The challenge didn't come from work.
That was what made it harder.
It came on a Sunday morning, quiet and personal, slipping past every system I'd learned to manage.
My phone rang while I was making coffee.
I almost didn't answer.
But the name on the screen stopped me cold.
My father.
We hadn't spoken in months.
"Hello?" I said carefully.
"I saw your name," he said. "In the news."
I closed my eyes.
Of course he had.
"I thought you'd moved on," he continued, voice unreadable. "Built a normal life."
"I have," I replied. "Just not the one you imagined."
Silence stretched.
Then came the familiar weight.
"People are talking," he said. "They say you're involved with someone powerful."
I exhaled slowly. "I'm respected for my work."
"That's not what I asked."
The words stung more than I expected.
"I didn't call to explain myself," I said quietly. "I called to say I'm okay."
Another pause.
"You don't sound okay," he replied.
Because strength at work doesn't prepare you for this.
"I am," I said. "Just… tired."
We ended the call politely. Carefully. Without resolution.
I stood in my kitchen long after the line went dead, hands trembling around a mug I wasn't drinking from.
When Arvan arrived later that afternoon, he noticed immediately.
"You're quiet," he said.
I nodded. "Family."
He didn't push.
He sat beside me instead, close enough to feel solid.
"I don't know how to be strong here," I admitted finally. "There's no role. No authority."
He looked at me then—not like a CEO, not like a protector.
Like someone who understood.
"You don't have to be," he said softly. "You don't owe strength to people who only recognize it when it serves them."
I swallowed hard.
"I hate that it still affects me," I whispered.
"That doesn't make you weak," he replied. "It makes you human."
For the first time in days, my chest loosened.
"I can face boards and crises," I said. "But this…"
"This has no structure," he finished gently.
I nodded.
He took my hand—not anchoring, not guiding.
Just holding.
"You don't need a title here," he said. "You don't need to prove anything."
I leaned into him then, finally letting the weight fall away.
And in that quiet, I understood something important—
Power had taught me how to stand.
But love was teaching me how to rest.
And maybe that was the strength I'd been missing all along.