Chapter 7
Oliver left for London at four this morning, and I feel miserable. A bad cold has taken hold of me, likely due to the lack of sleep and the sudden change in weather. This morning, I bundled up in my heavy winter coat as the wind whipped around, sending a chill through my bones. I should've stayed home, but now, three hours later, my head is swimming, and my sinuses are filled with fluid.
For the past two weeks, I made it my mission to familiarize myself with Fox Asset Corporation’s entire portfolio. Oliver left me alone as I absorbed as much information as I could. As his soon-to-be wife, he wanted me to know everything about his businesses. During that time, I discovered just how generous my fiancé truly is. He financed several projects around the world to help the less fortunate.
Oliver was a significant donor to Kids Afloat, a charity for underprivileged youth right here in the city. He was also part of a company that provided funds at low interest rates to women and minority-owned businesses. Additionally, I found information about a charity project he was working on with Jordan Grayson and Hunter Lawson to build low-income housing and make it rent-to-own.
The more I learned about Oliver Fox, the deeper I fell in love with him, if that was even possible. I was head over heels for him, enough so that I’d been neglectful of my relationships with my family and friends. I knew I would have to work on tearing myself away to spend time with them.
“Miss Stewart?”
I looked up to see Henri at my door, wincing as the fluid in my head sloshed around, causing a wave of nausea to hit me like a wall of water. I choked back a gag as I answered.
“Yes, Henri?”
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, a look of genuine concern on his face.
“Not really,” I mumbled.
I sneezed, and as I reached for the box of tissues on the corner of my desk, it fell to the floor.
“Damn,” I muttered, moving to retrieve it. But before I could reach it, I collapsed onto the floor.
I woke to Henri placing me on the couch in the corner of my office.
“What happened?” I asked groggily.
He looked at me with worry. “You fainted. I think you should go to the hospital.”
“I’m fine,” I protested weakly.
I coughed, feeling a sharp ache in my chest, as the phone rang on my desk.
“Can you answer that, please?” I requested, my voice hoarse.
Henri grabbed the headset and answered the call. I heard him say, “Yes, sir,” before he held out the phone to me.
“Who is it?” I asked, still trying to gather my senses.
“Mr. Fox,” Henri replied, his tone urgent.
Oliver left for London at four this morning and I feel miserable. I have a bad cold, probably from the lack of sleep and the change in the weather. This morning, I wore my heavy winter coat as the wind swirled the chilled air around me. I should’ve stayed home because now three hours later, my head was swimming as my sinuses filled with fluid.
For the past two weeks, I made it my mission to familiarize myself with Fox Asset Corporation’s entire portfolio. Oliver left me alone as I absorbed as much as I could. As his soon to be wife, he wanted me to know everything about his businesses. During that time, I learned how generous my fiancé was. He financed several projects around the world to help the less fortunate.
He was a large donor to Kids Afloat, a charity for underprivileged youth right here in the city. He was part of a company that lent funds at low interest rates to women and minority owned businesses. I also found information about a charity he was working on with Jordan Grayson and Hunter Lawson to build low income housing and make it rent to own.
The more I found out about Oliver Fox, the more I fell in love with him, if that was even possible. I was head over heels for him enough so that I’d been neglectful of my relationships with my family and friends. I knew I would have to work on tearing myself away to spend time with them.
“Miss Stewart?”
I looked up to see Henri at my door, wincing as the fluid in my head sloshed around, causing a wave of nausea to hit me like a wall of water. I choked back a gag as I answered.
“Yes, Henri?”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Not really.”
I sneezed and as I reached for the box of tissues on the corner of my desk, it fell on the floor.
“Damn,” I said as I stood up to retrieve it. Henri was moving toward it at the same time I was except I didn’t make it as I collapsed on the floor. I woke as Henri placed me on the couch in the corner of my office.
“What happened?”
He gave me a look of concern. “You fainted. I think you should go to the hospital.”
“I’m fine.”
