Chapter 49

AMARA’S POV****

“Go home, Amara,” he said again, his voice rough.

I stared at him for a long second before I answered.

“No.”

His eyes opened fully this time. “No?”

“I’m staying the night,” I said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

His brows pulled together. “Absolutely not.”

I almost laughed. Even sick, he still had that tone. Like he could order the world around.

“You can’t stop me,” I replied.

His jaw clenched. “Amara, I’m fine. You can't sleep in a man's house.”

I looked at him. “You're not any man, besides you’re burning up, I can't just leave you here alone.”

He stared at me like he wanted to argue until I backed down. But I didn’t.

For once, I didn’t feel intimidated by him. If anything, he looked too tired to scare anyone.

He sighed, long and annoyed. “This is ridiculous.”

“Good,” I said. “Then let it be ridiculous.”

He held my gaze for a moment, then his shoulders dropped slightly, like he was giving up.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Do what you want.”

I nodded once. “Good choice.”

I moved closer. “Now get up.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re going to your bed.”

“I can sleep here.”

“No.”

He exhaled sharply. “Amara—”

“Get up,” I repeated, firmer.

He stared at me like he couldn’t believe I was talking to him this way, but eventually he pushed himself up slowly.

He swayed.

Immediately, I grabbed his arm.

He tensed. “I can walk.”

“You can barely stand,” I replied.

“I’m not helpless.”

I shot him a look. “You’re sick. That’s different.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either. I helped him down the hallway, guiding him into his bedroom. The room was dark and quiet, the sheets neatly arranged like nobody ever really lived there.

He sat on the edge of the bed with a tired grunt. I pulled his shoes off without asking.

He looked down at me. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

I glanced up. “Be grateful I’m not taking pictures.”

That earned me a small huff from him, almost like a laugh, but he swallowed it quickly.

I stood up and pulled the blanket over him.

“Rest,” I said.

His eyes followed me. “Where are you going?”

I hesitated, then answered honestly.

“To the grocery store. Your kitchen is empty.”

“You don’t need—”

“Yes, I do.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t.

Instead, he muttered, “The door has a pin”

I paused. “A pin?”

He nodded once, eyes closing again. “Nine-four-two-one.”

I stared at him. He just gave me the pin to his penthouse like it was nothing. Like I was… trusted.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

I left the room before my thoughts could get stupid.

---

By the time I returned, it had been about an hour. 

I walked in quietly, dropped the grocery bags on the counter, and went straight to check on him. He was asleep.

His face looked calmer now, but he was still sweating slightly. I stood there for a moment, staring at him.

I left the room and went back to the kitchen.

I didn’t know what rich men ate when they were sick. Probably nothing. Probably just suffered in silence and called it strength.

I found a pot and decided to make something simple—light soup, something warm and easy on the stomach. Something my mother used to make when I was younger.

When it was ready, I poured it into a bowl, grabbed a spoon, and went back to the bedroom.

I sat on the edge of the bed and gently touched his shoulder.

“Dorian.”

No response.

I tried again, whispering. “Dorian. Wake up.”

His brows pulled together. He shifted, then slowly opened his eyes. He looked at me like he wasn’t sure if I was real.

“You’re back,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Sit up.”

He pushed himself up slightly. I reached out to support him, but he waved me off.

He frowned. “I’m not that sick”

“Sure,” I said dryly. “And I’m Beyoncé.”

“I can sit up myself.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just accept help, Iron Man.”

His lips twitched. Then he let out a quiet laugh. I smiled despite myself and handed him the bowl.

“Eat.”

He started eating slowly. I watched him for a minute.

He barely made progress.

After a while, I stood up. “I’ll clean the kitchen.”

When I came back, he hadn’t even gone halfway. I stared at him like I was tired of his nonsense.

He looked up. “What?”

“You’re not eating.”

“I am eating.”

I took the bowl from his hands. “I’ll feed you.”

His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

I lifted a spoon. “Try me.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue. Then he stopped. Like his body reminded him he didn’t have the strength for pride tonight.

He leaned back against the pillows and opened his mouth. I fed him quietly.

He didn’t say a word, just swallowed, his eyes fixed on me the entire time.

It made my stomach feel warm and uncomfortable.

When he finished, I stood up and carried the bowl away.

“Good boy,” I muttered under my breath.

“I heard that,” he said.

I paused at the door. “Good.”

After washing the dishes, I returned to his room. He was lying down again, watching me with tired eyes. I turned off the room light. Leaving the lamp on.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I said. “If you need anything, call me.”

He frowned. “No.”

He started to sit up, already trying to move.

I blinked. “No?”

“You’ll take the bed,” he said, voice firm even though it was weak. “I’ll take the couch.”

I stared at him. That… actually surprised me. Immediately, I rushed to his side. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not letting you sleep on a couch.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m still a man.”

“And you’re still sick,” I replied.

He tried to push himself up again. I placed my hand on his chest, stopping him.

“Dorian,” I said quietly, “don’t make me fight you.”

His eyes met mine.

For a second, the room felt too quiet. Too close.

Then he sighed, defeated.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

I smiled faintly. “Good.”

I tucked him in properly, adjusting the blanket over his shoulders. He watched me do it without speaking.

When I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.

“Amara.”

I looked back. “Yes?”

He hesitated, like the words didn’t come easily.

Then he said, softer, “Thank you.”

My chest tightened.

I nodded. “Go to sleep.”

I walked out of the room and headed to the living room.