10. Silas
Silas
A s I slowly regain consciousness, the sterile smell hits me first—sharp, chemical, unmistakably hospital.
I survived.
Through half-open eyes, I make out the room around me. There are murmurs and beeping machines. Lauren’s voice filters in from the distance, sounding different—nervous. I know that tone well, and this isn’t her usual composed self.
“I’m Doctor Mike Sanders, nice to?—”
I’m DoCtOr MIkE SaNdErS.
“Lauren, Lauren Green, I’m Mr. Walker’s assistant,” she responds.
I peek just a little and catch a glimpse of her shaking hands with the doctor. He looks more like a runway model than a physician, but who am I to judge? The guy's flirting mid-shift.
“Green?” DoCtOr MIkE says, clearly trying to play it cool. “I met someone with that last name once.”
Seriously, Mike? Green is like the John of last names.
Lauren’s polite enough, though. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah, but she didn’t look anything like you. You’re much prettier,” he says, laying it on thick.
I grunt under my breath—not because of the weak attempt at flirting, but because his technique is so bad it’s almost insulting.
What is this, the fifties?
“I’m going to vomit,” I groan, more to disrupt his cringe-worthy flirting than anything.
Both whirl around, but Lauren’s at my side in a second, quicker than the doctor could even react. She’s concerned and focused on me, while Mike? He’s still trying to recover from his terrible game. I can’t help but smile internally.
“Silas!” Lauren’s voice comes out too loud as she grabs my hand with both of hers, her warmth almost startling against my cold skin. The sound of her voice feels like it’s traveling straight to my aching brain.
“Ah ... no screaming,” I groan, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Sorry,” she whispers, leaning closer. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I just want to know my diagnosis so I can get out of here,” I reply, focusing on the doctor, who seems a little too interested in the way Lauren’s hands are still on mine. I almost smile at the awkwardness.
“Mr. Walker, welcome back,” the doctor says, straightening up.
“What happened to me?” I ask, my voice sounding more like a demand than a question.
“A pre-heart attack,” he explains, his tone suddenly all business. “ Thanks to your assistant’s quick thinking with the aspirin, things could’ve been much worse.”
I glance at Lauren. She’s listening intently, but then she lowers her gaze, looking almost ... embarrassed? I want to say thank you, to tell her how much I appreciate her being there when I needed it most, but the words stick in my throat. Because, well, I’m a jerk.
“Great, can I leave?” I ask, cutting through the tension with my impatience.
The doctor, clearly uncomfortable with my sudden bad mood, shifts a little. “Yes,” he says cautiously. “But as your cardiologist, I’d like to continue monitoring your heart, run some tests, and?—”
Before he can finish, I throw off the blanket like a magician performing some cheap trick. I sit up too fast, and the world tilts violently. My body feels like it’s made of concrete—no, a wet elephant. I would’ve made some magician-related joke, but my brain’s lagging behind my movements right now.
“No need, I have my cardiologist,” I lie, gripping Lauren’s hand tighter when I feel her trying to pull away. There’s no way I’m letting this DoCtOr MIkE handle anything. I’m not na?ve—he’d have to schedule any appointments through Lauren, and then, well, by next year they’d probably be dating. He’d propose when he finally figured out there’s no one like her left.
Before I spiral further into my ridiculous jealousy, Lauren’s soft voice cuts through my thoughts.“Silas,” she whispers, pulling me back to reality. “I think you should listen to him.”
I huff and glance at DoCtOr MIkE . “I'm listening,” I grumble.
He gives me the rundown, throwing in advice I didn’t ask for. I already know my problem—stress, overwork, and probably too much caffeine—but none of it has a quick fix. When he finally finishes his speech, I turn to Lauren with a smug smile, letting her know I’ve done my part. “Can we leave now?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
Lauren gives me a defeated nod, knowing she’s not going to win this battle.
“Let’s go,” I say, standing up a little too quickly but determined to get out of here.
Standing at the hospital door, I glance at Lauren while we wait for the taxi. The urge to ask her to come with me to my apartment gnaws at me. I don’t want to be alone tonight, but the words stick in my throat. It’s ridiculous—I can give speeches to boardrooms and hold meetings with investors, yet I can’t muster the courage to ask her for something as simple as company. When the taxi arrives, I give the driver my address and stay silent for the entire ride. Maybe I don’t need to ask. Maybe she’s already decided to spend the night at my place after all. The thought crosses my mind, imagining her watching the sunrise, just like she once mentioned she wanted to.