I coughed and my chest ached as the phone rang on my desk.
“Can you answer that please?”
Henri grabbed the headset on my desk and hit the red flashing button on the console. I heard him say “Yes, sir” and he held it out to me.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Fox.”
“Oliver?”
“What’s the matter?” His voice sounded panicked, and I suppose I would’ve felt the same if I was in another country with no way of getting to him.
“I should've postponed this trip,” Oliver's voice crackled through the phone.
“You can't always take care of me,” I muttered, feeling guilty for being a burden.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to. Go to the hospital,” Oliver insisted, his concern palpable even over the phone.
“I'm fine,” I protested weakly, though the pounding headache and chills said otherwise.
“That’s not what Henri tells me. You need rest,” Oliver replied firmly.
“Maybe I’ll leave at noon,” I suggested, trying to find a compromise.
“I’m ordering you to leave now. Stop fighting with me, Ryleigh,” Oliver’s tone left no room for argument.
“I don’t want to be alone. I hate the penthouse when you’re not there,” I admitted, feeling vulnerable.
“Is that why you came to work sick?” Oliver asked, his voice softening with understanding.
“A little. It’s lonely without you,” I confessed, feeling a lump form in my throat.
“Go home. Brenda will stay in one of the guest rooms,” Oliver decided, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
“Where is she?” I inquired, wanting reassurance.
“Waiting downstairs with Vlad. I’m asking the pilot to turn around,” Oliver informed me, his concern evident.
I rubbed my temple with my fingers, closing my eyes. My head was pounding like a thousand drums.
“No. You need to do this,” I insisted, not wanting to disrupt his plans.
“I can scout out a spot for another club when you’re well. I’m only three hours into my flight,” Oliver reasoned, showing his dedication even from afar.
“I’ll be fine as long as Brenda stays with me,” I assured him, grateful for his thoughtfulness.
“Are you sure?” Oliver double-checked, his worry lingering in his voice.
“Fine,” I relented, suppressing another coughing fit.
“Christ, Ryleigh, you’re making me rethink my decision,” Oliver confessed, his concern bordering on exasperation.
“Go to London,” I urged him, not wanting him to worry about me.
“I’ll try to be home tomorrow evening,” Oliver promised, his commitment to me unwavering.
“You said you would be away for four days,” I reminded him, wanting to ensure he didn't sacrifice too much for my sake.
“Due to the circumstances, I can cut the trip short. Now go home, and I’ll call you later,” Oliver insisted, his love shining through his words.
“Thank you,” I whispered gratefully, feeling overwhelmed by his care.
“You don’t have to thank me. I love you,” Oliver said softly, his affection warming my heart.
“Love you too,” I replied.
I ended the call and turned to Henri, who was waiting patiently by my side. “Miss Stewart, do you need my assistance downstairs?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted, feeling weak and dizzy.
Henri offered his arm, and I accepted it gratefully as we made our way out of the office. With Henri’s support, I managed to navigate to the waiting limo, where Brenda was already seated, ready to accompany me home.
“You don’t look too well,” Brenda observed with concern, her voice filled with sympathy.
She placed a cool hand on my forehead, and I shivered as the coldness seeped into my skin.
“You’re hot. You must have a fever,” she concluded, her worry deepening.
“I just want to go to bed,” I murmured, feeling drained and exhausted.
I dozed off during the ride home while Vlad expertly navigated the streets to the penthouse. When we arrived, Brenda helped me upstairs, her steady presence a comfort.
I welcomed the warmth of the lobby as we entered, feeling a chill settle over me. I stopped at the thermostat in the hall to raise the temperature, hating the approach of November and the impending winter it signified.
Brenda guided me to the bedroom, her arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get you to bed,” she said softly, her voice a soothing balm to my frazzled nerves.
“I hate this time of year,” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper.
Brenda gave me a sympathetic smile as she helped me out of my coat. “I know. But you’ll feel better soon, I promise.”
