I watched her for a long time before I moved.
She was lying there—still, quiet—on the patch of grass just outside the east wing of the estate. The way the morning light touched her skin made her look like she belonged there, like she wasn't some lost woman who'd collapsed on a stranger's property in the middle of the night.
She looked... fragile.
And that did something to me. Something I didn't like.
I stood there, my arms crossed over my chest, my thoughts louder than the wind that rustled the leaves around us.
Who is she? Why here?
"Sir?"
It was Emeka, my head of security. He stood beside me, trying to gauge my mood. "We didn't want to touch her until you arrived. She was found by one of the groundsmen during the morning round."
I nodded, my eyes never leaving her. "She's unconscious?"
"Yes. She hasn't woken up. No ID. No phone. Nothing."
I took a step forward, then another, until I was close enough to see the faint rise and fall of her chest. She was breathing. Barely.
She wore a faded T-shirt and an old pair of jeans that had seen better days. Her feet were bare. Dusty. Cracked. It was obvious she had walked a long way.
Something inside me stirred.
Not pity. No, I don't do pity.
But something.
"Let's take her inside," I said quietly.
Emeka hesitated. "Sir, we don't know who she is. This could be—"
"She's unconscious, Emeka. She's not a threat. Not now."
He nodded slowly, signaling to two of his men who moved in carefully. They carried her gently, like a porcelain doll, and I led them inside the house—my house that had been empty for weeks.
I hadn't stepped foot in it in over a month. The place still smelled like lemon polish and silence.
We laid her on the long couch in the private sitting room. The windows were wide open, letting in the breeze, the curtains dancing softly like they were welcoming her.
I stood at a distance, arms folded again, trying to figure out what the hell I was feeling.
A stranger. On my lawn.
And suddenly, I'm not thinking about the millions I lost. I'm not thinking about the investors I need to call, or the chaos waiting for me back in the city.
I'm thinking about this woman.
Who she is. Why she ended up here. What she was running from.
Because she was running. That much was clear.
My sister, Fiona, barged in a few minutes later. "You didn't answer your phone—" She froze when she saw the woman.
"What the hell is going on?"
"I found her outside," I said simply.
Fiona turned to me slowly, eyebrows raised. "What do you mean you found her?"
"She was lying outside. On the grass. Alone. I brought her in."
She walked over to the woman and crouched beside her, touching her forehead. "She's burning up. She's dehydrated. Starving."
"She needs food, water, and rest," I muttered. "We'll figure everything else out later."
Fiona glanced back at me, her eyes softening. "This isn't like you."
I didn't respond.
Because she was right.
This wasn't like me.
But I couldn't explain it. Something about this woman… She felt important. Like she was a sign. A break in the fog of last year.
"I'll get the doctor," Fiona said, already walking toward the hallway. "She'll need IVs and probably a change of clothes too. I'll sort it out."
I stood alone with the woman again. I moved to a chair near the window, staring at her.
She was beautiful. Even in her weakness, even in the way her body curled up slightly like she was shielding herself from something invisible.
What the hell had she been through?
Why did she look like she'd given up?
The way her hands were clenched into weak fists. The dark circles under her eyes. The way her breath hitched like she was stuck somewhere between pain and peace.
I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.
I didn't ask for this.
I didn't want this.
But I couldn't send her away.
***************
Two hours passed before the doctor arrived. She checked the woman, ran a few tests, and said exactly what Fiona had guessed—dehydration, exhaustion, malnourishment, and extreme fatigue.
"Whatever she's been through," the doctor said softly, "it wasn't kind."
I nodded. I didn't need the reminder.
After she left, Fiona returned to sit across from me.
"What are you going to do when she wakes up?"
"I don't know," I replied honestly.
"She might be in trouble. She might have people looking for her."
"I know."
"But you won't send her away?"
"No."
Fiona looked at me with a knowing smile. "It's been a year, Callum. Since Audrey. And you haven't let anyone near you. Not really. Not even me."
"This isn't about that."
"Isn't it?"
I didn't answer.
Because maybe it was.
Maybe something about this broken stranger on my couch cracked the wall I'd built around myself. Maybe it reminded me that I was still alive. That I still had something left inside me that could feel—something that wasn't grief or numbness.
Fiona stood, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Call me if anything changes. I'll have Maria prepare a room for her upstairs. Somewhere quiet."
I nodded.
Alone again, I watched her as she slept.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like drowning.