Chapter 54
Cornelia
“What are you doing here?” I ask Benedict Glounger from my bed as he enters my bedroom.
He had knocked before entering, and I had told him to come in, assuming it was a maid bringing me tea or medicine.
“Receiving this warm welcome,” he says sarcastically, stepping further into the room.
I bite my lower lip, containing a laugh, and shoot him a look, silently telling him to be more serious.
“I wanted to see you. Also I brought my famous chicken soup—it’s being heated as we speak.”
I grab a pillow—one that will definitely be washed before making its way back to my bed—and hurl it at him.
He dodges it with ease.
“You nitwit!” I scold him. “You’re going to get sick, and you have an important audition tomorrow!”
I told him not to come, even though he insisted, because he has a very important audition tomorrow for a film his agent claims is Oscar-worthy.
After returning from Monaco, I got sick. Anthony called our family doctor, who checked on me. It turned out to be nothing more than a common cold. The doctor suggested giving me an injection, assuring me it would make me feel fine within a few hours, a day at most, but I declined.
For someone whose family not only manufactures the medicine but also the needles and syringes, I’m deeply afraid of them. I much prefer to recover with plain old pills, even if it takes longer.
He reaches the bed, towering over me. “If I get sick, it’s worth it,” he says before leaning in to kiss me. I know I shouldn’t let him—sharing a kiss will only increase the chances of him getting sick—but I can’t bring myself to turn away.
“Fine, but if you get sick, it’s entirely your fault,” I state as he pulls away.
“I will take full responsibility,” he says with a smile. His eyes drift around my room, and land on the bouquet of white peonies, with a single white rose in the centre, sitting in a silver vase on my bedside table. “Who are those from?” He points at them.
He’s picked up on the fact I don’t tend to keep flowers in my bedroom. Whenever he, or anyone else, brings me flowers, I always place them in the living room or in another part of the house—never in my room.
It’s nothing personal; I love flowers. It’s just that flowers can’t really be disinfected or cleaned without wilting, and they grow from the ground, so they’re definitely not clean. I make very few exceptions for things that enter my bedroom without being previously cleaned.
But these flowers? I felt like I had to make an exception for them.
“Anthony,” I lie. “He thought they would make me feel better.”
If he notices, he doesn’t let on. “Are they?”
“For that to happen, they’d have to be magical flowers.”
He chuckles softly. “Let me get changed so I can join you in bed,” Benedict says, heading towards my walk-in closet. He keeps a few of his things there.
As he disappears into the closet, a wave of guilt crashes over me—a familiar one I’ve been carrying since Monaco. I hate lying. I hate lying to him. Benedict is so wonderful, so kind, and yet I haven’t told him about what happened between TJ and me.
I was even happy I got sick so I could avoid seeing him and feeling guilty. How awful of a person does that make me? He came to see me regardless of whether it could affect a big career break for him.
I should tell him. It feels wrong not to, but I don’t even know how to bring it up or what to say. I wish I’d been drunk so I could blame the alcohol, but I barely drank, and seeing TJ high sobered me up almost immediately.
Ever since I got back, I’ve been trying to convince myself that it was just a goodbye kiss, nothing more.
Not trying, because it wasn’t anything other than a goodbye kiss.
But I don’t know. The kiss felt different from what you’d expect of a goodbye kiss.
It stirred up emotions I’d have liked to be over by now.
Yet I feel something for Benedict. I don’t know.
I’m confused, overwhelmed, and my mind is a mess.
The only thing I know for sure is that I feel horrible about it all.
I think I got physically ill because of it.
Benedict emerges dressed in black joggers and nothing more, then bounds onto the bed with a cheeky grin. I chuckle. He leans in and kisses me again, persistent and teasing, until I’m interrupted by a coughing fit.
I quickly turn away, covering my mouth with my arm.
“I think kissing should be crossed off the list of today’s activities,” I tell him as my coughing finally subsides.
He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine,” he says, before switching to a more playful tone. “So, what were you doing before I got here?”
“Coughing a lung out and…” I reluctantly point to my laptop sitting in the corner of my bed—the same laptop I hastily shut the moment I saw him.
He picks it up, looking intrigued. He places the laptop on his lap, types in my password—Cornelia1—and unlocks it.
Everyone who knows me knows I’m terrible at creating passwords.
I used to try harder, but I always forgot them, so I resigned myself that my passwords are rubbish and practically public knowledge.
