A A R O N

The kitchen gleamed under the soft glow of early morning light, its sleek countertops and polished appliances exuding a sense of affluence. Yet, despite the high-end finishes, the room felt strangely sterile, lacking the warmth and comfort one might expect on a Saturday morning.

"Good morning," I greeted, my voice tinged with curiosity as I found my mother already at work, preparing breakfast on a Saturday morning. It was an unusual sight to behold.

However, the aroma of freshly baked pastries wafting through the air, tempted my senses and stirred a pang of hunger. I had been out for a jog when the scent lured me inside, hoping to find something more than the usual cold, metallic ambiance.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she replied cheerfully, not missing a beat as she stirred the contents of a pot on the stove.

Her greeting wasn't a heartfelt exchange. I felt a flicker of disappointment but masked it with a smile.

Of course. What was I expecting?

My gaze drifted to the wall clock, noting the time. "It's eight in the morning," I murmured, my words carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts.

I looked at my mother one more time. Memories of our strained relationship flooded my mind. I recalled how I had once tried to bridge the gap between us, only to be met with indifference. I had always hoped for warmth, for connection, but had somehow only found distance.

Turning toward my room, I heard her voice call out, "Aren't you eating breakfast, dear?" There was an edge to her tone, a hint of concern that felt more like obligation than genuine care.

I hesitated, then half-turned to face her. Her expression was a mix of worry and expectation, and I knew I couldn't reveal the truth. That I had no appetite for the cold formality she served.

Instead, I offered a more believable response that I knew would placate her. "I'll get some on the way."
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"Can you turn the radio on, Travis?" I requested from my driver. He gave me a slight nod, and the soft strains of music filled the car. I rolled down the window, letting the sounds and sights of the city seep in.

Manhattan on a Saturday morning was a study in contrast. The streets buzzed with activity.

Pedestrians weaved through traffic, cyclists zipped past, all with the distant hum of city life. The air was thick with the mingling scents of street food, exhaust fumes, and the occasional floral note from a passing vendor's cart.

As Travis stopped at the red light, a figure caught my eye. I recognized him immediately.

Cameron.

Hermia's manager. The one whose name appeared in industry reports and social media feeds these days.

He was jogging across the crosswalk, headphones in place, his athletic build and confident stride could draw enough attention. Even so, he was so causally dressed, I doubt any paparazzi could figure out whom he was.

His face was strikingly handsome, with sharp features and an intensity that suggested a life lived in the public eye.

He paused mid-stride, pulling out his phone to answer a call. I watched him for a moment, noting the way his jaw clenched as he spoke. Then, as if sensing my gaze, he turned in my direction. I rolled up the window and looked away, with a nonchalant air but still hoping he hadn't seen me.

I watched him resume his jog. From behind, a car came speeding, its driver seemingly oblivious to the world around him. The vehicle swerved dangerously close to the curb, clipping Cameron and sending him sprawling onto the pavement.

Time seemed to slow. I felt a jolt of panic surge through me, my heart racing as I watched him lie motionless on the street. Without thinking, I reached out, my hand instinctively moving toward him, but the car had already sped away.

I instinctively pulled out my phone from my pocket, snapping a photo of the license plate before the vehicle disappeared into the distance.

"Travis, stop the car," I commanded, my voice firm despite the turmoil inside.

Travis glanced at me through the rearview mirror, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Sir?" he asked, uncertainty in his tone.

I met his gaze, my expression unreadable. "Park the car and call emergency services," I instructed, my mind already racing through the steps needed to ensure Cameron received the help he needed.

As Travis complied, I sat back, my thoughts a whirlwind.

This unexpected collision had thrown me into a maelstrom of emotions. I couldn't help but think of her.

Hermia.

I wondered how she would react to this news. How she would feel seeing her fiancé in such a state.

She had once been through something similar, with me and I knew just how much it traumatized her still...

I felt an overwhelming need to ensure he was okay, not because I cared what became of him, but for her.
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I still had her number. I had deleted it countless times, each time convinced I was moving on, but it always found its way back into my contacts, a silent reminder of what once was.

I wanted to call her, to be the one to tell her about Cameron's accident before the news reached her through other channels. But I knew I couldn't. I would just be bringing them closer. And I hated to see her so close to him already.

After much deliberation, I composed an anonymous email, detailing the incident and urging her to come to the hospital. I made sure the email couldn't be traced back to me, ensuring my involvement remained in the shadows. That was the only way. I wasn't ready for her questions. Or worse, her silence.

By the time I left the office that evening, locking the glass door of my top-floor suite at Elara Publishing House, I instinctively reached for my phone. A habitual flick of the screen, a scroll through the news feed.

Nothing. No reports, no buzz, not even a whisper from the ever-hungry media, about the accident.

Strange.

I tapped into my gallery and pulled up the shot I'd taken of the license plate. It was slightly blurry but clear enough. I forwarded it to Travis along with a brief message:

"Run it. I want details by tomorrow."

I sighed, slid the phone into my coat pocket, and made my way down the stairwell. The elevator always felt too slow at this hour. My footsteps echoed softly as I descended, the soft hum of the city bleeding in through the stairwell windows.
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A/N: Updates would now be two chapters every Friday! ✨