Chapter 2 2

Silent Connection

Sophia's POV

Weeks later, I never planned for it to happen. It started with a glance-a quiet and a lingering look into the eyes of a man who had forgotten how to see beauty in the world.

He had been abandoned by the people who once called him friend, lover and family. And maybe, in that solitude I saw pieces of myself.

I visited my father every day as usual. That part of my life was painful. He lay in that stark white hospital room, machines beeping steadily beside him, a ghost of the powerful man he once was.

The great CEO, respected and feared. Now barely held on to life.

Each time I stepped into the corridor of the critical care wing, I do walked past Williams' room. It wasn't curiosity that made me stopped. It was something deeper, a pull I couldn't explain.

Maybe it was the way he stared out the window like he was waiting for someone who never came.

Maybe it was because he had lost everything like me and still breathed.

There's a time I entered his room, I told myself it was just to deliver flowers-leftovers from my father's bouquet that would otherwise wilt in water. He didn't even look at me.

Just blinked slowly, as if I were another shadow among many.

"Do you want the window opened?" I asked.

His eyes didn't even move. But I opened it anyway, letting in the breeze.

At first, our interactions were minimal-if they could be called that at all. I'd greet him quietly, adjust the blinds, sit in the corner and read.

Sometimes I hummed. Other times I just listened to the rustle of the IV lines and the distant chatter of nurses.

Then one day, he spoke.

"You're always here."

His voice was low from disuse, but clear. I looked up from my book, startled.

"You noticed?" I asked, offering a smile.

He didn't answer.

I didn't ask for more.

Over the weeks, my visits became more intentional. My father remained unconscious too, caught in his silent war between life and death. But Williams... he was waking up in another way. Bit by bit.

He began sitting up more. Watching me and listening when I speak. I'd told him small stories-about the book I was reading, or the odd nurse who always wore mismatched socks. Occasionally, I mentioned my father. But I never gave my last name a I never told him who I was.

Because I wasn't ready.

Because if he knew, I feared the connection might die before it bloomed.

One afternoon, I brought him a chessboard.

"Do you play?" I asked as I set the pieces between us on the bedside table.

He stared at the board for a long time before reaching out and moving a pawn.

I smiled. "Then I guess you're white."

It became our routine. We played in silence and sometimes he beat me. Other times, I let him.

His hands were still recovering, stiff from months of disuse, but I noticed the way he fought through the pain.

Quietly, determinedly. Like everything in him refused to remain broken.

And every move he made on the board told me a story.

A story of a man who'd once ruled everything-only to lose it all in a single twist of fate.

"Why do you come here?" he asked one day, his tone edged with suspicion.

I paused mid-move, my fingers hovering above a rook.

"Does it bother you?"

"I don't understand it."

I looked him in the eye, his face which was once sculpted in pride and perfection, still bore traces of the man he had been. Cheekbones and intense eyes. But time and pain had softened some of that.

The cold arrogance had been replaced with quiet resentment.

"I guess," I said softly, "because you remind me that even the strongest fall."

He blinked.

I moved my rook.

"Check."

I never told him that I cried sometimes after visiting him. That his silence hurt more than my father's lifelessness. Because he was alive-very much so-and yet he felt further away than death.

Still, something in me needed to be near him. Needed to be the one person who didn't look at him with pity or avoidance.

Nurses began to notice.

"You're the only one who visits him," one of them said to me as I helped fold clean sheets in the lounge. "He hasn't had family here in months. Not since the accident."

I didn't ask for details. I didn't want to invade. But I learned, bit by bit.

He was the once-celebrated CEO of Williams Holdings. The golden heir.

Arrogant, untouchable and brilliant. Then came the accident-details of which were whispered in rumors. A car crash, a betrayal and a boardroom coup. No one knew for sure.

All I knew was this: his world had turned its back on him.

One night, long after visiting hours, I slipped back into his room with a flask of coffee.

He was awake, staring at the ceiling.

"I brought you something bitter and too strong," I whispered, holding out the flask.

He looked at it, then at me.

And took it.

He sipped in silence.

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

"Sophia."

"No last name?"

"Not today."

He gave a small nod, and for the first time, a corner of his lip twitched in what could've been a smile. It didn't last. But I saw it.

And my heart did something foolish, falling for a ruthless broken guy.

The turning point came weeks later.

He had a nightmare-I could tell from the way he gasped in his sleep, sheets kicked away. I rushed to his side, touched his shoulder, called his name.

"Williams!"

His eyes flew open, wild and lost. Then they found me.

"Sophia..."

Just my name. But there was something in it. A reach, a plea or a trust.

I stayed with him until morning, sitting beside his bed, my hand gently resting over his.

And I knew. I had crossed a line.

My feelings were no longer vague.

I was drawn to him. Not the man he used to be, but the man he is now-broken but enduring.

Lost but not gone. The part of me that was aching for connection found a quiet home in him.

And I feared it.

Because I still hadn't told him who I was. That I was Sophia... That my father-the man lying just two doors down in another hospital room-had once been his greatest rival in the corporate world.

That our families had been locked in silent war, and I had been raised to compete, to win or to never show weakness.

But here I was.

Bringing him chess and coffee and smiles like they weren't weapons in disguise.

"Sophia," he said one morning, his voice steadier than usual, "Why do you really come here?"

I looked at him. The sun hit his features just right. He was stronger now. He could sit without help. He was healing. And soon, he'd be released.

I had to decide.

Tell him the truth... or keep hiding in half-light.

"I guess," I said carefully, "because I know what it feels like to be forgotten."

He watched me, and in that moment, I knew he was letting me in.

Not fully, not yet. But just enough to make the silence between us meaningful.

Some connections are forged in laughter, others in shared ambition. Ours was born from silence, from wounds neither of us could name aloud. It was delicate and quiet-but it was real.

I didn't know where it would lead.

But I knew one thing:

I couldn't walk away from him.

Not now.

Not when he had started to see me-not just the woman who brought coffee and chess-but something deeper.

Even if he didn't know my last name.

Yet.