Chapter 176
Grace's POV
I wake up to find Alex staring at me, his blue eyes soft in the morning light filtering through the curtains. There's something vulnerable about the way he's looking at me, like he's memorizing every detail of my face.
"How long have you been awake?" I ask, my voice still thick with sleep.
"Since five," he admits, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. "I couldn't sleep. Every time I think about you leaving me to go to Zenoria, I don't want to waste a single minute."
Five in the morning? The thought both touches and worries me. I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders carry tension even in this quiet moment.
"Alex, you need to rest—"
"I need you," he interrupts, pulling me closer against his chest. His arms wrap around me like he's afraid I'll disappear.
I let my fingers trace patterns on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm. There's something almost desperate in the way he holds me, and I find myself deliberately teasing him, letting my touch linger just long enough to make him catch his breath.
"We still have this morning," I whisper against his skin.
He responds by rolling over, pinning me gently beneath him, his eyes dark with want and something deeper—something that looks like fear of losing me.
But then the doorbell rings, sharp and insistent, cutting through our intimate bubble like a knife.
Alex freezes above me, his jaw tightening. "Ignore it."
The bell rings again, followed immediately by the harsh buzz of his phone on the nightstand.
"Alex," I say softly, pushing against his chest. "We should check—"
"No." His grip on me tightens. "Whatever it is, it can wait."
But I'm already reaching for his phone. Five missed calls from Eleanor.
"It's your grandmother," I say, showing him the screen.
The change in Alex is instant. He's already moving, pulling on clothes with efficient, mechanical movements.
I quickly get dressed and we walk to the front door together. He turns the handle.
Eleanor stands there, her usually warm expression replaced by something I haven't seen since I've known her—something stern, almost official.
Behind her stands a man I don't recognize, tall and distinguished with silver hair, wearing an expensive coat. A younger woman flanks his other side, holding what looks like a medical case.
"Eleanor?" I step forward, concern clear in my voice. "What's wrong?"
"We need to talk," Eleanor says, her eyes moving between Alex and me. "This is Albert Sanchez from the International Psychology Research Institute, and his assistant. They're here to see Alex."
I feel Alex's entire body go rigid. Psychology? I can sense every instinct he has screaming at him to run.
"Dr. Sanchez is a professor at Aetheria Medical College," Eleanor continues, her voice taking on that formal tone she uses when she's trying to maintain control. "He consults for several top-tier hospitals and has extensive experience with trauma recovery."
My hand finds Alex's, and I realize he's trembling. Not visibly—he's trained himself too well for that—but I can feel it in the way his fingers grip mine.
"Perhaps we should move inside," Dr. Sanchez suggests gently, his accent cultured and reassuring. "This conversation requires privacy."
As we move toward the living room, I watch Alex's face transform. The man who was holding me just minutes ago has become a stranger—cold, controlled, every muscle in his body coiled like he's preparing for an attack.
He's terrified, I realize. Not of physical danger, but of something deeper. Something that cuts right to the core of who he is.
"Alex," I say quietly as we walk, "it's going to be okay."
He doesn't respond, but his grip on my hand tightens almost painfully.
In the living room, Alex positions himself near the window, as far from Dr. Sanchez as possible while still maintaining the pretense of participation. He's wearing his mask now—the one that makes him look untouchable and slightly dangerous.
But I can see through it. I can see the boy who woke up at five in the morning because he was afraid of losing me. The man who held a knife to his own father's throat because he couldn't contain the rage and pain anymore.
Even admitting he has wounds inside would feel like showing fatal weakness to Alex.
I watch him struggle with this, watch the war playing out behind his carefully controlled expression.
"I think," I say carefully, "I should give you some privacy for this."
"No." The word comes out sharper than Alex intended, and he immediately reaches for my hand. "Stay. Please."
Dr. Sanchez observes this interaction with professional interest. "Actually, Mrs. Morgan, your presence might be beneficial. In my experience, having a supportive partner present can significantly improve therapeutic outcomes."
Eleanor nods approvingly. "I think that's wise. I'll go to that lovely restaurant down the street to arrange lunch."
As she leaves, I settle into the chair beside Alex, close enough to touch but giving him space to breathe. Dr. Sanchez pulls out a sketch pad and begins to draw—quick, sure strokes that gradually resolve into an image of two hands intertwined.
"Beautiful work," I comment, genuinely impressed by the detail and emotion he's captured.
Alex glances at the drawing, and I see some of the tension leave his shoulders. "It is," he agrees quietly.
Dr. Sanchez smiles. "Art has a way of speaking to us when words fail." He looks up at Alex. "I find that couples who can appreciate beauty together often have very strong foundations."
Alex leans closer to me. "We're going to have children like this someday."
My heart does this little skip of joy at the certainty in his voice, at the future he's painting for us.
"Now then," Dr. Sanchez continues in that same gentle, conversational tone, "why don't we start with something pleasant? Tell me about your plans together. Are you thinking about a honeymoon? Future goals?"
I watch Alex's posture gradually relax as he begins to talk about us, about the life we're building. His voice takes on that soft, almost reverent quality it gets when he talks about our future, and I can see Dr. Sanchez making mental notes about the transformation.
When Alex talks about me, he becomes someone completely different. The harsh lines around his eyes soften, and there's a light in his expression that makes him look years younger.
"Mr. Morgan," Dr. Sanchez says after a while, his tone still casual and warm, "could you tell me what you admire most about Grace?"
The question hangs in the air, and I can feel Alex considering it seriously, the way he approaches everything that matters to him.