When the taxi finally stops, I quickly pay the driver, and Lauren helps me out like I’m some fragile old man. If I didn’t secretly enjoy the attention, I’d be annoyed—hell, I’d be yelling at her to stop treating me like I’m disabled. The doorman stands at the entrance, watching our every move with far too much curiosity. I mutter a halfhearted, “Go do your job, Diego” under my breath as we shuffle past him toward the elevator. Once inside my apartment, though, everything shifts. Lauren’s energy changes and she suddenly takes charge as if the roles have reversed. It’s almost comical—here I am, the CEO, and somehow, she’s the one calling the shots.
“Go take a quick shower; I'll see what you have for dinner,” she orders.
For a moment, I pause, letting her words echo through the vastness of my apartment. It feels … different. Almost homey, and I can’t help but admit that I like it. I like it a lot more than I expected. This strange new dynamic with Lauren calling the shots feels oddly comforting. Without saying anything, I turn and head to the bathroom, locking myself in for a moment to clear my head. When I step out, a rich aroma wafts through the air, pulling me toward the kitchen like one of those cartoon characters floating toward breakfast on a Saturday morning. Lauren stands by the stove, stirring something in a pot with a wooden spoon—something new, since I don’t cook.
She looks up, and when her eyes meet mine, her expression shifts into a warm smile. That smile . I’ve never seen her look at me like that before—soft, genuine, like she’s not just my assistant but someone who actually … cares.
And for the first time, I feel something deeper than the usual tension. It’s a warmth I haven’t felt in a long time.
“How do you feel?” Lauren asks softly, wiping her hands with a dishcloth and walking toward me.
“Better,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, savoring the way she looks at me now—gentle, almost ... tender. This day, which seemed like a disaster from the start, suddenly feels like it’s shifting into something else. Something better.
The ambient light in the apartment casts a warm, orange glow over everything, softening the edges, making the space feel more intimate. Through the windows, the city of New York glimmers in the distance. But right now, all I can focus on is Lauren, smiling at me like that. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I felt this ... peaceful. When I bought this place, I was meticulous about every detail, working closely with the interior designer. I had a vision—one rooted in an idea I discovered as a kid. Wabi-Sabi, an ancient Asian philosophy, taught me to find beauty in the imperfect, the temporary, the incomplete. It captivated me. It was a concept that spoke to something I couldn’t quite articulate at the time.
But now, standing here, looking at Lauren, it all clicks into place. No one sees her the way I do. No one notices her imperfections, the subtle cracks in her armor, the details that make her ... real . But I do. And I am obsessed with knowing all of them—every flaw, every crevice that makes her uniquely Lauren. The more I see, the more I realize how perfect her imperfection is.
She is my alchemist.
Unrepeatable, perfect in her imperfection, and mine—even if she doesn’t know it yet.
My obsession with imperfection eventually spread beyond people, reaching into the objects I choose to surround myself with. Worn wood from a blacksmith’s house, asymmetrical vases with cracks, and stained cement—all of it decorates my apartment now. The space is a blend of neutral colors: white walls, minimalist furniture, a fusion of Nordic simplicity, and Japanese aesthetics. The interior designer called it “Japandi,” a perfect combination of everything I wanted—imperfect, beautiful, calming. Every time I walk through the door, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace, admiration for the unique pieces scattered around me, and a deep harmony in the imperfections.
Lauren steps closer, placing her hand on my forehead, probably checking my temperature, her gaze studying me like I’m some puzzle she’s trying to solve. She’s just inches away, and without thinking, I reach out and take the tips of her fingers, playing with them between mine. It feels natural—like this is something we’ve done a thousand times, though we haven’t. As if touching her doesn’t ignite something primal inside me.
“Thanks,” I whisper, my eyes fixed on how our skin connects, how her fingers feel against mine. It’s tender, but electric at the same time.
She glances down at our hands, seeing what I’m seeing. “You’re welcome,” she responds softly, almost inaudible, her voice barely breaking the silence between us. And in that moment, I know she feels it too—the overwhelming intensity of this touch, the power of it.
It feels right. Too right.
I intertwine our fingers, holding her hand for just a moment longer, and then I look straight into her eyes. The instant she meets my gaze, she lets go, stepping back as though the weight of it is too much to bear.
