The aftermath of the gala left the penthouse feeling like a frozen tundra. Adrian became a ghost, buried in work to outmaneuver Celine's threats. I went back to my wing, the emerald dress tucked away like a costume from a play that had closed early.
Three nights later, the silence was broken by a crash from the kitchen.
I ran out to find Adrian slumped against the marble island, his face ashen and sweat beading on his forehead. He was shivering violently despite the summer heat.
"Adrian?" I rushed to his side, my nursing instincts overriding the "off-limits" rule. I pressed the back of my hand to his forehead. He was burning up.
"I'm... fine," he rasped, trying to push me away, but his legs buckled.
"You're not fine. You have a fever of at least 103°F," I snapped, slipping his arm over my shoulder to steady him. "CEO or not, right now you're just a patient who hasn't slept or eaten in three days."
I spent the next six hours doing what I was trained to do. I bypassed his expensive doctors and handled it myself—cool compresses, hydration, and monitoring his vitals. As the sun began to peek through the floor-to-ceiling windows, his fever finally broke.
He opened his eyes, looking at me with a vulnerability I'd never seen. He wasn't the "Thorne Empire" anymore; he was just Adrian.
"Why are you still here?" he whispered, his voice cracked. "The contract doesn't cover... nursing me back to health."
"The contract doesn't forbid being a human being, Adrian," I replied softly, wringing out a cloth.
He reached out, his hand trembling as he touched my wrist. "Celine was wrong. You don't belong in a clinic. You belong... wherever you want to be. I've spent my whole life making deals, Mia. But this is the first time I'm afraid of losing one."
For the first time, he didn't pull away. He held my hand until he fell into a deep, natural sleep. But as I watched him, I realized the danger had shifted. The contract was safe, but my heart was officially in ruins.