Chapter 15
He woke to the scent of cooking—rich, savory, and completely foreign in his apartment.
For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was or why his body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of investors during a market crash.
His limbs felt like dead weight, his throat was raw, and a steady throb in his head signaled a fever still present but no longer raging.
Memories came in fragments—the helicopter ride, the never-ending shivering, her cool palm against his forehead. The weight of her fingers in his hair. The comfort of resting his head in her lap while fever ravaged his defenses.
She’d stayed.
With effort, he pushed himself upright, the room swaying dramatically for a moment.
He was still wearing his button-down shirt and slacks, now wrinkled and damp with illness.
He peeled off the offending clothes with slow, clumsy fingers and stumbled toward the bathroom, one hand trailing along the wall for balance.
The hallway stretched longer than it should have—some fevered trick of perception—but he made it, flicking on the light and flinching at the glare.
The mirror delivered brutal honesty. Dark circles hollowed his eyes, stubble shadowed his jaw, and his skin had the pallor of death warmed over.
The shower helped. Hot water pounded his shoulders. He lingered beneath the spray, letting the steam ease the ache in his joints and clear the mental fog. By the time he emerged, wrapped in a towel he was breathing easier.
He dressed in gray sweatpants and a worn gray T-shirt. He followed the scent of food through the apartment. The closer he got, the more vivid it became—onions, aromatic herbs, the deep richness of slow-simmered broth. He reached the kitchen and stopped short.
The scene before him was one he couldn’t have conjured in a fever dream.
She stood with her back to him, stirring a pot on the stove. She’d kicked off her shoes. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, loose tendrils curling at the nape of her neck. The sleeves of her blouse were rolled to her elbows as she hummed under her breath.
A loaf of crusty bread sat cooling on a rack he didn’t recognize. His kitchen looked…lived in. Like someone actually existed here rather than merely occupying space.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, so he took another moment to observe this domestic scene. How naturally she inhabited corners of his life he rarely entered himself. How her presence filled spaces he hadn’t even realized were empty.
“What is that smell?” he finally said.
She startled, spinning around with a wooden spoon in hand, eyes widening as she took in his appearance.
“Who are you and what have you done with my boss?” she demanded, her gaze traveling from his sweatpants to his T-shirt. “I was convinced you slept in suits.”
He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms defensively. “I own clothes.”
“Clearly,” she said, gesturing with the spoon. “Though I have to say, this is not what I pictured. I was expecting monogrammed silk pajamas.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Not disappointed,” she said. “Merely surprised. I have never seen you look so human.”
“As opposed to what?”
“CEO robot? Financial terminator?” She gave the pot one last stir before setting the spoon aside. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
She gave him a look that combined medical diagnosis with judicial judgment. “So, terrible but maintaining appearances. Got it.”
He ignored this assessment, moving further into the kitchen to examine what she was cooking. “What is this?”
“My grandmother’s chicken soup,” she said. “Guaranteed to cure what ails you, according to everyone who’s ever tasted it.”
“You made soup,” he said. “In my kitchen.”
“Well, I didn’t make it in the bathroom,” she replied. “Though that might have been more sanitary. When was the last time you actually cooked here? Your pots had dust on them.”
“The penthouse came fully equipped. I’ve never had reason to use most of it.”
“That’s not an answer,” she said, ladling soup into a bowl. “Here. Sit. Eat.”
“I don’t need to be managed,” he said, even as he obeyed, settling onto a barstool at his kitchen island.
“Right,” she said dryly, setting the steaming bowl before him. “That’s why you were shivering with a 103-degree fever earlier. Because you’re so excellent at self-care.”
He reached for the spoon. “You didn’t need to stay.”
“Well, someone had to make sure you didn’t cook your brain with that fever. Besides,” she said, slicing into the bread with her back to him, “I already called us out sick for tomorrow. I’m committed now.”
He paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. “You did what?”
“Called us out sick,” she said, placing bread beside his bowl. “You have a fever. I’ve been exposed. It seemed logical.”
The soup was extraordinary—rich and complex, with herbs he couldn’t identify and a depth that spoke of hours of slow simmering. It was nothing like the bland, mass-produced versions he ordered when working late. This was revelatory.
“Good?” she asked, eyes bright with what looked suspiciously like pride.
He nodded reluctantly. “Acceptable.”
“High praise,” she said, rolling her eyes as she poured herself a bowl. “Remind me never to cook for you again.”
“I didn’t ask you to cook for me this time,” he pointed out, taking another spoonful. The warmth spread through him, easing aches he hadn’t realized he had.
“No, you didn’t,” she agreed, settling onto the stool beside him. “Consider it a bonus service. I excel at exceeding expectations.”
They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sound the gentle clink of spoons against ceramic.
It was strange, this comfortable domesticity.
Strange and yet not unpleasant. There was an ease to it that felt both foreign and oddly familiar, as if they’d shared countless quiet meals instead of just this one.