“I- I hope you like the stew,” she stammers, turning back to the pot and stirring it, though I can see she’s just as rattled as I am.
I move to sit at the barstools by the kitchen island, nodding silently, the tension thick in the air between us.
“You probably want to be in bed, right?” she asks, her voice hesitant.
Yes. With you , I think, but what comes out is, “I’m a little tired, but honestly, I’m hungrier than I am sleepy. ”
“Well, it’ll be ready any moment now,” she says, tapping the spoon against the pot before carefully placing it on a paper napkin, always mindful of avoiding any mess—so typical of Lauren. I watch her with quiet admiration, every movement deliberate and careful, as if the act of cooking was the only thing keeping her from slipping into the same emotional quicksand I’m stuck in. But still, the silence between us feels like it’s brimming with something unspoken, something we’re both too scared to name.
“I have questions,” I say, crossing my arms over the marble island, watching her carefully.
“Shoot,” she replies without hesitation, but there’s a certain guardedness in her voice.
“How did you know I was having a heart attack?”
“ Pre -heart attack,” she corrects, not missing a beat. “I recognized the symptoms.”
“Are you an expert or something?” I ask with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood.
“Almost,” she says, stopping her movements and meeting my gaze. “My mom has a condition that damages her heart. I’ve learned to recognize a heart attack when it happens.”
Her mom is sick? That’s news to me. Then again, why would she mention it? I never asked her personal questions—probably too busy being my usual self. “That’s why you carry aspirin with you,” I say, the pieces slowly clicking into place.
She nods. “I know it’s thousands of miles away, but it’s a habit I can’t shake.”
“What illness does she have?” I ask, this time genuinely curious. I want to know.
Lauren leans against the island, her posture relaxed as she rests her torso on the marble, almost lying down. It’s the most at ease I’ve seen her in this whole weirdly intimate evening. “She has a heart anomaly that makes it work twice as hard.”
“Is there a cure?”
“No,” she says softly, looking down and fidgeting with her fingernail. “But she takes medication that helps. ”
I notice the slight change in her demeanor, the way her shoulders tense just a bit. “What’s wrong?” I ask, feeling something shift in the conversation.
“It’s extremely expensive medication,” she says, exhaling deeply as if letting the words out makes the weight of it easier to bear. “My parents’ retirement doesn’t cover everything, so my sister and I help out as much as we can.”
“And that’s why you live in that place,” I say, drawing the conclusion aloud. It makes perfect sense now. Lauren spends most of her salary on her mom’s health because, of course she does. That’s just ... her. How did I not figure this out earlier? She gives me a small, tight smile, confirming what I already know. The burden she carries isn’t just financial—it’s emotional, too. And for the first time, I see Lauren in a new light, not just as my assistant but as someone holding everything together, at her own expense.
“ Yep, ” she says, wiping away nonexistent crumbs from the counter, more out of habit than anything else. The reality hits me. Prices, healthcare—it’s all so inflated that families like hers are forced to make impossible choices.
Lauren moves back to the pot, ladling stew into my blue plates. Plates I brought back from Greece, a detail I realize she probably hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care about. But it doesn’t matter. She places a plate in front of me and then sits beside me at the island.
“ Bon appétit! ” she says with a warm smile.
“I think the last time I had stew was at my grandfather’s country house when I was ten,” I say, reminiscing.
“Does this not meet Silas Walker’s standards?” she teases with a grin that makes her impossibly more adorable.
Everything made by you meets my standards , I think, but instead, I say, “This is good for now,” with a wink, watching as her cheeks flush with a smile that, for a second, makes me forget everything else. I want to make her smile again. Turns out, seeing Lauren smile is far more satisfying than making her cry. We both take our first bite at the same time, and I watch her reaction closely. She seems to enjoy it, and while I want to have the same reaction, I keep it cool, savoring it in silence .
“Do you always cook?” I ask, taking a second bite.
“Yeah, except on Fridays. Fridays are reserved for junk food,” she says with a small grin.
“Me too,” I reply, moving food around on my plate casually. “But that’s my best-kept secret, so unfortunately, you’ll have to die now.” I say it with a deadpan expression, and she looks at me seriously for a second before bursting into laughter—loud, unrestrained, and so contagious that I can’t help but join in.
“What’s junk food for Silas Walker? Sushi?” she teases, still laughing.
