Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 21 - Chapitre 30

Aliya's POVIt had been almost twenty-four hours and there had been no word from Dylan.My phone screen lights up again as I check it for what must be the hundredth time this morning. The same empty notifications stare back at me. No missed calls. No new messages. Nothing.I let out a slow breath and place the phone back on the desk, though my fingers linger around it for a moment as if expecting it to vibrate at any second.Maybe he changed his mind. The thought has been trying to push its way to the front all day.In my head, several different versions of what could have happened have already played out. Maybe the fake relationship idea started sounding ridiculous after he got home. Maybe his family found someone better for him. Maybe he realized getting involved with someone who already has a child would only complicate his life.My chair rolls back slightly as I lean into it, staring blankly at the ceiling for a moment.I can’t deny that a soft spot has started forming for him, an

Aliya's POVI keep staring at my phone long after the call ends.Even though the line has gone dead, my hand is still wrapped around it, pressed against my ear as if Dylan’s voice might suddenly come back through it. My fingers have gone slightly numb from holding the phone so tightly, but I don’t notice until Elena clears her throat loudly from across the desk.Slowly, I lowered the phone and placed it on the desk in front of me. The screen goes dark almost immediately, reflecting my face back at me like a dull mirror. My expression looks strange—caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.The office suddenly feels too quiet.Outside, the steady hum of sewing machines continues as my staff work on the latest orders. The sound usually comforts me. It’s familiar, predictable, proof that life is moving normally.Today it only makes the silence inside my office feel heavier.“Elena?” Leo’s voice pipes up again from near the door.I blink and force myself to look away from the phone

Aliya's POVI stare at the phone long after the call ends.The screen slowly fades to black in my hand, leaving only a faint reflection of my own face staring back at me. For a moment, I didn’t move. The office suddenly feels very still, even though the familiar sounds of the workshop outside continue as usual.The soft hum of sewing machines filters through the walls. Someone laughs near the cutting table. Scissors snip through fabric with quick, rhythmic movements.Life is moving normally.But inside my office, everything feels paused.“Elena?” I say slowly.My voice sounds quieter than I expected.She is still standing beside the desk with her arms folded across her chest, one hip leaning against the corner of the cabinet. Her eyes are fixed on me, sharp and curious, like she had been waiting for the answer since the moment the call began.“What did he say?” she asks.I blink, realizing I have been staring at the same spot on the desk for almost a full minute.“That wasn’t Dylan.”

Aliya's POVFor a few seconds after Dylan apologized, the hallway felt completely silent.The fluorescent lights above us hum softly, casting a pale glow across the polished hospital floor. Somewhere in the distance, a monitor beeps steadily, its rhythmic sound echoing faintly through the corridor.Dylan shifts his weight against the wall, one hand rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to ease a knot of tension there.I study his face. It was the only thing I thought of doing at that moment. He looked really shocked to see me, with more emotions that I could not make out.Up close, the exhaustion is obvious. His usually sharp appearance has faded into something rougher tonight. His hair is slightly messy, his shirt sleeves rolled unevenly to his elbows, and the faint shadow of stubble darkens his jaw.For the first time since I met him, he doesn’t look in control of everything.“You could have told me,” I say quietly.My voice isn’t angry, but the disappointment slips through

Dylan's POVThe television keeps talking.I’m barely listening.The news anchor’s voice drones on in the background while images flash across the screen—grainy photos taken outside the club, security guards pulling people apart, a blurry shot of me wiping blood from my mouth. Each image lands like a fist against my chest. My stomach knots, a mix of embarrassment and disbelief.I sit on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, phone still pressed to my ear, and I can feel the sting of last night’s fight crawling under my skin.“Dylan?” Chris says, his voice low and cautious.“Yeah.”“You see this?”“Unfortunately.”The reporter’s voice continues, clinical and detached, cutting into the room like a cold wind.“…sources say the altercation occurred shortly after midnight outside the downtown club, where witnesses claim Dylan Carter was involved in a physical confrontation…”I press a hand over my face, rubbing at the tension. My cheek is still sore from the punch I took, and when my finge