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Chapter 97
Chapter 97:
Next to the note was a glass filled with a sludge-colored liquid that smelled like kale and punishment.
Jocelyn picked up the note and ran her thumb over the ink.
A memory flickered at the back of her mind — a deep voice, rough with exhaustion, whispering in the dark. A crushing kiss, heat and desperation. Falling onto the bed.
She squeezed her eyes shut. It had to be a fever dream. It had to be the delirium of a hundred-and-three-degree temperature mixing with her own pathetic, subconscious desires. Gaston Collins didn’t do confessions. He did contracts. He did public relations strategies. He did not kiss her like he was starving and then sit on the floor of a sickroom and confess undying love to a woman he was paid to be married to.
The door clicked open. Mrs. Higgins bustled in, carrying a tray that smelled of toast and tea.
“You’re awake!” The older woman’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Mr. Gaston will be pleased. He called ten minutes ago to check p>
“He did?” Jocelyn’s voice was a croak. She reached for the water.
а𝗱𝘥𝗂𝗰𝘁iv𝖾 𝘯𝗈𝘷е𝗹𝘴 on ѕ.𝖼оm
“That man,” Mrs. Higgins tsked, setting the tray across Jocelyn’s legs. “He left an hour ago, but I think he checked your temperature three times before he walked out the door. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink. Just sat there in that chair, watching you breathe p>
Jocelyn felt a flush that had nothing to do with the flu creep up her neck. Guilt settled heavy in her chest. He was playing the role too well — even inside the house, with only the staff as an audience, he was the devoted husband. It made her feel like a fraud, like she was taking advantage of his kindness and his commitment to the bit.
“He’s very… thorough,” Jocelyn murmured, picking up a piece of dry toast. It tasted like cardboard, but she forced it down.
“He’s devoted,” Mrs. Higgins corrected gently.
Jocelyn didn’t answer. She couldn’t. If she acknowledged the devotion, she would have to acknowledge the lie behind it. And that hurt too much.
“I need to go out,” Jocelyn announced suddenly, pushing the tray away.
“Oh, my dear, absolutely not,” Mrs. Higgins gasped. “Dr. Evans said bed rest for at least another day p>
“I have no fever,” Jocelyn lied, swinging her legs out of bed. Her knees wobbled, but she locked them. A wave of dizziness washed over her — a potent reminder of the illness she was trying to deny. She gripped the bedpost for a moment, waiting for the black spots in her vision to fade. “And I need fresh air. I need… reality p>
She needed to get away from the scent of sandalwood and expensive cologne that lingered on the pillows. She needed to remember who she was before she became Mrs. Collins.