“What? No, not that fancy,” I say, smirking. The truth is, my guilty pleasure on Fridays usually involves a quick stop at McDonald’s. There’s something strangely comforting about biting into a burger that’ll probably last forever in my stomach.
When we finish eating, she clears her plate and takes it to the sink, washing her hands.
Then, pointing at me, she asks, “Don’t you have one of those butlers from the movies? You know, in a suit and white gloves? This place deserves it.”
“Nope,” I say, leaning back. “I don’t like having people in my space, but someone comes by once a week to clean. I’ve only seen her once, I think.”
“It must be hard to run into someone in this apartment,” Lauren jokes, glancing around at the sheer size of the place.
“The good thing about living alone is that I don’t have to worry about that. Oh, by the way, there’s a bell in one of the kitchen drawers. Hang it around your neck in case you get lost in the halls of this place,” I say with a smirk.
Lauren gives me a deadpan look, but then bursts into uncontrollable laughter, and I can’t help but join in. Sharing a laugh with her feels like the best medicine. It calms my chest, quiets the lingering anxiety, and fills my heart with something new. It’s not stress, and for once, it’s not loneliness either.
“Bed,” she orders, snapping me back to reality .
I exhale through my nose, chuckling at her sudden bossiness. “Are you coming with me?”
“No,” she replies firmly, “but if you give me some blankets and a pillow, I’m ready to sleep.”
“You’re really going to stay?” I ask, a bit surprised.
“Yes, didn’t you hear Mike? He said you needed someone to stay with you tonight. Unless you have someone else in mind,” she says casually, and something in me flares up at the way she says Mike so easily.
“ Mike? Now it’s Mike ?” I mutter, feeling a wave of jealousy hit. “Well, choose the guest room you like best,” I say, pointing to the hallway where there are about five doors. “They’re all ready.”
Lauren looks at the doors, then glances at my bedroom door, and she looks overwhelmed.“No, that’s too far. If something happens to you, I won’t be able to hear you. I need something closer.”
“I insist, there’s nothing closer than my bed,” I say, half-joking, half-hoping.
“I’m not going to sleep with you, Silas,” she says matter-of-factly, as if it should be obvious. “Especially not with your condition .”
“So, there’s a chance?” I tease.
She rolls her eyes and completely ignores the comment. “I'm going to sleep in this chair,” she says, making her way toward my designer chair—“Don’t even think about it,” I say, shaking my head. “That chair costs more than a year’s rent for your shoebox.” The chair was expensive, and custom-made from Japan, but I’m not about to dive into those details right now.
“In any case, you’re sleeping in the chair in my room . Come on.”
“I'm not falling for that,” she says, crossing her arms and shifting her weight onto one leg, looking at me like I’m trying to pull the oldest trick in the book.
I raise an eyebrow, giving her a mock-innocent look. “I’m being practical. You wanted to be close, right? The chair’s there, you’re close by, and you don’t have to sleep on something worth more than most people’s cars.”
She narrows her eyes, clearly suspicious of my intentions .
I can't help but smile. “What's wrong? You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you,” she says, but the way she crosses her arms tighter tells me otherwise.
“Then stop being stubborn and come sit in the overpriced chair in my room,” I say, grinning. “It’s the perfect compromise.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t budge. Looks like I’m not winning this round so easily.
I walk over to Lauren, grab her arm—not too roughly, but enough to let her know I’m done with the back and forth—and guide her into my room. I’m tired of dancing around this. Maybe sex isn’t happening tonight, but we both know where this is headed, eventually. Denying it feels pointless.
My room is just like the rest of the apartment—minimalist, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls that show off the city skyline. You can see everything from here, the lights of New York stretching out endlessly. My bed is king-sized, with a sleek, light wood headboard. There’s a white lounge chair in the corner, the perfect spot to relax in, though more than once I’ve ended up sleeping there instead of the bed. Lauren’s eyes sweep over everything, taking it all in—the golden lighting on the ceiling, the modern, light wood nightstand, the gray carpet that stretches across the floor. Her gaze lingers on the painting across from the bed. It’s entirely black except for a golden sphere in the center, an investment piece from a well-known New York artist. I don’t care much for art, but I got it for the same reason I get everything—it fits.
Lauren’s reaction is hard to read. She’s taking it all in, but there’s a distance in her eyes like she’s more curious than impressed. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I’m drawn to her—she’s not dazzled by all of this.
