10. Jaxon #2
Lily stands at the top of the stairs in her unicorn pajamas, face flushed, eyes glassy with fever. “I don’t feel good,” she whimpers.
"Shit," I mutter, immediately pulling away, reaching for the throw blanket to cover Vivienne as she scrambles upright.
I stand fast, all thoughts of passion vanish, replaced by immediate concern. I take the stairs two at a time, reaching her in seconds.
Vivienne sits up, still breathless, still dazed, but I can see the shift in her expression—the sharp return to reality, to responsibility.
Whatever this is between us, whatever it’s becoming, it will have to wait.
Right now, Lily comes first.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" I ask, kneeling to her level.
"My tummy hurts. And I'm hot." Tears well in her eyes. "I threw up in my bed."
I press my hand to her forehead, alarmed by the heat radiating from her skin. "You're burning up. Let's get you back to bed while I call the doctor."
Vivienne appears beside us, her earlier dishevelment replaced by calm efficiency. "I'll clean up her bed. Do you have a children's fever reducer?"
"Medicine cabinet in my bathroom," I tell her, gathering Lily into my arms. "Second shelf."
Thirty minutes later, Lily's bed is remade; she's had medicine and sips of water, and I've spoken to her pediatrician.
Vivienne has been surprisingly competent throughout the crisis, knowing instinctively how to comfort Lily, how to check her temperature properly, how to keep her calm while I made the necessary calls.
"Doctor says it's probably that stomach flu going around her school," I tell Vivienne as we stand in the hallway outside Lily's room. "If her fever spikes above 103 or she can't keep liquids down, we should take her to the ER. Otherwise, monitor and medicate."
Vivienne nods, her expression concerned. "She seems miserable, poor thing."
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For helping. You didn't have to—"
"Of course I did," she interrupts, as if the alternative is unthinkable. "She's scared and sick. She needs us."
Us. The word settles between us, unexpectedly significant.
"You're good with her," I observe. "Natural."
She shrugs, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "My mother wasn't exactly the nurturing type. I learned early what actually helps when you're sick versus what adults think should help."
The insight into her childhood tugs at something in my chest. Before I can respond, a whimper comes from Lily's room.
"She'll probably be up and down all night," I sigh. "You should get some rest. I've got this."
"We've got this," Vivienne corrects firmly. "I'll take first watch. You get some sleep, and I'll wake you in a few hours."
I want to protest but find myself nodding instead.
The truth is, I'm exhausted from the emotional whiplash of the evening—from the gala to our revelations to that scorching kiss to Lily's illness.
And something about Vivienne's calm competence makes me trust her with Lily in a way I've never trusted anyone.
"Wake me if anything changes," I insist. "Anything at all."
"I promise." She squeezes my hand before slipping into Lily's room, leaving me in the hallway with thoughts too complicated to untangle.
I retreat to my room, stripping off the remnants of my formal wear and showering quickly.
As the hot water sluices over me, I try not to think about Vivienne's lips, her body pressed against mine, the sounds she made when I touched her.
I try not to imagine where we'd be right now if Lily hadn't interrupted us.
Instead, I focus on the fact that my niece is sick, that I'm responsible for her wellbeing, that I can't afford distractions—even distractions as enticing as Vivienne Clarke.
I'm barely asleep when Vivienne shakes me awake, her expression tight with worry.
"Her fever's spiking," she says. "103.8 and she can't keep down the medicine or water. We need to take her to the ER."
I'm out of bed instantly, pulling on jeans and a sweater. "Call ahead to Lenox Hill. Tell them we're coming."
Ten minutes later, I'm carrying a whimpering Lily to the car while Vivienne holds doors and grabs necessary items. Her efficiency is remarkable—she's thought of Lily's health insurance card, her favorite stuffed unicorn, a change of clothes.
The drive to the hospital is tense, Lily curled in my lap in the back seat, Vivienne holding a small basin in case she's sick again. When we arrive at the emergency entrance, there's already a nurse waiting, thanks to Vivienne's call ahead.
What I don't expect is the small cluster of paparazzi lurking near the entrance.
"Shit," I mutter as camera flashes explode the moment we exit the car. "How did they know?"