I nodded weakly, too tired to respond. It took effort for me to change my clothing, pulling on a pair of flannel pajamas. As I crawled into bed, Brenda pulled the covers up around me and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead.
“Try to get some rest,” she said gently. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
I closed my eyes; the warmth of the blankets and Brenda’s reassuring presence finally allowed me to relax. The sound of her soft footsteps as she moved around the room was the last thing I heard before sleep claimed me.
I wondered if Brenda was a mother. She couldn’t be more than thirty, but she was maternal in every way. She cared for me like I was her child, making me tea and checking on me throughout the day. My fever hovered at one hundred one, only decreasing with a dose of aspirin. I slept most of the time and when the room became dark as evening fell, I stayed in bed.
My appetite was non-existent, and the very thought of food turned my stomach. The next time I woke, my hair was smoothed back from my cheek.
“Mom?”
“No, sweetheart, it’s Oliver.”
“You’re home?” I mumbled.
“Yes. I couldn’t stay away,” Oliver said, his voice a comforting balm in my haze of sickness.
He snapped on the lamp by my bedside, and I squinted as my eyes adjusted. Oliver was still dressed in the black pinstriped suit, white shirt, and silver tie he had left the penthouse in this morning. Worry lines creased his smooth features, and I hoped he wouldn’t catch my illness.
“I’m glad you’re home, but I’m sorry you cut your trip short,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I did what I needed to do. My partners found the perfect site. I was back at the airport in less than two hours.”
“You flew sixteen hours for me?” I asked, my heart aching at his sacrifice.
“Don’t be angry,” he said gently, sitting beside me and taking my hand. “I just care so much about you.”
“I’m not angry, but I don’t want you to get sick.”
“And I don’t want you to be sick.” He leaned down, placing a lingering kiss on my forehead. His lips were warm and comforting against my feverish skin. He stood up to get undressed, and I turned away from the light because it made my head throb. A few minutes later, he sat on the bed again, his concern palpable.
“Can I get you something? Did you eat today?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.
I felt nauseated at the thought of food. “No, nothing.”
He pressed the back of his hand to my cheek. “You feel warm. You should drink something.”
“I’ve been drinking, but that’s all. I have no appetite. Brenda was very helpful today.”
He smiled. “I sent her home when I came in. She said she hopes you feel better.”
“She’s a nice lady,” I croaked.
“She likes you very much.”
“I like her too. Does she have children?” I asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“She was very maternal.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Let me get you some water at least.”
The bed gave as he stood up and switched off the light. I turned onto my back, watching his retreating silhouette illuminated by the hall light. He came back a few minutes later with a large glass of water, ice cubes clinking softly. He placed it on my nightstand.
“You should drink,” he said softly.
“I’m not thirsty,” I protested weakly.
Oliver frowned. “Humor me, please.”
With much effort, I sat up, and he handed me the glass, helping me tip it to my mouth. I drank greedily, not realizing how thirsty I really was. The cold water felt good as it soothed my tortured throat.
“Thank you,” I whispered, sinking back into the pillows.
“Anything for you,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. He climbed into bed beside me, wrapping me in his warmth. “Try to get some rest. I’m here now.”
I nestled into his embrace, feeling safe and cherished despite my fever. As fatigue pulled me under, I realized how much his presence meant to me and how grateful I was for his unwavering love.
“I mean for everything. You must be exhausted,” I rasped.
“I slept on the plane.”
“In the bedroom?” I asked.
The bedroom in one of his jets was very comfortable. I slept for several hours in the comfortable bed while we made a trip to Seattle.
He shook his head. “No. I didn’t take that one. I’m having quarterly maintenance performed on it right now.”
“So, you slept in the seat?”
“They’re very comfortable.”
Oliver walked around to his side of the bed and slipped under the covers. He pulled me against him, fingering my red flannel pajamas.
“These are kind of sexy,” he teased.
“You think so?”
Oliver pressed his lips to my forehead. “Anything you wear is sexy because you’re wearing it.”
