There was something particularly cruel about hope, how it could coil itself around a suspicion, dress itself up as possibility, and still taste like betrayal.
Althea hadn't slept.
Not because she wasn't tired. God knew she was, down to the marrow, but because every time she closed her eyes, she saw the moment again. She had only glimpsed it. A few bullet points. A phrase like psychological profiling. Something about performance under stress. The word assimilation. She hadn't dared to read further.
It wasn't just that the Velascos were absorbing the Serrano family's business. It was that they were keeping tabs on her. Monitoring. Measuring. Weighing her every move.
Max had known. He had known and said nothing. Just like her father. Just like everyone else. What had she been to him this entire time? A test subject? A human report?
Was this whole marriage just a placement strategy?
Her hand clenched by her side.
Of course he was with the Velascos. That was his blood.
The betrayal stung more than it should have. More than it would have if this had been a clean, emotionless contract. But Max wasn't a man you could neatly fold into categories. Velasco Corp's acquisition of Serrano Entertainment was one thing; a chessboard move she could at least wrap her head around. But this? This felt personal.
And yet, in the hollow just beneath her ribs, something still whispered:
Maybe you misunderstood. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe it was old. Maybe this was bigger than him. She hated that voice. The one that always tried to justify other people's harm because she couldn't stand the idea that someone might hurt her on purpose. Not again.
Max wasn't just being kind. He was studying her. A Velasco through and through.
"I should've known," she muttered, pacing the living room like a particularly dramatic pigeon. "No one offers you strawberries for no reason. That's how it starts. First it's fruit. Then it's surveillance. Then it's emotional hostage-taking in a penthouse."
She stopped. Rewound the sentence in her head.
"…I think I'm losing it." But the damage was done. Her thoughts were sprinting.
Althea stood outside his bedroom, unsure of what she expected to find. A flash drive? A printed version of the file? A Velasco-emblazoned briefcase with evil plans like in the movies?
Ridiculous. But she opened the door anyway. The room smelled like him, linen and faint traces of coffee. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a slice of watery moonlight that stretched across the bed.
Max was asleep. He lay on his side, shirt slightly rumpled, hair a chaotic mess across the pillow. One leg was dangling off the bed, and the blanket was twisted around him like he'd wrestled it and lost.
He looked… Soft. Completely defenseless. It disarmed her, this rare view of him. This wasn't the charming Max who poked fun at corporate boardrooms and offered strawberry farms like apologies. This was just a tired boy who didn't know how to take care of himself.
A few strands of hair clung to his forehead, damp. His lips parted softly as he breathed through his mouth, and—
Snore. A small one. Baby-level. But enough to ruin the entire spy-on-him aesthetic.
Althea narrowed her eyes. She stepped closer, quietly, like the floorboards might protest her doubt. Her hand hovered above his forehead. A strand of his silky soft hair had fallen onto it. Without thinking, she brushed it back.
His brow twitched. He shifted in his sleep, bringing one hand up beneath his face protectively, like a child seeking warmth. A small frown settled over his lips as though he'd heard something that didn't sit right, but he didn't wake.
She should have left. She should have walked out with whatever shred of self-preservation she had left. But something wasn't right.
She leaned in. He was warm. Too warm.
Not just "been under a blanket" warm. But fever warm. His skin had that flushed heat to it, and his breathing was slower than usual, deep but a little uneven, like his body was working harder than it should.
Althea's stomach twisted. "...what the hell," she whispered.
Her first instinct was to deny it. Fever? Now? After that whole mess with his car, in the rain? Of course.
God, he really was the kind of man who wouldn't say a word even if he was burning up.
She sighed and knelt down beside the bed, careful not to startle him. Her fingers grazed his wrist. Still warm. Still too warm.
"You idiot," she whispered, almost fondly, but there was a lump forming in her throat.
He'd come home soaked. He hadn't even dried his hair properly before collapsing here. And she'd been so caught up in her own spiral that she hadn't noticed he looked pale. That he barely spoke.
She should leave. He was asleep. He'd survive.
But also, what if he didn't? What if he woke up delirious and drank bleach thinking it was water? What if he started hallucinating and tried to fight the mirror? She had to do something.
Cue panic."No, no, no. You do not get to be a corporate spy and a fever patient. That's illegal. Pick a struggle."
She bolted upright, then immediately tripped on his blazer that had been carelessly thrown on the carpet. Her face hit the bed frame with the elegance of a collapsing deck chair.
"Awesome," she muttered, clutching her nose. "I'm fighting sinus damage."
Max didn't stir. He mumbled something incoherent into the pillow.
Althea, rubbing her forehead, leaned in.
"…Mango…"
What?
"…not your mango…"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"…thief…"
And then silence. She stared at him.
"Oh my God. You're hallucinating about fruit theft."
He groaned quietly, rolling onto his back now, blanket slipping lower. His entire face was flushed, skin clammy. Even in his sleep, his brows were drawn together like he was in pain. The betrayal thing paused in her chest. Just for a second. Althea sighed. "I hate you."
She disappeared into the kitchen, rummaging like a raccoon with a nursing degree. She returned with wet cloths, a thermometer, and a grudge.
Max didn't wake up even when she pressed the thermometer between his lips. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited, watching the little numbers rise.
"Velasco genetics and a viral fever," she said aloud. "That's two red flags and a court order waiting to happen."
The thermometer beeped.
104°F. Great. He was cooking.
"Of course you're sick," she muttered, standing up. "You've been walking around like the world owes you a tragedy."
She fetched medicine. Water. A small towel. When she returned, Max had kicked off the blanket entirely and was sleeping like a Victorian child on deathbed.
She hesitated. Then threw the towel at him like a slapstick film. It landed squarely on his face. Still, he didn't move.
Althea rubbed at her temple, torn between amusement and reluctant concern. This man was ridiculous. But he was also shivering.
By the time she'd managed to get a dose of paracetamol down his half-conscious throat, complete with him sleep-complaining about "poisoned mangoes" and "legal revenge"; her anger had ebbed into something duller. Something tired.
She looked at him, sprawled out with a cold compress sliding off his forehead and his tie somehow now tangled around his ankle.
And maybe… maybe he wasn't the villain she'd imagined. Maybe he was just Max. Still a Velasco. Still dangerous. But also… human.
"I thought you were betraying me," she whispered, unsure why she said it aloud. "I saw the files. On your laptop. They had my name. It looked like surveillance."
His eyes didn't open, but his brow furrowed faintly.
"I thought you were… like them," she added, quieter. "That you were just waiting for the right moment to push me off the edge."
He didn't speak. Maybe he couldn't. But she felt her own chest deflate with the admission.
"I wanted to hate you," she murmured. "I still might, if it turns out I was right."
A silence fell between them. Only the sound of his shallow breaths and the rain still falling somewhere outside.
"But for now," she added, softer, "you're just a dumbass with a fever."
Maybe he heard her. Maybe not. She sat with him like that for a while, towel occasionally refreshed, her hand resting lightly near his shoulder in case he needed something.
She sat in the half-dark of his room, moonlight and fever dreams wrapped around them both, her thoughts spiraling somewhere between betrayal and something softer, something like grief. She didn't know what to believe. But tonight, just for now, she'd stay.
End of Chapter 34.