Chapter 3 HIS WORLD,HER REALITY

His World, Her Reality

Ayla didn't mean to snoop.

She hadn't even meant to wake up before him. But the light from the rising sun crept in through the cheap motel curtains and stirred her from a restless sleep. She sat up quietly, brushing her tangled hair from her face, and glanced toward the other side of the room.

Loren or Loren, as he'd called himself was fast asleep, one arm over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. The tension in his face was gone. He looked... peaceful. Almost boyish.

She got up slowly, careful not to make a sound. Her side still ached, and her legs were stiff from barely moving in two days. But curiosity tugged at her harder than pain.

There was something about him. Something too clean, too polished, even in hiding. The way he moved. The way he watched. The expensive watch he never took off. The subtle scar near his temple. The way his voice held authority, even when soft.

And then there was the laptop.

She spotted it resting half-shut on the small table. A logo blinked softly on the back one she didn't recognize, but it looked custom. She glanced at him again. Still asleep.

Her fingers hovered near the lid.

Don't.

But she opened it anyway.

The screen flared to life. A security prompt blinked.

She moved the mouse slightly and caught sight of a thumbnail in the corner. A news article. The headline was partially visible:

STEELE TECH CEO LORENZO STEELE MISSING AFTER CAR ATTACK PRESUMED DEAD

Her heart stopped.

Lorenzo.

Loren.

She backed away from the laptop like it had burned her.

No.

It couldn't be.

The man lying across the room... he was him?

She stared at him now, stunned. The richest man in the country. The one whose face had been splashed across every TV in the food stall she worked at. She remembered the news story his car found destroyed, his body missing, theories flying.

He'd vanished.

And now he was here. Sleeping five feet away from her. In a motel. Alive.

Saved by her.

She dropped onto the edge of the bed, hands shaking.

Later that morning, he woke to find her standing at the door, arms crossed, eyes stormy.

"You lied to me," she said flatly.

He sat up slowly, groggy. "What?"

"Your name isn't Loren."

He blinked. Then sighed. "No. It's not."

"You're Lorenzo Steele."

Silence.

He didn't deny it.

She stared at him, betrayal flickering in her voice. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I needed to stay dead," he said calmly. "And I didn't know if I could trust you."

She laughed bitterly. "Trust me? I'm the one who dragged your half-dead body up a hill and into a hospital."

He sat on the edge of the bed. "And I'm grateful. But the people who tried to kill me... they have power. Influence. I couldn't take the risk."

Her jaw clenched. "So you let me think you were just some random guy with a shadowy past while I worked myself to death to pay for your recovery?"

"I paid the bill," he reminded her.

"I didn't know that!"

A long pause.

"You're angry," he said gently.

"No," she snapped. "I'm furious. Because I let my guard down. Because I thought maybe for once I met someone who understood what it meant to have nothing. To fight for every damn second of survival. But you're just another rich guy playing poor for a while."

His voice dropped, serious. "Do you think this is a game to me?"

She blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden sharpness in his tone.

"I nearly died, Ayla. I was betrayed by my own blood. I woke up in pain, in darkness, with no one to trust and then there was you. A girl with nothing. Who gave everything."

He stood, stepping toward her.

"You think I'm pretending? I'd give up every dollar I have just to forget what it felt like lying in that cold, wet dirt thinking I'd never open my eyes again."

She stared at him.

His hands were clenched. His voice cracked not with anger, but grief.

She looked away, her heart pounding. "Why are you still here?"

He exhaled. "Because I can't stop thinking about you."

Later That Day

Ayla refused to stay in the motel.

She returned to work, despite the bruises. The food stall owner gave her a side glance but didn't ask questions. She chopped vegetables, took orders, and washed trays like nothing was different. Like her entire world hadn't just shifted.

Lorenzo didn't stop her. But he followed.

Not openly he stayed back, disguised in a hoodie and sunglasses, moving like a shadow between alleys and lamp posts.

He watched as she carried heavy crates, wiped tables, smiled through pain. He watched her hand over half her wages to a debt collector who lurked outside her stall like a parasite.

He wanted to break something.

Instead, he made calls.

That night, when Ayla left her shift, a stranger in a suit handed her an envelope.

"For your debt," he said. "Someone paid the first installment."

She stared at the cash, confused and suspicious. "Who?"

But he was already gone.

Lorenzo waited near the bridge, leaning against a pillar. She marched toward him, envelope in hand.

"You did this."

He didn't pretend otherwise. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you shouldn't have to bleed to survive."

"I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity. It's gratitude."

She clenched the envelope. "This isn't how I wanted to be saved."

He looked at her, his voice quiet. "You saved me first."

Later That Week

Ayla was exhausted.

Working days at the food stall, sweeping floors at night, and now delivering packages for a shady courier company that paid in cash.

She hadn't eaten a full meal in two days.

She stumbled through the back alley behind the stall after closing, her legs wobbling. The world tilted. Her vision blurred.

Then she collapsed.

She awoke to warmth.

Arms around her.

Lorenzo.

Cradling her like she weighed nothing.

"You passed out," he whispered, brushing hair from her face. "You're burning up."

She didn't have the energy to argue. "I'm fine..."

"No, Ayla. You're not."

Her lip trembled. "I'm tired of being tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of pretending I don't need anyone."

He tightened his arms around her.

"You don't have to pretend with me."

She rested her head against his chest.

For once, she let herself believe him.