“You’re in love.”
“Yes, I am. Now go to sleep.”
He embraced me and softly kissed my cheek as I faded off. My dreams were vivid and strange as they sometimes are when I’m sick. The man from the street who stared at me was in them. He wouldn’t stop following me and I felt my heart pound in my chest.
“Ryleigh,” Oliver whispered. My eyes shot open and tried to adjust to the dark room.
“What?” I mumbled.
“You were moaning.”
“You should like that,” I whispered.
“Not that type of moan. You sounded scared.”
“I don’t remember what I was dreaming about.”
I cleared my throat, and the loose mucus caused a round of coughing which hurt. I had trouble catching my breath.
His eyebrows slammed together. “You don’t sound good.”
I groaned. “I just want to sleep.”
Oliver touched my head with the heel of his hand. “You’re burning up.”
I was finding it hard to breathe as I tried to pull in oxygen. It felt like pulling razor blades into my lungs.
“It hurts,” I whined.
“You need to go to the hospital.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re going. I should’ve made Brenda take you.”
Oliver sprang from the bed, grabbing his phone as he ran into the closet. I heard him talking as he dressed. He came out wearing a pair of jeans and a large gray sweatshirt.
“Where are we going?”
“The hospital. Vlad will be downstairs in a few minutes. Let’s get you dressed.”
My stomach churned, and I felt like throwing up as I tried to sit up. The room was spinning and I fell back. From there, I don’t remember much except Oliver picking me up in his arms.
The next time I woke, I was in the ER being attended by two nurses and a doctor in a white coat. My arm had a tube attached to it with a drip bag hanging on a hook above me. Oliver was leaning against the wall as the hospital staff did their job. He left when they brought in a portable X-ray machine.
I didn’t want to be fussed with but I knew it was required. My face reddened when I realized I was in a hospital gown. It meant that someone had seen me naked.
“Miss Stewart, stay still while we take an X-ray,” the technician said.
I waited patiently as he snapped a few shots. Oliver came back in the room after they took the machine out. He looked exhausted and worried as lines creased his forehead.
“Sweetheart, how do you feel?”
“Like shit. What’s this stuff in the bag?”
“A saline drip. You need fluids and they gave you antibiotics. The doctor suspects you have pneumonia.”
I moaned. “Great, not again.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows. “You’ve had it before?”
“A couple of times. It must be why my lungs are killing me.”
“Damn it,” he cursed, “I should never have gone to London.”
“Stop feeling guilty,” I protested, before breaking into a fit of coughing.
“Relax, you need to rest.”
I closed my eyes only to be disturbed by the staff entering the room. I opened my eyes to see the doctor, a tall man with sparse gray hair and a lopsided smile.
“I’m Dr. Cancro. I’m pretty sure you have pneumonia. We’re waiting for the slides.”
I grunted. “It feels like pneumonia.”
“We’re administering antibiotics in the drip. You’ll need to rest until this passes.”
“As long as it’s not here. I hate hospitals.”
He smiled before he left the room, leaving me with a hovering Oliver.
“Sit down. I’ll be fine,” I said, trying to muster a reassuring smile.
“I can worry about you, so stop telling me what to do,” Oliver shot back, his eyes blazing with concern.
“I guess I won’t be coming to work for the rest of the week,” I murmured, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over me.
“You think I give a shit about that? I won’t be going to the office either. I can work from home.”
“I don’t want to keep you,” I insisted, my voice weak.
“For fuck’s sake, would you stop worrying about me?” he growled, his frustration boiling over.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, feeling a pang of guilt.
His voice softened instantly. “Don’t you understand what you mean to me? Nothing compares to you, nothing.”
I inhaled deeply, wincing at the sharp pain in my chest. Everything hurt, and all I wanted to do was sleep. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the discomfort. I heard the chair scrape along the floor, then felt Oliver’s warm hand enveloped mine.
