Chapter 528

Chapter 528:

Isolde looked up. Their faces were inches apart. She could see the flecks of gold in his grey eyes. She could see the pulse jumping in his jaw.

“I hate you,” she said. She meant it. She wanted to mean it completely. “I hate you, Grayson p>

His arm tightened around her waist. His fingers pressed into her hip, almost painfully.

“Good,” he said. “Hate me. Hate me as much as you want. But you are doing it from that bed p>

He didn’t give her a chance to argue. He swept her up and carried her back to the mattress as though she weighed nothing, laid her against the silk sheets, and pulled the duvet up to her chin. He pressed a button on the bedside console.

“Nurse,” he said into the intercom. “She pulled the line. Come back in p>

A small, frightened sound cut through the tension.

“Mommy p>

Isolde turned her head. Effie was sitting upright in the armchair, rubbing her eyes with her fists. She looked very small and very frightened in the large, shadowed room.

“Mommy, don’t go,” Effie whispered. “The bad witch is still outside. The one who broke the vase p>

The fight left Isolde entirely, draining away and leaving only a hollow ache in its place. She looked at her daughter’s face.

𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗼𝗻

“I’m here, baby,” she said, her voice breaking on the words. “I’m not going anywhere p>

She sank back into the pillows, turning away from Grayson, drawing her knees to her chest.

“Once the fever breaks,” she whispered to the wall, “I am gone p>

Grayson did not answer.

He crossed to the velvet chaise lounge in the corner, sat down, and opened his laptop. The blue light of the screen illuminated the hard lines of his face.

“Sleep,” he said.

He didn’t leave.

The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic drip of the new IV bag.

The private doctor — a man who knew better than to ask questions — had reinserted the needle with efficient, practiced calm. He had added a sedative to the saline.

“To help her rest,” he had told Grayson.

Isolde felt it working. Her limbs grew heavy, detached, her thoughts moving through something thick and slow. She fought it. She forced her eyes to stay open, fixing her gaze on the man sitting across the room.

Grayson was working. Or pretending to.

He had a headset on, the microphone positioned near his mouth, speaking in rapid, fluid German — a merger negotiation, most likely, or a hostile takeover. His voice was calm, ruthless, completely in control.

It was a performance. Isolde could see his other hand — the one not moving across the keyboard. It was gripping the armrest of the chaise so hard the leather was creaking.

Dr. Sterling completed his final checkup, gave quiet instructions for strict rest, and slipped out. Grayson leaned over and tucked the blanket securely around Isolde, his jaw tightening at the sight of her pale, unconscious face. He straightened slowly, smoothed his rumpled shirt cuffs, and let all traces of softness drain from his expression before turning and descending the staircase.