Chapter 48

AMARA’S POV

Dorian lived exactly how I expected him to.

A penthouse. Of course. The kind of building where the lobby smelled like expensive perfume and the elevator didn’t make noise when it moved. The kind of place where even the walls looked like they had money.

The secretary had texted me the address and apartment number earlier. No security drama, no long explanation. 

I found the apartment door easily. The numbers were clean and polished. Everything here looked untouched, like nobody ever made mistakes inside this building.

I hesitated before pressing the doorbell.Just one second. Then I pressed it. I expected a housekeeper. Maybe a staff member. Someone.

But after a few moments, the door opened, and Dorian stood there. My heart skipped a beat.

He looked… terrible. Not dramatic terrible. Not movie-sick terrible. Just real.

His shirt was wrinkled like he’d slept in it. His hair was messy, like he’d run his hand through it too many times. His eyes looked tired and slightly sunken, and there was this faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked like he’d been losing a fight all day.

His eyes landed on me and stayed there. For a second, he looked surprised.

“Hello, sir.” I lifted the brown envelope slightly. “I brought the documents.”

He stared at the file like he was trying to remember why he needed it. Then he stepped back, opening the door wider.

“Come in,” he said.

I walked inside.

The place was huge, quiet, and too neat. It didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a showroom. Like somewhere you stayed when you didn’t want to be bothered by the world.

Dorian walked ahead of me slowly, like every step took effort.

“Put it on the table,” he said.

I placed the envelope on the glass table in the living room. I turned back to him. He was standing near the kitchen counter, leaning slightly, like he didn’t trust his legs.

That was when I noticed the medicine. A bottle on the counter. A strip of pills. And a glass of water beside it… untouched.

Something about that annoyed me and worried me. Because he was clearly sick and still acting like he was invincible.

“You haven’t taken your medicine,” I said before I could stop myself. He glanced at the counter, then looked away like it didn’t matter.

“I’m fine.”

I blinked slowly. Fine?

He looked like he’d been dragged out of a car wreck.

“You look like hell,” I said, and this time I didn’t bother hiding it.

His eyes shifted to me again, sharper now despite his condition. He stared at me for a moment, then walked away from the kitchen like he was done with the conversation.

I thought he was going back to his room. But halfway, his steps slowed. His shoulders tensed. And then he swayed.

My heart jumped.

“Dorian—”

He stumbled slightly, one hand reaching out to the wall. I moved fast without thinking, catching him by the arm.

His skin was hot. Too hot. He looked down at my hand on him like he wanted to say something, but his eyes were unfocused for a second.

“I’m okay,” he muttered.

“No, you’re not,” I said, pulling him toward the couch.

He resisted at first, stubborn as usual, but he didn’t have strength on his side. I forced him down. He sat, leaning back, breathing slowly like he was trying not to show weakness.

I stood there for a second, staring at him.

“You live alone?” I asked.

He looked up at me, expression unreadable.

“Yes.”

That answer didn’t surprise me.

Everything about this place screamed loneliness. Not the sad kind. The chosen kind. The kind of loneliness men like Dorian wore like armor.

I walked to the kitchen counter, picked up the glass of water, and brought it to him.

“Drink.”

He looked at it like I’d handed him poison.

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Drink,” I repeated, sharper.

His eyes narrowed.

Then he took the glass and drank, not because he wanted to, but because I wouldn’t move until he did.

When he was done, I reached for the medicine. He watched me.

“You’re bossy,” he muttered.

I held the pills out. “Someone has to be, since you’re acting like a child.”

That earned me the faintest reaction—his lips twitched, almost like he was amused, but it didn’t last.

He took the pills from my palm and swallowed them. Then he leaned his head back against the couch like it drained him.

I stared at him for a few seconds, then reached out and placed the back of my hand against his forehead.

His temperature shocked me.

“Jesus,” I whispered.

His eyes opened slightly.

“What?”

“You’re burning up.”

He sighed like he was tired of hearing it. “I’ll be fine.”

I pulled my hand away. “This isn’t fine.”

His gaze followed me. For a second, he looked almost… irritated. Not at me. At the fact that I was seeing him like this.

“You can go now,” he said.

I didn’t move. I didn’t even answer. Because if I left, I knew he would just sit here and pretend he wasn’t sick until he collapsed again.

And the worst part was… he would rather collapse than admit he needed help.

I checked my phone. It was late. I should be heading home. I shouldn’t even be here in the first place.

But I looked at him again. His eyes were half closed now. His breathing was heavy. His face looked pale in the soft apartment lighting.

He looked strong even when he was weak. I hated that my heart was reacting like this mattered.

I walked back to the kitchen and looked around. There was no sign of food. No plate in the sink. Nothing. Just clean counters and a sick man trying to act like he was fine.

I turned back to him.

“Where’s your bathroom?” I asked.

He opened his eyes again, annoyed. “Why?”

“I’m getting a towel.”

“I don’t need a towel.”

“Yes, you do.”

He stared at me.

“Amara, go home.”

I ignored him. “Where is it?”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but the energy wasn’t there. His eyes drifted away for a second, then he pointed vaguely down the hallway.

“Second door on the left. There’s a cabinet under the sink.”

I nodded and walked away.

I found the bathroom easily. It was spotless, like nobody used it. I opened the cabinet and grabbed a clean towel, then filled a bowl with warm water.

When I returned to the living room, Dorian hadn’t moved. His eyes were closed now. He looked like he was asleep, but the tightness in his face told me he wasn’t resting properly.

I placed the bowl on the coffee table, dipped the towel in the water, and wrung it out. Then I gently pressed it against his forehead.

His eyes opened slowly. He didn’t speak. He just stared at me.

Not in his usual cold way. Not in his boss way. Just… quietly.

Like he didn’t know what to do with this moment.

I adjusted the towel and wiped the sweat along his temple. His jaw tightened slightly, like he was uncomfortable with being taken care of.

“You’re stubborn,” I muttered.

He gave a tired exhale. “So are you.”

That made me pause. Because he was right.

I kept wiping his face, careful, slow. After a while, I checked my phone again.

Even later.

I should leave. I should stand up, tell him goodnight, and walk out like this was just another errand. Dorian shifted slightly and spoke again, voice low.

“Go home, Amara.”

I looked at him. Because he said it like he meant it. Like he didn’t want me here. Or maybe… like he did, and that was exactly why he wanted me gone.

I sat there with the towel in my hand, staring at him, my heart tight and confused. I didn’t know what scared me more… leaving him or staying.