“Just rest,” he murmured, his thumb gently stroking my knuckles. “I’m here. You’re all that matters.”
His presence was a balm to my aching body and troubled mind. I squeezed his hand weakly, feeling a sense of peace despite the feverish haze. With Oliver by my side, I knew I could endure anything.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Oliver said.
“My back hurts. It’s been four days. I can’t stay in bed any longer.”
“Put on some socks at least,” he insisted.
I’d been in bed for the past few days, and I was going stir crazy. Oliver waited on me hand and foot, even canceling conference calls just in case I needed him. He was the perfect nurse.
I went to the closet and opened my sock drawer on my side, taking out a pair of white ankle cut athletic socks. My feet weren’t cold, but I wanted to appease Oliver. When I came out, he was cradling the phone against his ear while he prepared me a bowl of soup. I was sick of soup and wanted something more substantial. After four days of being sick, my appetite had returned with a vengeance. I tapped his shoulder before he pulled the tab on the can and shook my head.
“What do you want for lunch?” he asked.
“Not soup.”
Oliver concluded his phone call. “Henri, email me the information. I’ll be in touch.”
He took the phone in his hand and disconnected the call before he took me in his arms.
“You feel much cooler. Did you take your next dose of antibiotics?”
“I’m not due for another hour.”
“Good girl.”
I hated when he patronized me because it felt more like I was his child than his fiancée. He’d been so agreeable the past few days that I let it go and pulled open the refrigerator.
“I can get you lunch. What do you want?” Oliver asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, which is why I’m seeing what you have.”
“We have.”
“Excuse me?”
“What we have. This is your home too.”
A week ago, Oliver had had his staff clean out my things from my old apartment. Finley asked Sadie to live with him permanently and we put our furniture in storage. Oliver graciously paid off the lease. I know it was a big sigh of relief for him to know I would be safe and under his roof. He still hadn’t said a word about the real reason why he wanted to protect me.
“Our home. Happy?”
“Very. Now, what do you want to eat?”
I decided to bust Oliver’s chops and asked for poached eggs on English muffins. To my surprise, he started to get everything out on the counter.
“I was kidding.”
“Do you doubt I can cook?”
“Not one bit.”
“What do you really want to eat?” Oliver asked, his eyes searching mine.
I thought for a moment, savoring the idea. “Wagyu burger with sautéed mushrooms and Gruyère.”
“You haven’t eaten much in days. A burger will give you a tummy ache,” he cautioned.
“I’ll be fine. Please?” I batted my eyelashes at him, hoping to sway his decision.
“You’re impossible,” he sighed, though a smile tugged at his lips.
“That’s why you asked me to marry you. You need a challenge,” I teased.
“Why would you say that?”
“Most things come so easy for you,” I shrugged. “You need to work for this.”
“You’re right, I do,” he replied, his gaze intense and unwavering. “Because you’re the most important person in my life.”
“So, burger?” I asked, pressing my advantage.
He picked up his phone from the counter and called in my order. My mouth watered at the thought of biting into the juicy burger, imagining the melted Gruyère and tender beef. After he hung up, I wrapped my arms around his waist, resting my head against his back.
“Ryleigh, don’t do that,” he murmured.
“Why?” I asked innocently, sliding my hand under his black t-shirt to stroke the ridges of his muscles.
“You know why.”
“Suppose I said I wanted you?” I whispered, my fingers tracing his skin.
Oliver gently unhooked my hands from around his waist and turned to face me. “I would say as much as I want you, the answer is no. You’re not one hundred percent, and I suspect you got sick because of the little sleep you get.”
“Another thing you’re blaming yourself for?” I growled, frustrated.
“Yes. We don’t need to make love three times a night.”
“We don’t NEED to, but we WANT to. There’s a big difference,” I argued.
“Be patient,” he advised softly.
“Patience isn’t my strong suit,” I admitted.
“You don’t have to tell me that. I’m well aware,” he said, planting a kiss on the top of my head before retreating to his office.
