Refuge in His Arms

Chapter 13 The Daughter

MAYA

It has been a week since I started living here.

Alexander left early every morning, heading off to work, and I was left to wander through the quiet, empty rooms. It was strange too quiet, almost suffocating at times but he made sure I was cared for. I had messages checking if I’d eaten, reminders about breakfast or tea, and the little things, like leaving soup in the fridge or making sure the house was warm enough. He never hovered, never pushed about my past or demanded anything from me. But he made me feel seen, safe, even when I was completely alone.

I curled up on the sofa this morning, pulling my knees to my chest. My sketchbook rested against my thighs, pages open to a new design I’d started the night before: a flowing dress with lace trim and a cinched waist. Every line, every curve I drew reminded me of what I wanted a life I could create, something beautiful I could call my own. My fingers traced the pencil marks, smoothing out the rough edges. Drawing was the one thing that still gave me control, the one thing that kept me calm.

I glanced at the photograph on the living room table. A woman, probably about my age, tall, confident, poised, staring straight at the camera. I’d seen it when I first arrived, but I hadn’t asked Alexander who she was. I assumed she was someone important to him a friend, maybe a relative.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I barely noticed the front door open. The soft click startled me, and my pencil skidded across the page. Instinctively, I slammed the sketchbook shut, hugging it to my chest, and spun around.

“Who are you?”

I froze.

A woman stood in the doorway tall, poised, and commanding. She had this air of quiet authority, like she didn’t need to speak to own the room. Dark hair pulled back neatly, tailored coat framing her figure, eyes sharp, calculating. My stomach tightened.

I recognized her immediately. The woman from the photograph.

I hadn’t expected her to be real. I hadn’t expected her to be here, considering I have been alone for a week. And I certainly hadn’t expected to be so intimidated.

“I—I’m Maya,” I stammered, my voice barely audible. “I… I didn’t hear you come in.”

Her eyes flicked to my sketchbook, and I hugged it closer without thinking.

“And why are you in my father’s house?” she asked, crossing her arms. The tone was calm but sharp, like a warning I couldn’t ignore.

I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to seem weak or timid, but my heart was racing. “I… I’m staying here temporarily,” I said softly. “Your father… he’s helping me.”

Her eyebrows lifted, just slightly, but it was enough to make me feel small. “Helping you?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I… I have nowhere else to go right now.”

Her gaze narrowed, measuring me. I could feel her judgment, her curiosity, even a faint edge of jealousy I didn’t understand yet. I clutched the sketchbook tighter, afraid to let her see how nervous I was.

Then she stepped closer. “What are you drawing?”

I hesitated. My sketches were personal, a record of my dreams, my escape from a world that had tried to crush me. But her curiosity seemed genuine. Slowly, I opened the book.

She leaned in, scanning the pages. Dresses with flowing skirts, fitted jackets with delicate embroidery, soft floral patterns — all the ideas I’d poured into these pages over months.

“You… drew all this?” she asked quietly, tone softening.

“Yes,” I whispered, feeling my cheeks heat up. “I… I hope one day to make them real.”

Her eyes lingered on the pages. For a brief moment, I felt a flicker of something unexpected admiration. The tension in the room eased, just slightly, and I felt a small, hesitant spark of relief.

“These are really good,” she admitted.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice quiet, almost shy.

For a few seconds, we just looked at each other, and it felt… almost normal. Not dangerous, not scary, just human. But then she straightened, the protective edge returning. “My father doesn’t usually let strangers stay in his home,” she said quietly, firm but not hostile.

I nodded. “I know. I wouldn’t be here if I had anywhere else to go.”

She hesitated, just a fraction, and I caught the hint of uncertainty in her eyes. Maybe she was seeing me differently than she expected. That thought gave me a small, fragile sense of hope.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. I turned my head to see Alexander appear, pausing as he took in the scene Elise standing in the doorway, arms crossed, and me clutching my sketchbook like it could protect me from everything.

“Elise,” he said slowly, a touch of surprise in his voice. “You’re back early.”

“I came from my mother’s,” she replied cautiously, her bag still slung over her shoulder. “And I met… your guest.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t raise his voice. “Elise, this is Maya.”

“I figured that out,” she said, her eyes flicking to me with an appraising look.

I hugged my sketchbook tighter, my fingers gripping the edge. My chest thumped in my ears.

Alexander stepped closer, sensing the tension. “Maya is going through a difficult time. I asked her to stay here for a while.”

Elise’s eyes flicked between us. “A while?”

“Yes,” Alexander said firmly.

I felt warmth bloom in my chest. He had spoken for me without forcing me to explain, without demanding I reveal my vulnerability.

Elise studied me for another moment, expression unreadable. Then she exhaled and shifted her bag on her shoulder.

“Well,” she said quietly, neutral, “welcome, Maya.”

Not warm, not cold. Neutral. A start. The kind of start that could go either way.

She disappeared upstairs, leaving me alone with my sketchbook and my thoughts.

I exhaled shakily, pressing the book against my chest. “She… startled me,” I whispered.

Alexander gave me a small, understanding smile. “She’s protective,” he said softly, “especially after the divorce.”

“I understand,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

I looked down at my sketches, tracing the edges with my thumb. For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope fragile, tentative, but real. And beneath it, a faint ripple of fear, because I knew meeting Elise was only the beginning.

But there was also a strange warmth inside me the quiet reassurance that Alexander’s care was real, that he watched out for me even when I was alone, that maybe, just maybe, I could belong here too.

I hugged my sketchbook tighter and whispered to myself:

“Maybe… maybe I can do this.”