Chapter 4 A LIFE HE CAN'T LET GO OF

A Life He Can't Let Go Of

Ayla awoke in a bed far too soft to be hers.

The sheets smelled like warm cotton and something unfamiliar expensive soap, maybe. The air felt too still, too quiet, and the ache in her chest was gone. She blinked up at the ceiling, confused, then turned her head.

Lorenzo was there.

Sitting in the chair beside her, elbows resting on his knees, head down like he'd been watching her sleep for hours.

She sat up slowly, the memory returning in pieces collapsing in the alley behind the food stall, the blur of lights, warmth, and his voice calling her name like a lifeline.

He looked up the moment she moved. "You're awake."

"What... where am I?"

"A small apartment. Rented. Quiet. You needed rest."

She glanced around. White walls, clean kitchen, a vase of fake flowers on the table. It wasn't a palace but it was the nicest place she'd been in years.

"I told you I don't need help," she muttered.

"You didn't have to," he said gently. "Your body said it for you."

She looked away, arms folding around herself. "I'm not your problem."

"You're not a problem," he said. "You're a person."

The softness in his voice chipped away at her defenses.

That was the problem. He didn't talk to her like she was fragile or beneath him. He talked to her like... she mattered.

He made her eat.

Not forcefully, but with quiet insistence. A warm bowl of soup sat on the table, steaming gently as he pushed it toward her.

She hesitated. "You cooked this?"

"I'm not completely useless."

She arched an eyebrow, but took a spoonful. "It's not terrible."

He smirked faintly. "High praise."

A beat passed.

"I meant what I said," she murmured. "You shouldn't get involved in my mess."

"I'm already involved."

"You shouldn't be."

He leaned forward, his gaze never leaving hers. "Then tell me to walk away."

She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

Because she couldn't.

And he knew it.

Later That Day

Lorenzo stood near the window, phone pressed to his ear.

"I want her debt erased," he said quietly. "Completely."

"Sir, we can't do that discreetly unless.''

"I said erase it. I'll deal with the rest."

He hung up before the assistant could respond.

Across the room, Ayla sat on the couch, folding laundry. Her hands moved slowly, methodically, but her eyes kept drifting to him.

He'd changed since that night under the bridge. Still sharp. Still unreadable. But softer. Or maybe just realer.

"How did you survive?" she asked suddenly.

He turned. "What do you mean?"

"After they tried to kill you. How did you make it out alive?"

His jaw clenched.

"I shouldn't have. But the car rolled into a ravine. They thought it was enough. Left before checking. I crawled out. Don't remember how. Everything after that was a blur... until you."

She swallowed. "Do you know who it was?"

"I have a name. A theory. But no proof yet."

"Who?"

He hesitated. "My stepmother."

Ayla blinked.

"She married my father when I was a teenager," he continued. "Charmed everyone. Then poisoned him with smiles."

"You're sure?"

"She never wanted me in control of the company. She wanted it for her son my half-brother. And I made it clear that wasn't happening."

Ayla watched him carefully. "That's... cold."

"She was colder."

A long silence.

"Do you trust anyone?" she asked softly.

"I didn't," he said. "But now..."

He looked at her.

"I want to."

That Evening

Ayla stepped onto the small balcony, breathing in the night air. The city lights shimmered in the distance. For once, there was no trash, no car fumes, no shouting from passing strangers.

She didn't realize he had followed her until she heard his voice behind her.

"You okay?"

She nodded. "Just thinking."

"About?"

She turned slightly. "This. All of it. You. Me. How it makes no sense."

He moved beside her, resting his arms on the railing.

"It doesn't have to make sense," he said. "Sometimes it just... is."

She laughed under her breath. "That sounds like something someone rich would say."

He smiled. "Maybe. But I'm not trying to buy your silence. Or your gratitude."

"Then what are you trying to do?"

"I'm trying to stay close to the only person who didn't want anything from me when I had nothing to give."

That silenced her.

Her heart thudded.

She turned to face him, suddenly overwhelmed by the way he looked at her like she was something precious. Not pitied. Not pitiful. Valued.

And that terrified her.

"You're going to leave eventually," she whispered.

He stepped closer. "What makes you so sure?"

"Because people like you don't stay. Not for girls like me."

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"You keep saying that. Like you're disposable. Like you're unworthy. But do you even know who you are to me right now?"

Her breath caught.

"Someone I think about when I'm supposed to be thinking about revenge," he said. "Someone who makes me feel more alive than anything I've built or earned. Someone who makes me scared. Because I don't know how to protect you... or how to let you go."

Silence.

She took one step closer.

So did he.

Their faces were inches apart.

"I don't know what this is," she whispered.

"Neither do I."

"But it feels like it's going to ruin me."

His hand cupped her cheek.

"Or save you."

Their lips almost touched.

A breath away.

Then

BANG BANG BANG.

A knock at the door.

They jumped apart.

Ayla's eyes widened. Lorenzo was already moving, tense, reaching for the knife hidden in the drawer.

But when he opened the door, it was a delivery man.

"Package for Loren," the guy muttered.

Lorenzo took it, murmured thanks, and shut the door.

But the moment had shattered.

Ayla backed away, arms folded tightly.

"I should go lie down."

He didn't stop her.

But he wanted to.