Maybe Only Bruised
Country: Auremont
City: Aurivelle
Alvara
I did not expect guilt to feel this quiet.
I had imagined if it ever came, it would arrive loudly.
Sharp.
Obvious.
Punishing.
Instead, it came on a Sunday afternoon in the soft silence of my bedroom, with sunlight on the floor and Grayson’s untouched messages still sitting at the top of my phone.
Three messages.
No excuses.
No demands.
No answer for me.
Just:
I’m sorry.
You deserved better than silence.
When you’re ready, I’ll explain.
I had not replied.
Because I was still angry.
Because I was still hurt.
Because part of me believed if I answered too quickly, I would be choosing softness over self-respect.
And because another part of me was afraid that if I heard his voice, I would forgive him too soon
I sat on the edge of the bed with the phone in my hand when Isabella walked in without knocking.
As usual.
She took one look at my face.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re suffering.”
“I am not suffering.”
“You’re holding your phone like it insulted your bloodline.”
She dropped onto the chair opposite me, crossed one elegant leg over the other, and held out her hand.
“Give it.”
“No.”
She snatched it anyway.
Read the screen.
Then looked at me slowly.
“You are dramatic.”
“I am wounded.”
“You are impossible.”
“I prefer discerning.”
She tossed the phone back to me.
“Have you asked what happened to him?”
“No.”
Did you let him explain?”
“No.”
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Then sighed.
“Alvara.”
Her voice softened.
“You had every right to be angry.”
I said nothing.
“But anger and fairness are not the same thing.”
That landed harder than I liked.
“He disappeared,” I said quietly.
“For two days,” she replied. “Not two years.”
“He said he loved me and vanished.”
“Yes. Awful behavior.” She nodded. “Very male. Deeply irritating.”
I nearly smiled.
She continued.
“But this is Grayson Hawthorne.”
I frowned.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means men like that do not vanish for pleasure.” She leaned forward. “He runs empires, governments call him, markets move when he sneezes. If he disappeared during the happiest moment of your life, then either he is a fool…” she paused, “or something happened.”
I looked away.
The problem was I had thought that too.
Once.
Before pride became louder.
She studied me carefully.
“You love him.”
I said nothing.
She smiled sadly.
“That was not a question.”
My throat tightened.
“I don’t know what I feel.”
“Liar.”
I threw a pillow at her.
She caught it neatly.
Then her expression was gentle.
“You were hurt because he matters.”
I looked down at my hands.
“And now I feel guilty because I hurt him too.”
“Good,” she said lightly.
I looked up sharply.
“Good?”
“Yes. It means neither of you are monsters. Just two people who care badly at the same time.”
I hated how wise that sounded.
She stood.
Smoothed her dress.
“Ask him what happened.”
“And if it is not enough?”
“Then remain furious beautifully.”
“And if it is?”
“Then stop punishing yourself for wanting to forgive someone who loves you.”
She walked to the door.
Paused.
Then glanced back.
“Oh, and if you truly don’t want him…”
She smiled wickedly.
“I do.”
“Then stop behaving like a woman auditioning for tragedy.”
She left before I could throw something heavier.
I sat with guilt.
Turning the three messages over in my mind.
I'm sorry.
You deserved better than silence.
When you're ready, I'll explain.
No excuses attached.
No performance.
Just … left there.
For whenever I was ready.
Or never.
Both are acceptable.
I was still sitting there when the door burst open.
Leo stood there breathing like he had run upstairs.
I stared at him.
He pointed dramatically toward the hallway.
“Grayson Hawthorne is downstairs.”
Silence.
My pulse betrayed me immediately.
I stood too fast.
“What?”
“He is downstairs,” Leo repeated, still stunned. “In our house. Talking to Mum.”
I was already moving.
I followed Leo downstairs.
And then I saw him.
He was standing in the sitting room beside my mother.
Black shirt.
Black trousers.
No jacket.
No flowers.
No gifts.
Just him.
And something inside me went still.
He looked tired.
Not ordinary tired.
Not late-night tired.
The kind of tiredness that sat in the bones.
His jaw carried stubble he usually never allowed.
There were faint shadows under his eyes.
His posture was straight because pride would not let it be otherwise, but I knew immediately it was effort.
He looked up when I entered.
Our eyes met.
Something passed across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness.
Relief.
Then restraint.
“Alvara,” he said quietly.
I did not answer.
My mother glanced at us.
I looked at Grayson for a long moment.
