for the first time. "You understand," he said, sounding faintly surprised.
"More than you might think."
Later that night, unable to sleep, I wandered to the living room. A light glowed from beneath Alexander's office door—he was working again, fighting his demons with spreadsheets and contracts.
On an end table near the sofa, I noticed something I hadn't seen before: a small silver frame containing a photograph of a smiling boy between two beaming adults—Alexander and his parents, before tragedy rewrote his story.
As if sensing my thoughts, Alexander's office door opened. He paused when he saw me, his gaze following mine to the photograph.
"That boy died with his parents," he said quietly, answering my unspoken question.
I looked up at him, at the walls he'd built to protect himself from further loss, and wondered if that was true—or if that boy was simply buried, waiting for someone to help him find his way back to the light.