I frowned after him, feeling the sting of his absence. It felt good to get out of the bedroom, and I plopped down on the couch, picking up a decorating magazine from the table. Oliver received several trade magazines since he was in the business, always keen to stay updated on the latest trends and discuss designs with his interior decorators.
Our meal arrived twenty minutes later, the aroma from the silver tray making my stomach growl. I didn’t wait for Oliver to sit down, taking a large bite of my burger and softly moaning as I chewed, savoring the blend of meat, cheese, and mushrooms.
“Easy. Take small bites,” Oliver advised, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I’m starving. I’ve been eating soup for the past few days,” I mumbled between bites.
“You don’t have to make up for it in one shot,” he said, uncovering his own plate to reveal the same type of burger, accompanied by a large heaping pile of pomme frites. I reached over and took some for myself.
“Did you talk to your parents today?” he asked.
“I called my mother this morning. Anders was at work,” I replied.
“How are they doing?”
“Fine. My mother sounded closer to normal today.”
The memory of my first bout with pneumonia resurfaced, a freshman in college, spending two days in the hospital and two weeks in bed. It was during Christmas break, but it was the closest I ever came to dying.
I could barely breathe and felt like I was drowning. The experience left my mother fearful, especially when I got it again in my junior year. It wasn’t as severe, but I still spent a week in bed.
As I took another bite of my burger, I felt Oliver’s eyes on me, full of concern and love.
“She worries about you,” Oliver said, his voice gentle but firm.
“She doesn’t have to. I’m not a child,” I retorted.
“But you’re her child.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Ryleigh, I don’t mean to sound like your father.”
“Well, sometimes you do, and it’s annoying. You’re not my father; you’re my fiancé.”
“Point taken.” He paused, a frown creasing his lips. “I just… I worry about you.”
“Seems like there’s a lot of that going around,” I muttered.
Oliver shook his head and took a massive bite of his burger, juices dribbling onto the plate. We didn’t speak for the rest of the meal, and I managed to eat only half of my burger. Not eating for several days had shrunk my stomach. I placed the remainder down and leaned back against the chair, feeling a wave of fatigue wash over me.
“Full?” he asked, his eyes scanning my face with concern.
“Very, and I feel tired.”
“Get into bed. I’ll be in right after I finish.”
I wiped my hands and slowly rose, heading to the bedroom. Exhaustion hit me hard as I slipped into bed, and in a matter of minutes, I was asleep. Oliver woke me half an hour later, gently shaking me awake.
“What’s so important?” I grumbled.
“Your medication. Please take it,” he urged.
I turned over and sat up in bed, taking the pills he handed me and washing them down with the glass of water he brought.
“I’m going back to bed,” I mumbled, feeling groggy.
“I have to make a few calls.”
“To who? It’s after 6 p.m.,” I questioned, knowing full well he often made calls at odd hours and to different countries. I was irritated and wanted to irritate him back.
“It’s not your concern. You must be feeling better because you’re getting more difficult,” he remarked.
I stuck my tongue out at him, feeling a childish satisfaction. He raised his eyebrows before a smirk played on his handsome face.
“I’m filing this for later use.”
“Filing what?”
“Your tongue sticking out at me. You’re still sick, so I need to refrain from making any requests to use it.”
I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged at my lips. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me for it,” he said, bending down to kiss my forehead. “Now, rest. I’ll join you soon.”
I nodded, sinking back into the pillows, feeling a bit better knowing he was near. The last thing I saw before drifting off was Oliver’s silhouette, the soft light from the hallway casting a halo around him. His presence was my comfort, my anchor. With him by my side, I knew I could weather anything.
I stuck my tongue at him and he raised his eyebrows before a smirk played on his handsome face.
“I’m filing this for use later.”
“Filing what?”
“Your tongue sticking out at me. You’re still sick, so I need to refrain from making any requests to use it.”
“Sex fiend.”
“Damn right. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Thank you.”
He grinned. “No thanks needed.”