Then said coolly,
“ What are you doing here”?
“ I came to talk to you,” he said.
“ And you didn't call before coming”?
“ You said I shouldn't call,I didn't want to annoy you more”.
I looked at him for a moment.
“ Let's go upstairs”
He nodded once.
No argument.
No performance.
I turned and walked back toward the stairs.
I heard his footsteps behind me.
My bedroom door closed softly behind us.
I stayed standing.
He remained near the door.
Distance between us.
Appropriate.
I folded my arms.
“You have five minutes.”
“I’ll take one if that’s all you give me.”
Still him.
Still impossible.
I said nothing.
He looked at me properly then.
And I hated the flicker of pain that crossed his face.
“You look tired,” I said before I could stop myself.
A small pause.
“I am.”
I hardened immediately.
“Speak.”
He nodded.
“The morning I left Paris, one of our logistics aircraft went down over the Adriatic.”
The room changed.
I felt it.
Every wall suddenly closes.
“There were seven people aboard,” he continued. “Three survived the impact. One died before rescue reached them.”
I did not move.
Could not.
“I was called before dawn. I left immediately for Italy.”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
The kind of calm people used when holding too much.
“From Italy I went to Geneva. The aircraft was carrying acquisition documents tied to a merger worth billions. If they were compromised, it would trigger regulatory collapse.”
I stared at him.
“From Geneva to Prague. One of the surviving executives refused surgery until I arrived.”
He swallowed once.
“From Prague to London. Regulators froze the transaction pending accountability.”
Another pause.
“Then New York. The board wanted emergency succession authority in case I failed.”
Five countries.
Two days.
No sleep.
No stillness.
And someone had died.
My throat tightened.
“When did you sleep?”
His mouth shifted slightly.
“Cars. Airports. Twenty minutes in a conference room.”
“That is not sleep.”
“ It was still okay for me ”
I looked away.
Because suddenly I could see him standing in my office while I tore into him.
Still composed.
Still apologizing.
While carrying all of this.
“Why didn’t you tell me there?” I asked quietly.
“At the atelier?”
“Yes.”
“You were angry.”
“I was.”
“You deserved to be.”
His voice roughened.
“And I did not want tragedy used as currency to buy forgiveness.”
That landed so hard I had to grip the back of my chair.
Of course.
Of course he would think like that.
Even exhausted.
Even hurt.
I spoke more softly.
“How do you feel?”
He was silent long enough that I looked at him again.
Then he answered.
“Tired.”
Not physically.
Something deeper.
I saw it then.
The strain in his eyes.
The way he was holding himself together by discipline alone.
“One of the men who died worked with us for nineteen years,” he said quietly. “He had a daughter. Twenty-three.”
My eyes burned.
“She kept thanking me for coming,” he added. “While grieving.”
I covered my mouth briefly.
God.
He looked away for the first time since entering the room.
I crossed the space between us before I fully decided to.
Stopped in front of him.
Not touching.
Just closer.
“I threw flowers at you,” I said quietly.
“Yes.”
“I shredded your documents.”
“You did.”
“I called you Mr Hawthorne.”
That finally made the faintest shadow of something move at his mouth.
“That was particularly savage.”
A laugh escaped me unexpectedly.
Wet with tears.
Annoying.
I hated that too.
Then I looked at him fully.
“I was cruel.”
“You were hurt.”
“I should have listened.”
“I should have called.”
We stood there in the truth of both things.
Then I asked the question that mattered now.
“Have you eaten?”
A pause.
“Not properly.”
I pointed toward the bed.
“Sit.”
He blinked.
Then obeyed immediately.
I went to the small table near the window, poured water into a glass, and handed it to him.
He took it.
Looked up at me like I had given him something far greater.
I ignored that.
“You will eat before you leave.”
“Yes.”
“You will sleep tonight.”
“I’ll try.”
“You will do better than try.”
His gaze held mine.
“Yes, Alvara.”
The use of my name instead of starling made something in my chest ache.
I sat in the chair opposite him.
Quiet for a moment.
Then said softly,
“I do not forgive you yet.”
“I know.”
“But I am listening now.”
His eyes closed briefly.
Relief passing over him like weather.
When he opened them again, his voice was lower.
“That is more than I deserve.”
I looked at the exhausted man sitting in my room.
The man who had crossed cities, countries, grief, crisis.
and still come here himself.
Maybe we were not broken.
Maybe only bruised.