All Chapters of ATTACHED WITH HER OBSESSION: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Mornings with Aria were different.Not dramatic. Not rushed. Just… steady.I woke up before her that day, the light barely slipping through the curtains, the house still wrapped in quiet. She was on her side, facing away from me, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, breathing slow and even. Her hair was a little messy, strands falling against her neck in a way that made her look younger—less composed, less guarded.Less like the doctor everyone knew. More like the woman who stole my blankets at night and drank tea even when it had gone cold.I watched her for a while, letting myself linger in the moment.This—this calm—was something I never thought I’d have. I used to wake up braced for impact. For messages that would ruin my mood. For responsibilities that felt heavier than they should. For a world that demanded something from me before I was even fully awake.Now, the first thing I felt was peace.I slipped out of bed quietly and headed to the kitchen, careful not to wake her. The hou

The calm didn’t disappear. It stretched.It thinned in places, tugged gently by responsibility and expectation, but it stayed. That was what surprised me most. Even when things became heavier, the peace Aria and I had built didn’t collapse—it adapted.That morning, I woke up before my alarm.The house was still dim, curtains barely letting in the pale light of dawn. Aria was asleep beside me, her breathing slow and even. I watched her for a moment longer than necessary, memorizing the way her face softened when she slept, as if the weight she carried during the day loosened its grip at night.Careful not to wake her, I slipped out of bed.My phone was already buzzing. Emails. Messages. Mentions.I carried it with me to the kitchen, set it face down on the counter, and made coffee first. I’d learned that lesson the hard way—never read notifications before caffeine.When I finally checked, my inbox was full.Brand confirmations. Follow-ups. A revised contract draft. An invitation to att

The restaurant smelled like polished wood and restraint. Everything about the place felt deliberate—the muted lighting, the neatly spaced tables, the low hum of conversations that never rose above polite murmurs. It was the kind of place my mother favored. Somewhere appearances mattered more than comfort. She was already seated when I arrived. Straight-backed. Hands folded on the table. Dressed impeccably in a cream blouse and tailored slacks, her hair pulled into a neat low bun. She looked exactly the same as she did four years ago, as if time had decided to respect her authority. Her eyes lifted the moment she saw me. “Ena,” she said. Just my name. No warmth. No edge. Controlled. “Mom,” I replied, taking the seat across from her. She studied me openly, not bothering to hide it. Her gaze moved from my face to my posture, my clothes, the way I carried myself. “You look… well,” she said after a moment. “So do you,” I answered. The waiter approached, and she ordered for herse

The apartment smelled like brewed coffee and faint antiseptic—the kind Aria always carried home with her after long days of meetings and consultations. I liked that scent now. It meant she was building something again, not just for others, but for herself. She was sitting at the dining table when I came out of the bedroom, papers spread in front of her, tablet propped up beside a half-finished mug. Her brows were slightly drawn together, eyes focused, pen tapping softly against the margin of a printed proposal. “You’re up early,” I said. She looked up and smiled, the tension easing from her face the moment she saw me. “You woke me up.” “I didn’t mean to,” I replied, walking closer. “You looked too serious. I thought you might be plotting something dangerous.” She scoffed lightly. “Only to my sleep schedule.” I leaned over her shoulder, skimming the nearest page. “Clinic expansion again?” “Yes,” she said. “I met with two investors yesterday. One backed out, one asked for revisio

Time didn’t rush anymore. It didn’t drag either. It simply moved—steady, deliberate, almost kind. Months passed without me noticing the exact moment when chaos stopped defining my days. I only realized it one quiet morning, standing in the kitchen with sunlight warming the counter, when Aria hummed softly while reading emails beside me. No tension. No urgency clawing at my chest. Just rhythm. Life had settled into something real. My career, once dangling by a fragile thread, was blooming again—this time without the pressure to perform or please an invisible authority. Under Aria’s guidance, everything felt different. Cleaner. Intentional. I wasn’t chasing relevance anymore; I was building something lasting. My days were filled with schedules that actually made sense. Photoshoots chosen with care. Endorsements that aligned with who I was, not who people wanted me to pretend to be. Meetings where my voice mattered. Decisions that didn’t leave me feeling hollow afterward. Aria never