Aliyah

A sharp pain throbbed in my head, forcing me out of sleep.

I groaned, struggling to lift my heavy eyelids. When I finally managed to open them, the brightness from the chandelier above nearly blinded me. I blinked several times before my eyes slowly adjusted.

“Where… am I?” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

I pushed myself up weakly and looked around, my eyes widening in disbelief.

The room was nothing like the darkness of my memories.

The room was breathtaking, the walls were painted in soft cream, adorned with elegant golden frames. The chandelier above me sparkled like a thousand stars. Heavy velvet curtains, deep blue in color, draped down from the tall windows and the floor beneath shimmered with polished marble. A large king-sized bed carried me like I was something precious, the sheets smooth and soft against my skin.

It was beautiful. Like, very beautiful.

“Am I… dead?” I thought to myself. Because this place looked too much like heaven.

But reality struck me hard the next moment when my memories rushed back like a knife twisting in my chest. From Liam’s cruelty, Sarah’s mockery, to Catherine’s hatred. The humiliation on the street, the pain, the baby… my baby.

God, I remembered the onlookers. The phones were raised in the air. The shame of standing half-naked while the man I once loved stripped me of everything I was.

My stomach turned at the thought. God, by now, my naked pictures were probably circling the internet, strangers laughing at my brokenness.

“Bastard,” I whispered bitterly.

I knew Liam hated me. His coldness towards me for years. But if someone told me he would destroy me this way, strip me bare in front of the world after everything I sacrificed for him… I would never have believed it.

He didn’t just divorce me. He humiliated me. They killed my child. My only source of joy.

Tears streamed down my cheeks uncontrollably. The pain in my chest was indescribable and unbearable,

“Liam,” I whispered, my voice trembling with rage, “for every tear you made me shed, I will make you bleed with tears. For every joy you stole from me, I will make sure you and your precious Sarah never know peace again.”

I wiped my tears with the back of my palm. That was when I noticed that I wasn’t in the tattered remains of my shame anymore. I was wearing a blue gown, soft and clean against my skin.

My heart skipped. Who changed my clothes?

Before I could think further, the door swung open and a man stepped in, tall and striking. His presence filled the room instantly, commanding but gentle at the same time.

His dark hair fell neatly, contrasting with his pure white t-shirt that clung to his strong frame. His skin seemed to glow under the chandelier’s light, and his face... God, his face looked like it was carved by angels themselves. A sharp jawline, piercing eyes that held a depth of kindness and power, and lips that curved slightly as if he carried secrets untold.

I froze, my breath caught in my throat.

“Goodness,” I whispered to myself. “Am I… dead? Could this be an angel?”

Because no man on earth has the right to look that heavenly.

He was on the phone, his deep voice low and commanding. Then... God help me, he ran a hand through his hair in that effortless way men do when they don’t even realize how devastating they look. My stomach flipped with butterflies, and I had to secretly pinch myself under the sheets just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

“Let me call you back,” he murmured into the phone, his tone softening as his piercing blue eyes landed on me, making my heart stutter.

“Oh, thank God you are awake,” he said, slipping the phone into his pocket as he strode toward me.

His every step radiated wealth, power, and a quiet kind of intimidation that made the air shift around him. His presence filled the room like he owned not just this space, but the very ground he walked on.

"Is this him?" I thought wildly. "The man who saved me?"

I tried to search my memory, but everything blurred together with the cold stares, the shame, the tears. I couldn’t remember his face clearly, but I knew one thing: he was handsome. Like, very handsome.

“How are you feeling now? Do you need anything?” he asked, his tone dripping with genuine concern as his gaze swept over me.

But his words floated in and out, like my ears weren’t working. My attention was shamelessly stuck on his lips. Soft, pink lips that moved slowly, deliberately, as if each word was carefully chosen. Lips that looked like they could melt every broken piece of me with a single kiss.

"No. Stop." I scolded myself. "You can’t be thinking about this… not now. Not in this condition."

But which woman wouldn’t?

He was the kind of man whose smile alone could undo a lifetime of resolve, the kind who made desire bloom in places I thought had withered away.

“Are you okay? Should I call the doctor?” His sweet, velvet voice snapped me out of my reckless thoughts, and I blinked rapidly, embarrassed at where my mind had gone.

“Water…” It was all I could manage. My throat burned like sandpaper, and the single word escaped me before I could even think.

His brows furrowed slightly. “Oh, okay. Hold on.”

Without hesitation, he hurried to the other side of the room. My eyes followed him, and then they nearly popped out of my head when he opened what looked like a small, sleek fridge built seamlessly into the wall. It gleamed, with his initials embossed on it in silver, customized, like it had been crafted just for him.

He pulled out a bottle of water and moved back toward me with easy grace, and for a moment, I wondered if I had really died. Because in all my life, I have never seen a fridge like that. And I have never been cared for by a man in this way.

“Here, take it,” he said softly as he poured the water into a glass and held it carefully to my lips.

The cool liquid slid down my throat, and I gulped it greedily as if I had been wandering the desert for days. “More,” I whispered hoarsely, and without hesitation, he poured again. I drained the glass, the dryness in my throat easing just a little.

“Thank you,” I muttered, handing the empty glass back to him.

He set it gently on the bedside table before turning his gaze back to me. His eyes were steady, kind, and for a moment, I felt seen in a way I hadn’t in years.

“Emm…” I hesitated, twisting my fingers nervously in the blanket. “Were you… The man who saved me? From that… humiliation?”

A small smile tugged at his lips, softening the sharp edges of his handsome face. “Yes. That was me.”

My chest tightened. Gratitude flooded through me, so strong it burned behind my eyes.

He could have turned away like the others. He could have stood there, watching, laughing, even snapping pictures of my shame like the crowd had. But he hadn’t. He saved me.

“Thank you,” I whispered again, my voice breaking.

“You shouldn’t be thanking me,” he replied, his tone firm but gentle. “I only did what anyone in my shoes should have done. No woman deserves to be treated that way, no matter what.” His gaze lingered on me, filled with a sincerity that shook me to my core.

My heart squeezed painfully in my chest. No one has spoken to me like that since my mother died. No one has ever stood up for me, cared for me, or even looked at me with such compassion. I swallowed hard, struggling to steady my voice.

“Thank you, Mr…?”

He tilted his head, as if suddenly remembering. “Oh. Forgive me. I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Oliver White.” He smiled, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

My breath caught. The name slammed into me like a bell ringing in my ears. I blinked at him, stunned.

“Oliver White?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper.

He nodded.

“Like… Oliver White, the President of White Group?” My heart hammered as I searched his face, almost hoping I was wrong.

“Yes,” he said calmly, as if it meant nothing at all.

“Oh. My. God.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. My pulse raced as I stared at him, bewildered

I was saved by the almighty Oliver white? Why?