Before the silence
The morning light cut through the half-drawn curtains, bathing the room in soft gold. The house was quiet—too quiet for a man who ruled over empires built on noise. But here, in this space, Jarel wasn't a tycoon. He wasn't a name feared in boardrooms or chased by media.
He was just a man. A man carrying a tray of breakfast and fear.
He pushed open the bedroom door with his foot, balancing the tray carefully. On it sat warm toast, fruit, a cup of mint tea, and a little bowl of yogurt. Dora had been nauseous lately—he remembered she said cold foods helped.
“Look at me,” he muttered under his breath, “learning to cut strawberries like I didn’t fire a chef last week.”
She was still curled up in bed, back facing him, long dark hair spilling across the pillow like ink. The scent of lavender clung to the room—the same scent she always wore. The same scent he didn’t want to have to remember.
Jarel set the tray down gently on the nightstand and sat at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. He placed a hand on her hip, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her swollen belly.
“Good morning,” he whispered against her skin, lips lingering.
Dora stirred, her voice soft but laced with fatigue. “Mmm. You’re up early.”
“I had a meeting with Tokyo at five. And then I made you breakfast,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Priorities, you know?”
She rolled onto her back, facing him fully. Her eyes were tired, but they held that same fire—faint, flickering, but alive. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” he replied, brushing her hair from her face. “You need to eat. And you need to stop skipping meals.”
“I’m not skipping,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I’m just… the food hates me.”
Jarel laughed under his breath and leaned back on one arm. “Then I’ll fight the food for you.”
She smiled, barely. “You’d fight the world for me.”
“I already do.”
The silence that followed was warm, but heavy. He wanted to freeze time in that moment, hold onto it with both hands. She looked so small in the bed, but strong. Still glowing, still beautiful—even though the illness had begun to steal things from her. Slowly. Quietly. Like a thief in the night.
She touched his wrist lightly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m going somewhere.”
His jaw clenched. “You’re not.”
Dora smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. “You don’t get to promise that, Jarel.”
He closed his eyes briefly. She was right. He had money, power, reach beyond borders—but he couldn’t buy time. Couldn’t bribe fate.
“I’m not promising,” he said finally. “I’m refusing.”
He looked down at her stomach, then back into her eyes. “You’re going to see her. You’re going to hold her. And you’re going to yell at me for spoiling her too much.”
Dora chuckled weakly, her hand drifting to her belly. “You’re already spoiling her.”
“She’s mine. Of course I am.”
Another silence stretched between them. Then she whispered, “I’m scared.”
He leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers. “I am too.”
And in that quiet, just for a second, the powerful, unshakable Jarel cracked.
