I never understood how something as simple as presence could weigh so heavily.
Lara was never loud. Never demanding. She didn't force herself into rooms or conversations the way people in my world often did. But she stayed.
She stayed, even when there was nothing warm to stay for.
That night she told me about her aunt—how the woman had fallen, how she was in the hospital, how fragile everything felt—I didn't know what to say.
I don't think I ever do.
But I watched her hands as she spoke. Clenched. Still. As if holding onto words she hadn't said aloud yet.
'Are you okay?' was the only thing I managed to say. And even that felt like a foreign sentence in my mouth.
She didn't answer. Just looked at me with those tired, worn-out eyes. And I realized—I didn't want her to be tired anymore.
When I went back to my room that night, I couldn't focus on the reports Mira had stacked for me. The numbers blurred. Words became noise. All I could think of was Lara sitting beside that hospital bed. Alone.
I called Patel, one of my legal advisors. Told him to forward funds to the hospital and ensure her aunt's expenses were covered in full. Private care. No delays. Quietly.
"No trace?" he asked.
"None."
I wrote a note and left the folder in her room the next morning.
"For your aunt's bills. No questions.—R."
It was all I could offer. A gesture. Detached on paper, but more honest than anything I'd said in days.
She didn't thank me directly. But I didn't expect her to.
When I saw her in the garden later that day, her expression was softer. Quieter. She looked at me differently—like she saw something under the layers I never meant to reveal.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
"I know," I replied. "That's why I did."
She didn't smile, but her eyes said enough.
I added, "It's not pity."
"I know," she whispered.
And I wanted to tell her that I hated watching her struggle. That I admired how she carried herself without complaint. That she was one of the few people in my life who looked at me without trying to take something.
But I said nothing.
Instead, I told her to take the car next time she visited the hospital. That it was safer. That it was protocol.
I hated how clinical it sounded.
She smiled anyway.
"Then thank you. For the concern. Even if it's protocol."
'It's more than that,' I wanted to say.
But I didn't.
The next morning, I had breakfast with her.
I'd never done that before. Not really.
She looked surprised.
"I thought you didn't do breakfast."
"I do," I said. "Just not with people."
She raised a brow. "And now?"
I poured her tea. "Now's different."
She didn't ask why. Why didn't you?
That afternoon, I asked Mira about Lara's schedule and cleared it.
She needed air. And she needed to know something about me.
So I sent her to the Calein Foundation—the part of the company no one knew about. The part I kept hidden not because it was shameful, but because it was personal.
I didn't grow up around kindness. Not after my mother died.
My stepmother was never cruel. Just… empty. Polished. A perfectionist who believed softness was a disease that bred weakness.
She never touched me unless it was to fix my tie.
And my father only saw me when there was something to teach.
So the foundation was built in my mother's name. Quietly. A school, a workshop, a retreat—for women who never got second chances. Or first ones.
I didn't expect gratitude from Lara. I just wanted her to see it.
Because some part of me wanted her to see me.
When she returned, I was waiting in the sitting room.
She walked in slowly. Eyes a little glossy.
"You didn't tell me," she said.
"You never asked."
"Why show me now?"
"Because you'd understand. Without trying to own it. Without turning it into a headline."
She stared at me for a long time.
"It's beautiful," she said. "What you're doing."
"It's not enough," I replied. "But it's something."
I wasn't used to being vulnerable. My throat went tight just saying those words. But I couldn't stop myself.
"My mother was kind. But she wasn't strong enough to survive in this house. When she died, the silence that followed—it stayed."
I didn't mean to tell her that. No one knew that. Not even Mira.
But Lara… she just stood there. Not asking for more. Not trying to fix it. Just listening.
"You don't have to be them," she said.
I wanted to believe her.
"I know," I told her. "But I'm still learning how not to be."
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I walked past her room twice before knocking.
She looked surprised, but didn't turn me away.
I didn't touch her. Didn't sit too close.
But I asked, "When you look at me, what do you see?"
She didn't mock the question. Didn't dodge it.
"I see a man who doesn't know how to be kind, but tries anyway. Someone who carries things alone because he doesn't know how to ask for help. Someone colder than he wants to be… but who maybe doesn't want to be alone forever."
And in that moment, I couldn't look away.
"Good," I said quietly. "Because that's what I see in you too."
We didn't sleep in the same bed.
But we sat in the same room.
And for the first time in years, I laughed. Not because I had to. Not because I needed to impress anyone.
But because she said something ridiculous about dropping glasses during a school play.
And it reminded me that life didn't always need to be cold. Or controlled.
Sometimes, it could be messy. Unscripted.
Warm.