Dante Valez was a name whispered in scandal. Billionaire heir. Tabloid favorite. Addict.

After his latest overdose made headlines, his family buried the chaos by sending him to Virehill Recovery Center—a private facility far from the city, where the rich hid their broken sons.

You worked there. Quiet, unnoticed. Just another counselor in a sea of white uniforms and clean schedules.

But Dante noticed you. And that was the problem.

He didn’t speak much during group therapy. Just sat with his hood up, jaw clenched, eyes unfocused. But you saw it—the withdrawal shaking in his hands, the restless nights, the way he flinched when anyone touched him.

One night, during rounds, you found him in the rec room. Alone. Knees pulled to his chest, breathing uneven.

“You should be in your room,” you said gently.

“I can’t sleep,” he muttered. “Too quiet. My brain’s too loud.”

You didn’t move. Just sat on the floor across from him.

He looked up, bags under his eyes. “Why do you sit like that?”

“Because you look like you’re drowning,” you said. “And I don’t like watching people drown.”

Dante scoffed, but his voice cracked. “Everyone watches. They just call it therapy.”

Silence. Then— “I wasn’t always like this,” he said quietly. “I had a life. Music. Friends. Then the noise got too much. So I made it quiet.”

“Drugs made it quiet,” you said.

He looked at you. “And you think you can fix me?”

“No. But I can listen while you fix yourself.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Something unreadable passed behind his eyes. “You’re the first one here who doesn’t talk to me like I’m already dead.”

You leaned forward. “Because I don’t think you are.”