“See? A chair, at such a prudent distance from the bed that even a nun would approve,” I say, trying to sound convincing.
Lauren eyes me with suspicion, arms still crossed.
“Have I ever done anything without your consent?”
“Yes.”
“Well, apart from that time. ”
“Yes.”
“Apart from that other time!”
She pauses for a second, then says, “No.”
“Alright then, no more talking about it,” I say, shutting the conversation down before I dig myself a deeper hole. I walk over to the closet, grab a pillow and some blankets, and drop them on the chair. When I crawl back into bed, I glance over and watch her meticulously arranging the makeshift bedding. But then, I notice her clothes—pencil skirt, blouse, and heels. There’s no way she’s going to be comfortable like that.
“Oh, hell,” I mutter under my breath, already knowing what I need to do.
Lauren hears me this time, her eyes locking onto mine. “What’s going on?”
“You need pajamas,” I say, throwing the sheets off myself and heading for the closet again, this time to grab one of my T-shirts for her. As I hold it in my hand, my mind gets the better of me—Lauren in my T-shirt, her messy morning hair, the soft glow of sunlight. Before I can stop it, my imagination runs wild, and then, of course, my body reacts.
“No, no, no …” I grunt to myself, scrambling to cover up, trying to will my thoughts away before they cause any more problems. Lauren has no idea what kind of internal chaos she’s stirring.
“If you don’t have anything, don’t worry, I’m used to sleeping in what I have on,” Lauren calls from the other room.
What the hell does that mean? My mind races, overthinking it, while I try to keep my cool. “Calm your anxiety, Lauren,” I shout back, though truthfully, I’m the nervous one.
Suddenly, the familiar tightness in my chest creeps up, and my hand instinctively presses against my heart as if squeezing it will somehow ease the pain. I start taking deep breaths, forcing myself to think of something else, anything to distract from the discomfort building inside.
Out of nowhere, I feel her hands on my arms—gentle but firm .
“No, don’t come,” I manage to say, but the words come out weak, more like a plea than a command.
“Silas, look at me,” she says softly, her voice grounding me. I can’t help but meet her gaze. Her hands glide down from my shoulders to my wrists, her touch calming the storm inside me. “I’m here.”
And that’s exactly the problem.She’s here, and it’s overwhelming in a way I can’t explain.
“I need you to look at me and relax with me,” Lauren says softly, her hands continuing their gentle caresses. She cups my face, her thumbs stroking my cheeks, and it’s like everything else fades away. I lock eyes with her, completely lost in those calm, smiling eyes. Her mouth is slightly open, her presence grounding me in a way that nothing else can. “Can you walk?” she asks, her voice steady.
I nod, dumbstruck by her beauty. How does she not realize how incredible she is? The Alchemist, transforming everything just by being here.
“Let’s go,” she says, linking her arm with mine and guiding me to the bed. My body feels useless, but with her help, I manage to lie down, and she covers me with the blankets, moving gently. By the time she’s done, I know she saw my erection, but she’s tactful enough to pretend she didn’t notice.
“What were you thinking about?” she asks, sitting beside me, her voice curious but calm.
“Nothing, just you in my clothes,” I say seriously, not even trying to hide it.
“Oh ... well, I won’t use them then,” she says with a small smile, trying to brush it off.
I hiss in frustration. “Don’t be stubborn. Go change. You’ve done enough for me.”
Lauren stays silent for a moment, her expression contemplative. “Don’t you want me to call anyone from your family?” she asks, picking up the clothes I’d left lying around.
“No.” My heart starts racing again at the thought. “No one can know about this. My father will just say I’m not ready for the stress, and my brothers will make fun of me. ”
She walks toward me again, and I can’t help but take in every detail, from the way she moves to how she looks from head to toe. There's something about her that pulls at me, more than just her beauty—it’s her calmness, her steadiness, the way she handles everything with grace.
“Sleep in my bed, please,” I whisper, barely able to meet her eyes. “I promise not to do anything, just …” Is she going to make me say it? “I need you close.”
Lauren hesitates, her eyes searching mine, full of doubt. That’s a good sign—at least she’s thinking about it. “You’re taking advantage of your condition,” she says, her tone teasing but cautious.
“Yes,” I admit with a small smile. “Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
After a moment, she sighs and reluctantly walks around to the other side of the bed. She lies down with her back to me, keeping a safe distance, but I don’t care.
I’ve already won.
Her presence next to me is enough for now.