After hanging up with her father, Jillian sat frozen on the edge of her bed, phone still clutched in her hand.
The room felt cold, heavy — full of things she thought she'd already outgrown, but somehow still hurt like fresh wounds.
Before she could think too much, her fingers moved on their own.
She dialed Ethan.
He answered on the second ring, his voice steady and familiar.
"Jillian?"
She didn't even try to sound strong.
"Can you come?" she whispered.
There were no questions.
Only a quiet, firm, "I'm on my way."
—
Less than thirty minutes later, Ethan was there.
Jillian met him at the door, her eyes red but dry. She didn't say a word — just reached for him like someone reaching for light after being trapped in the dark.
He pulled her into his arms without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of her head.
Neither of them spoke as he guided her to his car.
Instead of asking questions, Ethan simply drove, letting her breathe, letting her exist without pressure.
They ended up at a quiet overlook where the city lights blinked below like stars scattered across the earth.
They sat on the hood of his car, the cool night air brushing past them.
Still, Jillian stayed silent, staring into the distance, the wind tugging gently at her hair.
After a while, Ethan broke the silence — soft, but certain.
"You don't have to carry everything alone, Jillian," he said.
"You don't owe them your life just because you survived them."
Her shoulders trembled, and this time, she didn't fight it.
She told him about the call — about Harlond's sudden warmth, about the memories of being abandoned when she needed her father most.
Ethan listened. No interruptions, no judgments — just there.
The more she spoke, the more her voice steadied, like bleeding out poison she'd been holding in for years.
And when she finally fell silent again, Ethan reached over and took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together.
No promises.
No pity.
Just the quiet, unwavering vow of presence.
Jillian realized she wasn't alone anymore.
And maybe, just maybe... it was safe to start healing.
The next morning, sun filtered weakly through Jillian's curtains, casting pale gold across the room.
She sat at the edge of her bed, her phone resting silently on the nightstand — no more missed calls, no more frantic messages. Only silence.
She inhaled slowly, feeling the tightness in her chest ease ever so slightly.
Maybe it was Ethan's reckless declaration yesterday.
Maybe it was her father's rare, hesitant attempt at reconciliation.
Maybe it was the quiet strength she had built, brick by fragile brick.
She wasn't the same girl from a year ago.
She wasn't someone others could easily tear down anymore.
Without overthinking, Jillian grabbed her phone and dialed.
The PR team at the hospital answered on the third ring.
"This is Dr. Jillian Smith," she said, voice calm but firm.
"I want to make a statement today. I'll handle it myself."
There was a moment of stunned silence on the other end before hurried confirmations followed.
Jillian ended the call and sat there for a moment, feeling the quiet hum of her heartbeat.
She wasn't doing this to defend her relationship.
She wasn't doing this to satisfy gossip.
She was doing this for herself, to protect the years of hard work and sacrifice that had built her career.
She glanced at the clock.
Two hours. Enough time to get ready.
Standing up, Jillian smoothed down her clothes, straightened her posture, and allowed a small, determined smile to lift the corners of her mouth.
Today, she would face the world on her own terms.
By noon, the hospital's media hall had been hastily set up. A simple backdrop, a podium, and a handful of reporters — no grand display, just a clear space for truth to be spoken.
Staff members whispered nervously as Jillian arrived, dressed sharply but modestly.
No flashy jewelry, no designer labels — only the quiet dignity of someone who had earned every step of her path.
The hospital director gave her a few last-minute reminders.
"You don't have to answer every question, Dr. Smith. Speak only what you need."
She nodded, calm. "Thank you."
Meanwhile, across the city, at MyCorp, Ethan stood by the massive windows of his office, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other gripping his phone.
He had meetings scheduled back-to-back, directors demanding explanations — but he waved them off.
At that moment, watching over her mattered more.
Charles entered with a tablet, live-streaming the press conference.
"Sir, it's starting."
Ethan said nothing, only motioned for Charles to set it down.
As the cameras rolled, Jillian stepped onto the podium.
There were flashes of lights, murmurs, the chaotic energy of a feeding frenzy.
But Jillian stood composed.
Her eyes, usually gentle, carried a steel edge beneath the surface now.
"My name is Dr. Jillian Smith," she began, her voice clear, echoing slightly in the hall.
"I am here not to explain my private life, but to affirm the integrity of my professional work."
A few reporters shifted uncomfortably.
"My patients, VIP or not, have always been treated according to medical ethics. I will not allow baseless rumors to diminish years of sacrifice, study, and service."
A beat of silence followed.
Then, one bold reporter raised a hand, asking if the relationship with Ethan Hunter had influenced her work.
Jillian smiled faintly, neither confirming nor denying anything.
"My career stands on its own merit. No one, no matter how important, defines my worth as a doctor."
The words landed heavily. Respectfully.
Behind his screen, Ethan smiled a rare, private smile, a flicker of pride gleaming in his eyes.
She didn't need a shield after all. She was the storm.
After the press conference ended, Jillian stepped down from the podium to polite applause from a few hospital staff who had stayed to support her.
The reporters slowly filtered out, their questions left unanswered but their expressions thoughtful.
She didn't stay long inside. The air had become too thick, too heavy.
Jillian made her way to the side exit, slipping away from the lingering crowd.
Outside, the early afternoon sun was sharp against the cold air. Jillian took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment.
She had made it through.
Still standing. Still herself.
When she opened her eyes, a familiar figure leaned casually against a dark car parked near the curb — as if he had been there all along.
Ethan.
No security detail. No grand entrance. Just him, waiting.
He didn't move immediately. He let her set the pace.
When Jillian finally walked over, he straightened up and silently opened the passenger door for her.
"You were incredible," he said softly, the words meant only for her.
Jillian gave a small, tired laugh as she climbed into the car. "I'm still shaking."
Ethan bent slightly, his hand resting lightly on the door. "It's okay to shake after you've survived the storm."
For a brief moment, their eyes locked — a silent conversation flowing between them.
No demands. No expectations.
Just the simple, fierce relief of not being alone.
Ethan closed the door gently and circled around to the driver's seat.
As the car pulled away, the world outside blurred, but inside, for the first time in days, Jillian felt... safe.