"Someone at the hospital must have tipped them off," Vivienne says grimly. "Focus on Lily. I'll run interference."
Before I can protest, she's positioning herself between the photographers and us, her expression fierce. "Have some decency," she snaps at them. "A child is ill. Put your cameras down."
"Is the custody battle affecting Lily's health?" one shouts.
"Did your engagement announcement cause stress for the child?" calls another.
I clutch Lily closer, feeling her tremble against me, overwhelmed by the noise and lights. "Cover your eyes, sweetheart," I murmur. "We're almost inside."
But the paparazzi press closer, blocking our path to the entrance. Fury rises in me, hot and dangerous.
"Move," I growl, but they ignore me, cameras still flashing.
Then Vivienne is there, physically inserting herself between us and the photographers.
"That's enough!" she shouts, her voice ringing with authority.
"This child needs medical attention. If you don't back off right now, I will personally ensure every one of you is blacklisted from every event in this city. "
Something in her tone—the cold, aristocratic command—makes them hesitate. In that moment of uncertainty, the hospital security team finally notices the commotion and rushes to assist us, creating a corridor through the photographers.
Once inside, things move quickly. The nurse who was waiting leads us to a pediatric treatment room, where a doctor soon joins us.
After examining Lily, she confirms it's a severe case of gastroenteritis—the stomach flu—complicated by dehydration.
They start an IV to rehydrate her and administer anti-nausea medication.
Throughout it all, Vivienne never leaves our sides. She holds Lily's hand during the IV insertion, distracting her with stories about unicorn adventures. She answers the doctor's questions when I'm too worried to think clearly. She brings me coffee when the adrenaline crash hits around 3 AM.
By sunrise, Lily's fever has broken, and she's sleeping peacefully. The doctor says we can take her home later in the morning once the IV fluids are complete.
I find Vivienne standing by the window of Lily's hospital room, watching the early morning light spread across the city. She looks exhausted, still in her pajamas with a hospital blanket wrapped around her shoulders, hair piled messily on top of her head. She's never looked more beautiful to me.
"You were amazing tonight," I say quietly, moving to stand beside her. "With Lily. With those vultures outside. All of it."
She offers a tired smile. "Anyone would have done the same."
"No," I shake my head. "Most people would have stayed home, let me handle it alone. Called it 'not their problem.'"
"She's not a problem, Jaxon. She's a child who needed help." She glances over at Lily's sleeping form. "Besides, I care about her. That's not fake."
The simplicity of her statement hits me with unexpected force. In the midst of our elaborate charade, this is real—Vivienne's genuine affection for Lily, her willingness to stand with us in crisis, her fierce protection of our small, unconventional family unit.
"What happened earlier," I begin, uncertain how to address the kiss we shared, the passion that nearly consumed us before Lily interrupted. "I didn't plan that."
"I know." She meets my eyes, her gaze steady despite her exhaustion. "Neither did I."
"We should probably talk about it. Set some boundaries."
"Probably," she agrees. But neither of us makes any move to define those boundaries, to reestablish the professional nature of our arrangement.
Instead, she steps closer, leaning her head against my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her, and we stand in comfortable silence, watching the city wake up as Lily sleeps behind us.
In this quiet moment, with Vivienne tucked against my side and Lily safely recovering, I'm hit with a realization that shakes me to my core: this feels right. Not like a performance or a strategic alliance, but like a family. Like belonging.
And that's when I know I'm in trouble. Because six months from now, when our arrangement ends, I won't just be losing a fake fiancée. I'll be losing something that's feeling dangerously like home.
The thought makes my arm tighten around Vivienne, as if I could physically prevent the inevitable separation. She looks up, questioning.
"Everything okay?" she asks.
I nod, unable to voice the truth: that nothing about this is okay. That I'm falling for her despite all my careful plans. That what started as strategy has become something real and precious and terrifying.
"Just tired," I lie. "And grateful you're here."
She smiles, soft and genuine, and returns her head to my shoulder. "Me too."
As the sun breaks fully over the Manhattan skyline, illuminating Lily's hospital room in golden light, I face the uncomfortable truth I've been avoiding: our fake engagement might be an arrangement with an expiration date, but my feelings for Vivienne Clarke are becoming all too real.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do about that.