Chapter 3 A Debt That Can't Be Repaid

The silence in the hospital room was a physical thing, thick and suffocating. It was broken by Sarah, who let out a soft, wet gasp.

"Mr. Vance?" she whispered, her eyes wide with a confusion that mirrored the chaos erupting inside Aria. "You... you were there?"

Elias's gaze, heavy and unreadable, finally broke from Aria's to land on Sarah. The stark intensity in them softened, just a fraction. He gave a single, curt nod, the movement seeming to cost him effort. "I was driving behind him," he said, his voice rougher than it had been in the boardroom, stripped of its polished charm. It was the voice of a man who had been shouting, maybe screaming. "I saw it happen."

He didn't elaborate. He didn't describe the screech of metal, the bloom of fire, the act of dragging an unconscious man from a wreck. He just stood there, in his ruined shirt, the evidence of it all written on his clothes and skin.

Aria's father, Robert Stirling, arrived then, his face ashen, his usual jovial demeanor shattered by fear. Sarah flew to him, the words tumbling out in a frantic, tearful jumble. "...and the doctor said... and Mr. Vance, he was there, he pulled him out..."

Robert's eyes found Elias. The look on his face was one of such profound, undisguised gratitude that Aria felt a fresh wave of cognitive dissonance. Her father, a shrewd man who trusted few in business, looked at her corporate nemesis as if he were a archangel descended from heaven. He crossed the room in three long strides and clasped Elias's shoulder, his grip tight, his voice thick with emotion.

"Elias," he said, the informality startling Aria. "Son. I don't... I don't know what to say."

"There's no need to say anything, Robert," Elias replied, his tone quiet, almost uncomfortable. He subtly shifted, and her father's hand fell away from his shoulder. "Anyone would have done the same."

But that was a lie, and they all knew it. Most people would have frozen. Some would have called 911 from a safe distance. Very, very few would have raced into a potentially exploding vehicle for a virtual stranger.

The next forty-eight hours were a blur of hospital updates, bad coffee, and a relentless parade of gratitude directed at a man who seemed to want none of it.

Elias became a local hero. A small piece in the business section of the paper, which would normally have covered his latest merger, now featured a grainy photo of the smoldering wreck and hailed him as a "Good Samaritan Billionaire." The Vance family's PR machine was conspicuously silent, letting the story speak for itself, which only made it more powerful.

Aria was trapped in a nightmare of forced politeness. Her mother, Eleanor, had cried on the phone recounting the story to relatives, forever weaving Elias Vance into the tapestry of their family's survival. "That lovely young man from the Vance family... can you believe it? He saved our Liam." The words "that lovely young man" felt like shards of glass in Aria's ears.

She sat in the waiting room, watching her parents fuss over him, offering him coffee, asking if he was sure he was alright. He accepted their concern with a quiet, weary grace that was utterly maddening. This wasn't the smug shark from the boardroom. This man was subdued, almost haunted. He kept declining their offers, making excuses to leave, but they kept pulling him back into the fold of their relief, their need to repay an unpayable debt.

Aria said nothing. She offered tight, perfunctory smiles that didn't reach her eyes. Every "thank you" that passed her parents' lips felt like a betrayal. They were welcoming the fox into the henhouse, showering him with affection, while she alone remembered the gleam in his eye as he'd stolen her future.

The hatred, hot and sharp, still lived in her chest, but it was now tangled in a barbed wire of obligation. How do you hate the man who gave you back your brother? The conflict was a cold knot in her stomach, tightening every time she looked at him.

On the day Liam was deemed stable enough to be moved to a regular room, the mood finally lightened. The immediate fear had passed. Her father, looking more like himself, clapped his hands together.

"Right. That's it. Once our boy is back on his feet, we're having a proper Sunday dinner. All of us." He turned to Elias, who was leaning against the wall, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. "And you, Elias. You are not optional. You will be there. As our honored guest."

The air vanished from Aria's lungs. She stared at her father, a silent plea screaming in her mind. No. Please, no.

Elias straightened up, a flicker of his old composure returning. "Robert, that's really not necessary. I appreciate the gesture, but-"

"Nonsense!" her father boomed, his voice leaving no room for argument. It was the voice he used to end boardroom debates. "It's the very least we can do. Eleanor is already planning the menu. We won't take no for an answer."

He looked at Elias with such open, heartfelt expectation that refusal would have been a cruelty. Elias's eyes flickered to Aria for a fraction of a second-a look she couldn't decipher-before he gave a slow, resigned nod. "Alright. Thank you. I'd be honored."

The matter was settled.

Robert beamed, satisfied. He turned to leave, already talking about which wine to pair with the roast.

Elias followed him out with a murmured excuse about a meeting, leaving Aria alone in the hallway.

She stood there, the cheerful sounds of the hospital fading into a dull roar in her ears. The cold knot in her stomach had turned to lead. She saw it all unfolding with terrible clarity: the long oak table in the dining room she'd grown up with, the soft glow of the pendant light, the clatter of family cutlery. Her mother's best china. Her father carving the meat.

And she, Aria Stirling, would be trapped in her seat, forced to break bread with the man who had systematically dismantled her ambition.

She would have to sit directly across from Elias Vance and pretend she wasn't staring at the hands that had both destroyed her and saved her world. She would have to offer him a bowl of roasted potatoes and look into the eyes of her rival, now forever her family's beloved hero.

The war was over before it had even begun, and she had already lost.