Chapter 111
Lean's POV
"My head hurts," I admitted quietly. "And my stomach feels... wrong. Like I swallowed something toxic."
"Because you did." Her jaw tightened briefly before she smoothed her expression. "But the doctor said your levels are improving. You'll feel better soon."
She adjusted the pillows behind me with practiced efficiency, the movements gentle but purposeful. "I've already called Allure and ordered you a proper lunch. Pierre—the chef—is an old friend. Hospital food is criminally inadequate."
"You didn't have to do that—"
"Nonsense. You're far too thin as it is." Her tone brooked no argument. "Rowan mentioned you've been working yourself to exhaustion with the new firm. Ten-hour days, skipping meals..."
The mention of Rowan's name created a brief, awkward pause.
Isabelle seemed to notice but smoothly redirected. "In any case, proper nutrition is essential for recovery."
A knock at the door interrupted us. A delivery person entered carrying an elegant arrangement—white roses and lavender in a crystal vase.
"Delivery for Ms. Grant," the young woman announced, setting it carefully on the bedside table.
I blinked in surprise. The flowers were beautiful, the kind of arrangement that cost more than it should.
After the delivery person left, Isabelle adjusted the vase slightly, a small smile playing at her lips. "I may have called the florist on my way here. I remembered you mentioning these were your favorites—at that dreadful Hartwell dinner last year, when you were seated next to that insufferable banker who kept talking about his yacht."
My throat tightened. I had mentioned it, completely offhandedly, more to change the subject than anything else. The fact that she'd remembered...
"I can't believe you remembered that," I managed.
Isabelle's expression softened. "Darling, I pay attention. Especially to the people I care about."
Emily, who'd been giving us space by the window, moved closer with a small smile. "Those are gorgeous."
"They are, aren't they?" Isabelle settled back in her chair, looking satisfied.
Emily settled into the other chair, and for the next hour, Isabelle kept up a steady stream of conversation—light topics, carefully avoiding anything too heavy. She told us about the gardens at Reynolds Estate, about a particularly stubborn rosebush that had finally bloomed after three years of careful tending.
"My gardener swore it was dead," she said, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "I told him it just needed patience. And I was right."
She moved on to other stories—a charity gala where someone's prize poodle had eaten the floral centerpieces, a disastrous board meeting where two members had nearly come to blows over seating arrangements.
I found myself actually listening, actually engaged, the tight knot in my chest loosening incrementally.
By the time the food arrived at noon, I'd almost forgotten about the IV in my arm.
The delivery came in insulated carriers, each dish perfectly plated even for hospital consumption. Lobster pasta with fresh herbs. French onion soup with artisan bread. Pan-seared lamb chops with rosemary potatoes. A colorful array of seasonal vegetables.
"Isabelle, this is—" I stared at the spread covering the hospital tray table. "This is too much."
"Nonsense." She was already arranging silverware, her movements economical and graceful. "You need proper nutrition. Hospital food is dismal."
Emily helped transfer some dishes to the small side table, and for a while, we actually ate like normal people having a normal meal. Isabelle kept the conversation light—gossip from the Silverton social circuit, a particularly disastrous fundraiser where someone's prize-winning dog had eaten the centerpieces.
I managed several bites of the pasta, which was exactly as good as I remembered from the one time Rowan had taken me to Allure early in our contract. Before things had gotten so... complicated.
"That's better." Isabelle nodded approvingly as I set down my fork. "You have more color in your cheeks now."
I hadn't realized how tense I'd been until my shoulders started to relax. Here, with these two women who actually gave a damn about me—not about what I could do for them, not about maintaining appearances, just... me—I could almost breathe.
Then Isabelle's phone rang.
She glanced at the screen, her expression shifting. "I'm so sorry, darling. I have to take this."
She stepped into the hallway, and I could hear her voice through the door—crisp, businesslike, dealing with whatever crisis needed her attention.
When she returned five minutes later, her face was apologetic. "I'm afraid I have to go handle something for your father-in-law. Well, former father-in-law." She corrected herself smoothly. "Board politics. It should only take a couple of hours."
"Of course. You don't have to—"
"Stop." She took my hand, her grip firm and warm. "Lena, listen to me. You are not alone in this. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, you call me. Understood?"
My eyes burned. "Isabelle—"
"I mean it." Her voice softened, and there was something fierce in her expression. "In my heart, you're still my daughter. That doesn't change just because the paperwork did."
I couldn't speak. Could only nod as she squeezed my hand once more before gathering her things.
At the door, she paused, looking back at Emily. "Take care of her."
"Always," Emily replied.
And then she was gone, leaving just the two of us in the quiet room.
The silence stretched for maybe thirty seconds before Emily moved from the window to the chair Isabelle had vacated.
"Lena..." Her voice was careful. Too careful. "I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I need to say it."
I turned my head to look at her, already knowing where this was going. "Emily—"
"Just listen." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Rowan last night... he was terrified. I've never seen someone that afraid."
I looked away, focusing on the IV stand. "So?"
"So I'm not sure you realize how much he—"
"Stop." The word came out harder than I intended. "I don't need to hear about Rowan's sudden concern for my wellbeing."
"Lena—"