Chapter 563
Chapter 562:
Her eyes snapped open. A thick, hot wave of nausea clawed its way up her throat. She didn’t have time to speak. She slapped a hand over her mouth, kicked the heavy velvet duvet aside, and sprinted for the master bathroom.
Gaston was awake a fraction of a second later.
He didn’t bother with slippers. His bare feet hit the hardwood floor with heavy, urgent thuds. He reached the bathroom just as Jocelyn dropped to her knees in front of the cold marble toilet.
Her stomach contracted brutally. She gagged, her fingers gripping the porcelain so hard her knuckles turned stark white. There was nothing left in her stomach. The dry heaving sent sharp spikes of pain through her ribs, and physiological tears pricked the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision.
Gaston dropped to his knees behind her. His large, warm hands found her trembling shoulders immediately. He held her steady, his thumbs working soothing, firm circles into her tense muscles.
“Breathe, Jo,” he murmured. His voice was a low, steady rumble, though beneath that calm surface, a rare and frantic helplessness vibrated in his chest. “I have you p>
𝖳𝘩е 𝘮os𝘵 р𝗈p𝘂𝗹а𝗿 n𝗼𝘃е𝗅𝘴 oո
Jocelyn spat into the bowl, her chest heaving as she fought for air, then leaned back against Gaston’s solid chest, completely spent.
He reached up and took a warm, damp washcloth from the heated towel rack, gently wiping the cold sweat from her forehead and the corners of her mouth. His dark eyes scanned her pale face, his jaw ticking with barely contained frustration. He hated seeing her in pain. He hated that his billions of dollars could not instantly fix this.
He scooped her up effortlessly and carried her back to the bed, laying her down against the pillows and pulling the velvet duvet up to her chin.
Then he picked up his encrypted phone from the nightstand and hit a speed-dial number.
“I want every Michelin-starred private chef in New York who specializes in prenatal nutrition in my kitchen,” Gaston said into the phone, his voice absolute ice. “You have exactly two hours. If they are busy, buy their restaurants and fire everyone else p>
Jocelyn’s cold fingers emerged weakly from beneath the covers and wrapped around his thick wrist.
“Gaston, stop,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “It is just normal morning sickness. You do not need to terrorize Wall Street over a stomach ache p>
He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the mattress. Then he turned his hand over, lacing his long fingers through hers, and brought her hand to his mouth, pressing a fierce, lingering kiss to her knuckles.
“I will not allow you to suffer,” he said. His tone carried the quiet intensity of a vow. “Not even for a second p>
An hour later, the air in the penthouse’s open-concept kitchen was thick with the fragrance of expensive ingredients. Three world-class chefs stood in crisp white uniforms, carefully plating small, nutrient-dense portions.
Mrs. Higgins, the head housekeeper, walked into the bedroom carrying a silver tray. On it sat a small porcelain bowl of clear French consommé.
“Try this, Mrs. Collins,” she said gently.
Jocelyn pushed herself up against the headboard and leaned forward. The faint, earthy scent of black truffle reached her instantly.