Benedict bursts out laughing when he sees I was watching his show on Netflix. He probably thought it was something more interesting or scandalous, like porn or something.
“We should watch it together,” I say cheerily.
I’ve been watching it so much lately that if Netflix did a year-end wrap like Spotify, I have no doubt it’d be my most-watched series.
I loved it even before I knew him. But these past few days, I’ve had it on an endless loop.
Every time I think about TJ—which happens more than a normal person should think about their ex—I turn it on and remind myself of the amazing, gorgeous boyfriend I have.
The one who didn’t cheat on me with my mother.
He makes a distracted face at my request.
I’ve learned he doesn’t enjoy watching himself act as much as I do. He gets self-conscious about it, which I find ridiculously cute.
I pout. “Enable me, please. I’m sick.”
He sighs, shaking his head, but presses the play button. I smile and shuffle closer to him as he places the laptop between us.
A big cough fit wakes me up. I turn around, grab the glass of water on my bedside table, and drink it down to soothe the cough. Then I reach for the tissue box, take a few, and blow my nose.
Ugh, I hate being sick. It is so disgusting.
“Are you alright?” Benedict asks, sounding concerned, probably woken up by all the noise I made.
“Yes,” I answer, searching for my phone in the bed.
Before you say anything about phones having germs, I know. I disinfected mine before putting it on my bed. And at this point, I’m more tolerant of germs because I’m probably surrounded by them. But that will change once I’m no longer sick.
I find my phone and check the time—it’s 6:12 a.m. We must’ve fallen asleep at some point.
We’d been watching the show for a while before one of the maids brought up the chicken soup Benedict had brought.
We took a break to eat, then went right back to watching.
It was fun—well, except when the steamy scene came on, and Benedict started sliding his hand up my thigh.
I smacked it away every time. I knew what he was after, and normally, I’d have been all for it.
We’d had sex previously while watching his show.
It was one of my fantasies. But between not wanting to get him sick and not exactly being keen on doing that while ill, it was a no-go.
I suppose at some point we must’ve drifted off.
“Are you sure? I can bring you something else if you want,” he offers.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Benedict makes a weird face for a few seconds before bursting into a coughing fit. I take a moment to realise he was trying to hold it in.
I turn to face him, sitting cross-legged with my back to the side of the bed where the headboard isn’t. “Nooo, I told you this would happen—you came, and now you’re sick.”
He points at himself. “This?” He shakes his head. “No, I just choked on my own spit,” he brushes it off. But then he bursts into another coughing fit.
I raise my eyebrows. “You were saying?”
“I may have gotten a little sick,” he admits, pinching his fingers close to show how little.
I frown, not finding this nearly as amusing as he does.
“It’s fine, I’m barely sick. It won’t cause any problems with the audition,” he says, opening one arm, inviting me to curl into his side. “And now we can be sick together.”
I didn’t get so sick until the second day, so maybe he’ll get through the audition fine.
I roll my eyes as I lie at his side, my head resting on him, and he wraps an arm around me. “How romantic,” I mutter.
He laughs, then kisses the top of my head. “I love you.” He says it often, with such ease, but I’ve never felt any pressure to say it back. It’s like he says it simply because he means it, expecting nothing in return.
That’s how most things with him are—effortless, natural, and drama-free.
Even his father—and his mother, who’s also his agent—loves me. Part of it is because the press loves us together, but I’d take it all the same. That might change if he fluffs his audition because of being ill, though. I hope that doesn’t happen.
Being with him brings me so much peace.
“I love you too,” I say to him softly for the first time.
I do love him. Saying I don’t would be a lie now.
I’ve only experienced one romantic type of love before—the one I had with TJ.
It was complicated, all-consuming, intense, and, at times, maddening—and probably a little unhealthy.
It just appeared one day and never went away.
With Benedict, it’s different. It grew over time, little by little, until I could no longer pretend it wasn’t there anymore.
His eyes light up—he clearly wasn’t expecting me to say it.
“Can you say it again?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face.
“I love you,” I repeat.
He leans in and kisses me gently. “One more time,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I love you.”
He kisses me again, this time with more urgency, and he doesn’t stop. I try to let myself drown in the moment, to lose myself in him, but I can’t shake the thought of the kiss with TJ—or the voice in the back of my head that says, You love him, but not like you love TJ.