The silence came after the protection.
It was louder than the rumors.
Sharper than the threats.
More terrifying than the panic attack that had stolen her breath the night before.
Hilary sat alone in the dressing room long after Gerard left for his meetings.
The chair beneath her was familiar.
The fabric under her palms—cool, expensive, unwrinkled.
Once, she would have known exactly what she looked like in this mirror.
Now—
She stared at her reflection.
And felt nothing.
No recognition.
No connection.
No spark of *that's me*.
Just a woman sitting in borrowed skin.
She leaned closer to the mirror.
"I know you," she whispered, voice cracking.
The woman didn't answer.
Her heart began to race.
If I can't recognize myself…
Then what am I to him?
The thought lodged deep, sharp and poisonous.
Gerard Vale.
Billionaire.
Visionary.
A man whose presence alone bent rooms into silence.
A man who deserved—
clarity.
Elegance.
Perfection.
Not a wife who memorized his existence by scent.
She pressed her fingers to her temple.
Last night replayed in fragments.
The restroom.
The panic.
Her knees hitting the floor.
His arms around her, shielding her like a wall between her and the world.
*The man who stood in front.*
But what happens when he gets tired of standing?
Her chest tightened.
The door opened softly.
She didn't turn.
Gerard entered quietly, careful not to startle her.
He didn't speak at first.
He waited.
That alone nearly broke her.
"You don't have to hover," she said finally, forcing steadiness into her voice.
"I'm not," he replied. "I'm here."
She exhaled sharply.
"That's worse."
He paused.
"Why?"
She laughed—short, humorless.
"Because when you're here," she said, "I remember what I'm losing."
He crossed the room slowly.
"Hilary—"
"Don't," she cut in. "Not yet."
He stopped.
She appreciated that.
She folded her hands in her lap, staring straight ahead.
"They talked about me today," she said.
"Yes."
"I know they stopped," she continued. "I know you shut them down."
He waited.
"But I heard it anyway," she whispered. "Not their words. Their meaning."
She swallowed.
*She's a liability.*
*She's a risk.*
*She's no longer… ideal.*
Her fingers trembled.
"I used to walk into a room and own it," she said quietly. "Not because I was loud. Because I was certain."
She laughed again, bitter.
"Now I'm scared of rooms with too many people."
He stepped closer.
"I don't recognize faces," she said. "I don't recognize myself. And I don't know how long I'll even recognize you."
She finally turned toward him.
Her eyes searched blindly—habit more than hope.
"Tell me," she said, voice barely holding, "how long do men like you stay in love with women like me?"
The question landed like a blade.
Gerard inhaled slowly.
"Women like you," he repeated carefully.
"Yes," she said. "Women who need protecting. Who cause damage just by existing."
She stood abruptly, pacing.
"I ruined your meeting last night."
"You didn't."
"I disrupted the board."
"You didn't."
"They're watching you because of me."
"They've always watched me."
She stopped in front of him, hands clenched.
"I'm no longer an equal partner," she said. "I'm a responsibility."
The word hung heavy between them.
Gerard reached out—but stopped himself.
"Look at me," he said softly.
Her breath hitched.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Then listen," he corrected.
He took her hands gently, placing them over his chest.
"Do you feel that?"
She nodded.
"My heart," he said. "Still beating. Still choosing."
Tears slid down her cheeks.
"You shouldn't have to choose this," she said.
He lowered his forehead to hers.
"I chose you long before the world ever knew your face."
Her lips trembled.
"What if I never get better?"
"Then we adapt."
"What if I get worse?"
"Then we adapt again."
She shook her head.
"You're simplifying something that's destroying me."
"No," he said quietly. "I'm refusing to let it define you."
She pulled her hands back, hugging herself.
"I don't want to wake up one day and realize you stayed because you're honorable," she whispered.
His jaw tightened.
"I want you to stay because you still *want* me."
Silence.
Then Gerard did something unexpected.
He stepped back.
Gave her space.
"If you ever feel," he said evenly, "that my presence has turned into obligation instead of desire—"
Her breath caught.
"—you tell me," he finished. "And I will listen."
She looked up sharply.
"You'd let me go?"
"I would let you choose," he replied.
That shattered her.
She sank back into the chair, sobbing quietly.
"I'm terrified," she admitted. "Not of losing my sight."
"Then what?"
"Of becoming someone you're proud to protect—but no longer in love with."
He knelt in front of her.
Took her face gently in his hands.
"You think love is built on admiration," he said softly. "It's not."
She shook.
"It's built on recognition," he continued. "And I recognize you—completely."
Her breath stuttered.
"Even like this?"
"Especially like this."
She reached for him instinctively, fingers curling into his jacket.
"I don't see you," she whispered.
"I know."
"But I know your weight," she said. "Your warmth. Your breathing pattern when you're worried."
He smiled faintly.
"And I know," he replied, "the exact way your shoulders rise when you're about to cry but refuse to."
She laughed weakly through tears.
"You memorized me."
"I adapted," he corrected. "Just like you did."
She pressed her face into his chest.
For the first time since the diagnosis, she let herself lean fully.
Not as a patient.
Not as a burden.
As his wife.
"I'm still afraid," she murmured.
"I know."
"Promise me something."
"Anything."
"If one day you stop wanting me," she said, voice shaking, "don't stay out of pity."
He kissed the top of her head.
"I promise," he said.
She exhaled, exhausted.
Outside the door, Bianca paused mid-step.
She hadn't meant to hear.
But the words slipped through the thin space like smoke.
*Am I still enough?*
Bianca's lips curved slowly.
Fear, she thought.
The most fertile soil.
And she walked away already planning how to water it.