A D R I A N

The clinic sparkles. Too much.

Chrome-edged carts line the halls. The vitals monitors beep in perfect rhythm like a symphony I paid for. New oxygen tanks gleam behind glass. The supply room smells like sterile plastic and freshly printed inventory tags.

Even the scrubs are new. Slate gray with deep blue piping. Embroidered on every chest in silver thread: Valcrosse Med, Isla Seraphine Division. As if branding could stand in for penance.

It’s overkill. I know it. Every time I pass another shining cabinet, I feel it. But I won’t stop. Because this is what I know how to do: fix with precision, flood the cracks with money, control what can be seen. I can’t rewind the cave. I can’t erase the look on her face when she said they were going to ruin her. But I can make sure this place is so prepared, so perfect, no one ever doubts her again.

That’s what I tell myself.

The staff beam like I handed them new lungs. Asha hugs the portable ultrasound like it’s a firstborn child. Even Ethan, stoic and  blunt grunts his approval at the reinforced med bay door.

But Elara?

She hasn’t said a word.

She moves through the gleaming chaos like she’s walking through smoke. Checking drawers. Tapping the vitals screens. Unpeeling safety stickers with a surgeon’s detachment. Not cold. Not warm. Just… muted.

Like none of it touches her.

I linger near the nurses’ station, pretending to check a shipping manifest. But I’m watching her. Every footstep. The way her hair slips from her ponytail. The flex of her fingers as she adjusts the blood pressure cuff.

I’ve learned her rhythms. The sound her sneakers make on tile. The sigh she gives when something’s slightly out of place. And right now? Silence. Stillness.

And it guts me.

She doesn’t even flinch when she finds the double-stocked crash cart. Just slides open the drawer, checks the seals, moves on.

Not a word. Not even a nod.

The silence is worse than fury. If she yelled, at least I’d know where I stand. If she told me I went too far, I could argue, could explain. Instead, she treats the upgrades as air, necessary but invisible.

I trail her toward the break room. She scans the new rotation chart. I added staff. Doubled the night shift. Asha’s name appears half as often now, exactly as Elara requested.

Still nothing.

“You’re quiet,” I say.

She looks up. Her expression is unreadable. “There’s a lot to assess.”

“That’s all?” I ask. “Assessing?”

She exhales softly, the kind of breath that’s halfway to a sigh. “You don’t need me to approve it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know,” she says, and turns away.

It’s a knife to the chest.

She used to argue with me. Match me step for step. She made me fight for every damn inch. Now she’s just… folding. Like a woman bracing for fallout. Like she’s already decided, my protection comes at the cost of her voice.

The worst part is, I know that look. I’ve seen it before. In boardrooms. In bed. In the mirror.

It’s the look of someone playing along just long enough to survive.

My phone buzzes. I glance down, expecting a Marina panic text or maybe another media ping.

But the number’s not saved.

Mara Quinn.

Elara’s sister.

I unlock the screen.

She won’t say it, but she’s scared you’ll ruin her again.

A second message follows instantly:

Don’t let him make you small.

The breath leaves me like a gut punch.

Him. Not me, except it is. I know it is.

I stare at the text, pulse thudding behind my ribs. The words are brutal in their simplicity. Brutal because they’re true.

She’s scared. Not of the world. Not of the headlines. Not even of the smear campaign.

Of me.

She’s been quieter since the cave. Not withdrawn, exactly, but… muted. Like she’s measuring every breath, rationing every word. Not because she’s cautious, but because she’s preparing for impact.

And I didn’t notice. I thought she was processing. Healing.

But Mara saw it for what it was.

Don’t let him make you small.

I would never—no, that’s a lie. Not because I want to. Because I don’t know any other way.

I was raised on power. On control. On building and branding and conquering every weakness before someone else does.

I thought giving her everything she needed like gear, staffing, autonomy was protection.

But maybe it was just another form of dominance.

Another way to say: I’m the reason you’re safe.

And that makes me the reason she doesn’t feel free.

I walk out to the overlook behind the clinic, the one that faces the bioluminescent bay. Tourists pose here at sunset. Engagement shoots. Champagne toasts.

I come here to breathe.

Now the ocean glows in eerie silence. It doesn’t shimmer like magic tonight. It pulses like a wound.

I brace my hands on the railing and stare down into the dark.

I upgraded everything. Every piece of gear she asked for, and more. Doubled the oxygen stations. Installed new panic buttons. Shift rotations optimized to her notes. I thought it would say something. That she’d see it as a signal of partnership. Of belief.

But it didn’t land like a gift. It landed like a takeover.

Because maybe that’s what it was.

My version of protection has always been: take control before someone else does. That’s how I survived the boardroom. The spotlight. The expectations. That’s how I kept Seraphine in my grip even when the waves tried to take it.

But Elara isn’t Seraphine. She doesn’t need a shield. She needs space to be louder than the storm.

And instead, I handed her silence.

No wonder she’s slipping away again. No wonder she hasn’t said a word.

I thought I was fighting for her. But maybe I was just building her a cage and calling it a sanctuary.

I head back into the clinic, but it feels colder now. Too quiet. Like the shine off the chrome has dulled into something sterile. Elara’s not in the hallway. Not at the desk. She’s already disappeared into her next task, burying herself in work like armor.

I sit in the break room, phone still in my palm.

Mara’s message flashes again.

Don’t let him make you small.

I thumb over the reply box. Type: I would never.
Then delete it.

Type again: She’s not—
Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

Because it doesn’t matter what I say.

If she feels smaller around me, then it’s already happened.

I think back to the cave. The moment her body curled against mine, trembling with cold and trust. She gave me her survival. Her fear. Her desire. All of it, raw and real.

And now?

Now I’ve flooded her world with my name. My influence. My solutions. As if safety could only come stamped with a Valcrosse crest.

As if my way is the only way.

Maybe she hasn’t shrunk herself.

Maybe I’ve been shrinking her without ever realizing it.

Because I couldn’t stand the idea that someone else might protect her better. Because I needed to do something, and I made that something big, loud, public and powerful. The only language I was raised to speak.

But her language? It’s quieter. Sharper. Built in whispers and precision. Life by life. Pulse by pulse. Not PR statements and upgraded cabinetry.

She doesn’t need a prince with a clinic-shaped sword. She needs a partner who listens when she whispers no.

And I thought I was listening.

But maybe all I heard was myself.

My phone vibrates again. A new message, press query this time. Marina asks how we want to spin the “Valcrosse hero doctor scandal” while still salvaging Lantern Tide ticket sales.

I don’t answer.

I just stare at the screen and think:

What if I already made her small?