The Sick Night

The Maybach ride back from the Metropolitan Museum passed in a gray blur.

Evelyn sat huddled against the leather door, her chin resting heavy against her chest. The ten-million-dollar yellow diamond necklace felt like a fifty-pound lead weight around her collarbone. Her eyelids were burning, hot and dry, while a dull, rhythmic throb hammered behind her left temple.

When Marcus opened the car door in the penthouse underground garage, Evelyn stood up too fast. The concrete floor tilted violently under her heels, forcing her to grab the edge of the car frame to steady herself.

"Mrs. Vance?" Marcus asked, reaching out a gloved hand. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Evelyn muttered, her throat feeling like sand. "Just tired."

Julian walked ahead, his long strides taking him toward the private elevator without looking back. He was already on his phone, snapping out orders about tomorrow’s six-o'clock European equity call.

By the time Evelyn made it into the guest suite, her knees were trembling so hard she could barely reach behind her back to unhook the gold safety pins holding the altered dress together. Her fingers kept slipping against the cold metal pins, leaving small red scratches along her ribs.

She gave up, kicking off her heels and falling sideways across the unmade bed.

The heavy gold fabric pooled around her hips. Her skin felt scorching hot, yet a deep, uncontrollable chill kept her shoulders shaking under the thin sheet. She closed her eyes, listening to the muffled sound of Julian’s voice echoing down the hallway as he paced back and forth in his study.

Three hours passed in a feverish fog.

Evelyn woke to the sound of her phone buzzing against the nightstand. She reached for it blindly, her hand knocking over an empty water glass that shattered loudly against the hardwood floor.

"Lily..." she whispered into the dark room, her throat raw and dry.

She tried to push herself up onto her elbows, but her arms gave out instantly. Her forehead hit the pillow, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as the room spun in nauseating circles around her.

The door to the guest suite clicked open.

Julian stood in the doorway, framed by the bright light of the corridor. He had pulled off his tie, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hand resting on the brass handle.

"Evelyn?" he called out, his voice sharp with irritation. "What was that noise? I have an Asia-Pacific market briefing in twenty minutes—"

He stopped short.

The shattered glass lay scattered in a sparkling pool across the floor. On the bed, Evelyn lay twisted in the golden dress, her face flushed dark red, her hair damp and plastered against her forehead.

Julian stepped over the broken glass, his leather shoes crunching against a stray shard. He reached down, pressing his uninjured left hand flat against her forehead.

The skin was burning hot.

"Jesus," Julian growled, pulling his hand back as if he'd touched a hot stove. "Mrs. Gable!"

The housekeeper appeared at the door five seconds later, holding a laundry basket. She took one look at Evelyn and set the basket down on the chair.

"She’s burning up, Mr. Vance," Mrs. Gable said, hurrying over to the side of the bed. "She hasn't slept more than two hours a night since she arrived, and she spent seven hours hand-stitching that dress without eating lunch."

"Get Dr. Callahan," Julian ordered, his voice dropping into a harsh, commanding tone. "Tell him to bring an IV drip and a broad-spectrum antibiotic. Now."

"Yes, sir. I'll fetch a bowl of ice water and towels from the linen closet first." Mrs. Gable turned and hurried back down the hall.

Julian stood beside the bed, his dark eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of Evelyn’s chest.

Evelyn opened her eyes slightly, her vision blurry as she looked up at his silhouette. "Julian..." she rasped, her hand reaching out weakly, her fingers clawing at the air. "The contract... I didn't break... section four..."

Julian’s face tightened. He bent down, grabbing her cold, trembling fingers in his grip. "Shut up, Evelyn. You're delirious."

"Lily's portal..." she mumbled, her mind trapped in the panic of three nights ago. "Did the wire clear? The doctor... he said five o'clock..."

"The wire cleared three days ago," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave as he squeezed her hand. "Your sister is in the private wing. She's fine."

Mrs. Gable returned to the room carrying a stainless-steel basin filled with ice water and a stack of small white hand towels.

"I'll wipe her down, Mr. Vance," Mrs. Gable said, reaching for the bowl. "You have that fifty-million-dollar board meeting with the Asian logistics consortium in fifteen minutes. Marcus said the car is already warming up downstairs."

Julian’s phone rang in his pocket—a sharp, demanding ringtone reserved for top-tier corporate emergencies. He pulled it out with his left hand, checking the glowing screen.

CALLING: BOARD CHAIRPERSON - TOKYO CONFERENCING

On the bed, Evelyn let out a small, pained moan, her head rolling to the side as another wave of chills made her teeth chatter violently.

Julian stared at the phone screen for two long seconds. The fifty-million-dollar acquisition deal was six months in the making. If he missed this call, Harrison would step into the vacuum and take control of the voting block before breakfast.

Julian swiped his thumb across the screen.

"Vance," he said into the speaker, his voice flat and cold. "Cancel the Asia-Pacific conference. Reschedule for Thursday."

A frantic voice sputtered over the speaker. "Mr. Vance? The consortium directors are already in the boardroom! Fifty million dollars in shares are riding on this opening statement—"

"I don't care," Julian interrupted ruthlessly. "Tell them something urgent came up. If they don't like it, they can sell their shares to Cross."

He ended the call and tossed the encrypted satellite phone onto the armchair near the door.

Mrs. Gable stood frozen beside the nightstand, holding a wet cloth over the ice basin, her jaw slightly open in disbelief.

Julian stepped past her, taking the damp, ice-cold towel straight out of the housekeeper's hands.

"Leave us," Julian commanded softly, unbuttoning his shirt sleeves and rolling the white fabric up past his elbows. "And bring the doctor up the private elevator the second he arrives."

Mrs. Gable nodded quickly, stepping backward out of the room and closing the heavy door behind her.

Julian sat on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight. He folded the cold, wet towel into a neat square with his uninjured hand, then gently laid it across Evelyn’s burning forehead.

Evelyn gasped at the sudden touch of the cold water, her eyes fluttering open as she looked up into Julian’s dark, unreadable eyes.

Julian didn't look at his watch. He didn't look at his phone. He leaned down, his bandaged right hand resting flat against the mattress beside her head as he smoothed a damp strand of hair away from her face.

"You're not dying in my penthouse, Evelyn," Julian whispered into the quiet room, his thumb brushing lightly over her heated cheekbone. "I haven't gotten my money's worth out of you yet.”