Chapter 6

Arabella sat anxiously in the dining room. Harry’s words from earlier that afternoon still echoed in her mind.

“I don’t need your help,” his voice had been cold, almost devoid of emotion. And all she had done was reach for a book he had struggled to grab from the bookshelf. If she hadn’t helped, he could have fallen out of his wheelchair.

But Arabella wasn’t the type to back down easily. After hearing Mrs. Mia’s story about how Harry had nearly fallen into the depths of despair after his accident—and how his fiancée, Celine, had chosen to leave him—Arabella was even more determined to help. No one deserved to live in such loneliness and hopelessness.

At the very least, she would help Harry regain his will to live a normal life before they eventually parted ways.

That night, Harry didn’t leave his room at all. He was supposed to come down for dinner and take his medication. A young maid was about to take his dinner tray up to his room, as she always did. It was part of her routine—ensuring Harry ate properly and took his medicine on time as instructed by Mrs. Mia.

Arabella, upon seeing the maid, immediately approached her.

“I’ll take it to Harry,” she said eagerly. She had just finished her luxurious dinner alone, as if the sting of Harry’s earlier coldness had completely faded.

The maid hesitated. Was it really a good idea to let Arabella take over her task? But as far as she knew, Arabella was the master’s wife. It wasn’t unusual for a wife to show care for her husband. That was the simple thought in the maid’s innocent mind. She had no idea that Harry and Arabella were merely husband and wife on paper.

After a brief pause, the maid nodded and handed her the tray. “Here you go, Miss.”

“Okay.”

Arabella gladly took the tray and made her way to the lift, heading toward Harry’s room at the far end of the corridor.

Despite the small voice of doubt inside her, warning her to brace herself for Harry’s inevitable anger, she pushed forward. Facing a man in frustration required patience. At the very least, she would try to show him a little kindness.

Just as she was about to knock on the door, a loud thud from inside the room startled her. Something had fallen—no, more like it had been thrown. Arabella panicked, grabbing the door handle and pushing it open. Luckily, it wasn’t locked.

Inside, she found Harry on the floor, having fallen from his wheelchair. His breathing was ragged, his hands clenched into fists against the floor as if he were trying to suppress unbearable pain. His eyes, usually filled with arrogance and anger, were now clouded with panic and frustration. His face was pale, his jaw locked in helplessness he could no longer conceal.

“Harry!” Arabella’s eyes widened. “Y-you… fell?” she blurted out.

Harry let out a sharp breath. “No. I’m doing yoga,” he snapped sarcastically.

Arabella, initially panicked, now had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “Oh, right. Makes sense. Yoga is best done on the floor, not in a wheelchair.” Her tone was light, teasing.

She placed the tray on the bedside table and stepped closer to help him.

Before she could do anything, Harry’s voice, as sharp as ever, stopped her in her tracks.

“Get out.” His forced anger cracked slightly, betraying him. He sounded just like he had earlier that afternoon.

Arabella knelt beside him, ignoring his command. The room was cold, mirroring the ice in Harry’s heart.

“Don’t be stubborn, Harry! Let me help you,” she pleaded, her voice trembling—not with fear, but with sympathy.

“I don’t need your help,” he hissed, struggling to push himself up. His breathing grew heavier, his eyes filled with exhaustion and irritation, all tangled together. Arabella could clearly see how his pride refused to let him admit defeat, even though his body had already betrayed him.

Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Harry, please. Just let me help.” Her voice was softer now, almost a whisper, as if she was afraid of touching a wound still raw.

Harry froze. His breath hitched. Their eyes met, and for the first time, Arabella saw something different. A vulnerability he had been trying so hard to hide. His sharp gaze had dulled, revealing a fear he would never confess.

Arabella offered a small smile, attempting to ease the tension. “Relax, Harry. I’ve got you.” She reached for his arm, trying to help him back into his wheelchair.

But instead of cooperating, Harry eyed her suspiciously. “I can do it myself.”

Arabella raised an eyebrow. Her patience was being tested. “Really? So you’re planning to sleep on the floor all night?”

Harry let out a frustrated huff and made another attempt to push himself up. Of course, it was futile. Arabella simply stood there, arms crossed, watching him struggle.

“Finished proving how strong you are?” she asked, unimpressed.

“Just do it already!” His voice cracked slightly. There was a tremor in his words, as if his walls were finally crumbling. Harry exhaled deeply, his pride at war with reality. In the end, begrudgingly, he reached for Arabella’s arm.

Arabella only smirked. She tried to lift him, but miscalculated her balance. Instead of smoothly helping him up, they nearly toppled over together.

“Watch out!” Harry yelped in alarm.

Arabella winced. “I’m trying, but you’re heavy!”

In their moment of panic, Arabella slipped, and before she knew it, she had landed right on top of Harry.

Silence.

Their faces were only inches apart. Harry’s sharp eyes met Arabella’s wide ones, both frozen in shock.

She could feel his warm breath against her skin. The atmosphere shifted into something… odd.

“If you plan on pinning me down all night, I’d at least like to know your intentions first,” Harry murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Arabella instantly scrambled to her feet, her face burning. “T-that was an accident! I wasn’t being careful enough.”

Harry, now looking slightly amused, let out a chuckle. “Of course.”

Ignoring his teasing, Arabella tried to help him up again.

“No need,” Harry grumbled. Knowing her, she might just take advantage of the situation.

“This time, I’ll be careful. Come on!” Arabella encouraged.

Harry said nothing. We’ll see about that.

Finally, he let Arabella assist him. Her touch was warm—different from the cold loneliness that had surrounded him for so long. When he was finally back in his wheelchair, he let out a long breath, as if accepting that, perhaps, he did need someone after all.

For a moment, silence filled the room. The only sound was their quiet, steady breathing.

“You can leave now,” Harry muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying the words took every ounce of his strength.

Instead of leaving, Arabella remained still. Her gaze landed on a framed photo on the bedside table. A familiar face stared back at her—a young, handsome boy.

“What are you waiting for?” Harry’s cold voice snapped her out of her trance. “Don’t tell me you expect a thank you from me. Don’t even dream of it.”

“What?” Arabella gasped. “I don’t need it! I helped you sincerely.”

“Then get out,” Harry muttered again, his voice firm but exhausted.

Arabella’s heart pounded, not from his sharp words, but from the realization of who was in the photo.