His apartment had never felt like this—warm, inhabited, alive.
“You really didn’t need to rearrange tomorrow,” he said finally, setting his spoon down. “I can manage.”
“With what?” she challenged, turning to face him fully. “You could barely stand upright. And you have the Beauchamp meeting on Wednesday, which you can’t afford to miss because you worked yourself into pneumonia.”
“It’s not pneumonia,” he muttered.
“Not yet,” she said. “But it will be if you drag yourself into the office tomorrow in some misguided display of corporate martyrdom.”
“It’s called responsibility.”
“It’s called stubbornness,” she countered. “And it’s going to land you in the hospital if you don’t take a day to actually recover.”
“I don’t need a nursemaid,” he said stiffly.
“Good, because I’m not offering to be one,” she shot back. “I’m being a practical human being who recognizes that sometimes bodies need rest. Even yours, shocking as that may be.”
He opened his mouth to argue further but found himself suddenly exhausted. The small burst of energy that had propelled him from bed to kitchen was fading rapidly, leaving him hollow and drained. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to focus through the returning haze.
“Are we having our first fight?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.
She burst into laughter. “As opposed to what? The daily verbal sparring matches we’ve engaged in for the past six months?”
Despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth lift. She had a point. Their professional relationship had always involved a certain amount of intellectual combat. “Fair point.”
Her laughter faded, but the warmth in her eyes remained. “Eat your soup. Then you can go back to bed and plot world domination or whatever it is you do when you’re not terrorizing boardrooms.”
“I don’t terrorize boardrooms,” he said. “I manage expectations.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” she asked, the teasing note returning to her voice. “I’m sure the intern you made cry last month would disagree.”
“He submitted a report with three numerical errors,” he said defensively. “In finance, those kinds of mistakes can cost millions.”
“And pointing them out privately wouldn’t have achieved the same result?”
He considered this, frowning. The question made him uncomfortable because it suggested alternatives he hadn’t considered. “It wouldn’t have made the same impression.”
“On who? The intern or your ego?”
The words stung because they carried truth he didn’t want to examine.
He’d built his reputation on exacting standards and ruthless efficiency.
Fear was a tool, and effective tools weren’t discarded.
But sitting here in his kitchen, wearing sweatpants and eating homemade soup while she challenged him with gentle persistence, that approach felt suddenly… crude.
“You’re bold for someone who commandeered my kitchen,” he said, instead of answering directly.
“You’re grumpy for someone who got served homemade soup,” she countered.
They lapsed into silence again, but it was comfortable rather than tense.
The soup was working its magic, lessening illness’s grip on his body and clearing his thoughts.
He found himself studying her profile as she ate—the way she tucked loose hair behind her ear, the small crease of concentration between her brows.
“It’s excellent,” he said finally, setting down his empty spoon. “The soup. Thank you.”
Something in her expression softened. “You’re welcome.”
“What’s in it? It tastes different from any soup I’ve had before.”
“Family secret,” she said. “My grandmother would haunt me if I told you.”
“Even your fake fiancé?” he asked, testing the waters with humor while observing her reaction.
Her cheeks flushed, but her voice stayed steady. “Maybe especially my fake fiancé. She’d see right through you, you know. Grandma Sinclair had a sixth sense about people. She’d take one look at those spreadsheets you call a personality and know exactly what we were up to.”
“I’m more than spreadsheets,” he said, strangely stung by the assessment.
“I know,” she said, her voice quieter than expected. “I was joking. You’re also quarterly reports and profit margins.”
He shook his head, recognizing her attempt to ease the tension. “Hilarious.”
“I thought so,” she said, standing to clear their bowls. “Now, go back to bed. You still look half-dead, but with slightly more color.”
“You don’t have to stay,” he said again, though the words lacked conviction. The prospect of returning to his empty bedroom, of silence settling back over his apartment like a shroud, created an unexpected hollowness.
She paused, hands full of dishes, and her expression changed. “Do you want me to go?”
The question hung between them, deceptively simple.
“No,” he admitted finally. “But you shouldn’t feel obligated to stay.”
“I don’t do obligation,” she said, resuming her task of loading dishes into the dishwasher. “Not for things that matter.”
The casual way she said it—things that matter—sent unexpected warmth through his chest. When had he last mattered to anyone outside of what he could give them or help them to achieve? When had someone stayed simply because they wanted to?
“Thank you,” he said finally. “For staying. For the soup. For all of it.”
Her expression softened. “You’re welcome. Now go rest. The business world will survive.”
On the walk back to his bedroom, he couldn’t shake the sense that the dynamic between them had shifted into uncharted territory. Not the professional distance they’d maintained, not the careful choreography of their fake engagement, but genuine care freely given.
The thought should have alarmed him. Instead, as he sank back onto his bed, he found himself oddly at peace.
Either way, as sleep claimed him once more, his last conscious thought was of her—the sound of her presence filling his too-quiet world.