Asha didn't leave the room for two days.
The blueprints for the Skyline Tower lay scattered on the floor like discarded autumn leaves. She didn't touch her laptop. She didn't look at the jasmine Rohan had planted. To her, every beautiful thing in Roy's house had become a symptom of a lie. She felt like a project Rohan was managing—a dying girl he was trying to "fix" with his checkbook.
Outside the door, Rohan was a wreck. He hadn't showered or slept. He sat on the floor in the hallway, his back against her door, listening to the silence inside.
"She thinks I bought her soul, Roy," Rohan whispered, his eyes bloodshot. "She thinks her talent isn't real because I opened the door for her."
Roy stood by the window, staring at the rain. "You didn't buy her soul, Rohan. You bought her time. There's a difference. But to a woman who has fought for every inch of her dignity, those two things look exactly the same."
Rohan stood up, his jaw set. He didn't knock. He simply opened the door.
Asha was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her reflection in the dark window. She looked hollow, her skin almost translucent under the moonlight. She didn't turn around.
"I told you to get out," she said, her voice a brittle thread.
"I'm not leaving," Rohan said, walking into the room. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her. "You think I bought that job for you out of pity? You think Vanguard kept those designs because of my money?"
"Didn't you?" she snapped, finally looking up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and fierce. "You threatened the CEO. You paid for my sister's tuition. You turned my life into a charity case."
Rohan reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled set of papers. It was the internal review from Vanguard's lead structural engineer—a man Rohan didn't know and couldn't buy.
"Read it," Rohan commanded, dropping the papers in her lap.
Asha hesitated, then looked down. The notes were technical, blunt, and highly critical of the cost—but the final line was underlined in red: 'The aesthetic integration of the atrium is the most innovative work this firm has seen in a decade. Whoever designed this isn't just an architect; they are a visionary.'
"I bought you the meeting, Asha," Rohan said, his voice dropping to a low, painful rasp. "I kicked the door open because you said your legs were getting tired. But you? You walked through it on your own. Those designs are yours. That vision is yours. My money can't buy genius."
Asha stared at the red underlining. A single tear fell, blurring the word visionary.
"And the love?" she whispered, looking up at him. "Was that part of the 'mercy' package too? Did you decide to love me because I'm dying?"
Rohan dropped to his knees in front of her, taking her cold hands in his. He pressed his forehead against her knuckles.
"I loved you the moment you hit me with that bag," he confessed, a jagged laugh escaping him. "I loved you because you were the only person who didn't want anything from me. I loved you before I knew about the cancer, and God help me, I'll love you long after you're gone. This isn't mercy, Asha. This is my undoing."
Asha looked at him—at the playboy who had lost his shine, the man who was bleeding internally just as much as she was. She realized then that Rohan wasn't her keeper. He was her witness.
She reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched his messy hair. "I don't have years to give you, Rohan."
"Then give me the minutes," he pleaded, looking into her eyes. "Give me the seconds. I don't care about the years. I just want to be with the girl who wasn't invisible to me for even a single day."
In the quiet of the room, the anger finally evaporated, leaving behind a raw, desperate tenderness. They were two broken people standing on the edge of a cliff, but for the first time, they weren't afraid of the fall.