“I’m sorry, Adriana,” Olivia said brightly, though her tone carried only the faintest trace of guilt. “I was starving and couldn’t wait any longer.” She slipped her arm through Adriana’s and guided her toward the dining table as if everything were perfectly normal.
Adriana’s steps were slow, her ankle throbbing with every shift of weight.
When she reached the table, she stopped.
The dishes were nearly empty—just scattered scraps and cooling plates left behind. Whatever had been “cooked specially” was long gone.
She stared at the remains in silence.
A dull ache spread through her chest, heavier than the pain in her ankle. Disappointment. Hurt. Something quieter and more humiliating beneath it.
“It’s fine,” she said softly after a moment. “I’m not feeling great tonight. I’ll skip dinner. You two go ahead.”
She turned before either of them could see her expression and began making her way toward the staircase, gripping the railing for balance.
Behind her, Olivia’s voice rose in exaggerated concern. “Adriana? Are you upset because I didn’t wait for you?”
Nathanie’s low chuckle followed.
“You think too much,” he said, reaching out to pat Olivia’s head in an almost indulgent gesture. “She twisted her ankle earlier. She’s just uncomfortable.”
The easy familiarity of it—the way his hand lingered in Olivia’s hair—made Adriana pause for a split second.
She glanced back without meaning to.
Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something.
In the end, she said nothing.
Only a quiet exhale left her as she continued upstairs and shut herself inside the master bedroom.
The silence there felt thicker.
Her mind replayed the day against her will. Olivia’s single call had been enough for Nathanie to drop everything and rush home. Meanwhile, she had limped through the hospital alone, waited alone, returned alone.
The comparison cut deep.
She shook the thought away and focused on the practical problem—her ankle.
Opening drawers and cabinets, she searched for the first-aid supplies. Minutes passed. Nothing.
Eventually, she remembered the spare medical kit that had once been placed in the guest room.
She made her way there slowly and crouched with difficulty to peer under the closet.
There it was.
Dusty. Forgotten.
Inside, she found only a small bottle of iodine—expired.
She hesitated, then took it anyway.
As she carried it back to the master bedroom, she noticed the guest room looked recently cleaned. The bed neatly made. Fresh sheets.
She didn’t let herself linger on that detail.
Back in the bedroom, she sat carefully on the edge of the bed and rolled up her pant leg.
The swelling had worsened. The skin stretched tight and angry.
She dabbed the cotton with iodine and pressed it gently to her ankle.
Pain exploded up her leg.
A sharp gasp escaped her before she could stop it.
“You shouldn’t be using that.”
The sudden voice made her freeze.
She looked up.
Nathanie stood at the doorway, a fresh bottle of herbal liniment in his hand.
“That iodine expired months ago,” he said, stepping inside. “Didn’t you check? You’re still so careless.”
There was no real harshness in his tone—just quiet reproach.
He crouched in front of her and reached toward her ankle.
Instinctively, she pulled her foot back.
His hand stilled.
“Do you not want me touching you?” he asked evenly.
In the dim lamplight, his expression was difficult to read.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear to avoid his gaze.
“It’s not that,” she replied quietly. “Olivia’s downstairs. You should go keep her company. Just leave the liniment here. I can take care of it.”
He watched her for a moment longer.
Then, without warning, he caught her ankle and drew it firmly into his lap.
The sudden movement made her wince.
“Nathanie—” she protested, but the pain forced the rest of her words into a soft cry.
He paused when he saw the full extent of the swelling.
The faint irritation that had lingered on his face disappeared, replaced by something rarer.
Regret.
“…Sorry,” he said under his breath.
The word stunned her.
In three years, she could not remember hearing him apologize like that.
Not when he had once left her doubled over in pain with a ruptured appendix because he had to attend a medical summit.
Not when she later learned Olivia had been there that same day, introduced publicly as his protégée.
But now—over a sprained ankle—he apologized.
She almost laughed at the irony.
“Since when do you say sorry?” she asked lightly, trying to keep her voice steady.
He avoided her eyes, focusing instead on spreading the liniment carefully over her swollen skin.
“I should’ve checked it earlier,” he admitted. “It’s worse than I thought.”
The sincerity in his tone tugged at something fragile inside her.
For a fleeting second, she felt the warmth she had once clung to.
But it faded just as quickly.
“It’s only a sprain,” she said with a faint smile. “It’s not worth an apology.”
Yet as she spoke, she knew the apology wasn’t really about her ankle.
And that was what hurt most.
