Chapter 47

ROWAN

It’s a Tuesday morning when I wake up feeling like death warmed over.

My head pounds. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed glass. Every muscle aches. But I drag myself to work anyway, because I can’t afford to miss a day. Mom’s medical bills don’t pay themselves.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. The truth is more pathetic: I can’t bear to go a day without seeing Vince.

“You look terrible,” Diane observes as I stumble to my desk.

“Thanks,” I croak, wincing at how raw my throat feels. “Just allergies.”

She eyes me skeptically but doesn’t push.

I make it through the morning on sheer stubbornness, choking down Dayquil and drowning myself in tea. But by lunchtime, the room is spinning.

I’m fumbling with some papers when Vince emerges from his office. “The Xiao proposal needs revisions before—” He stops mid-sentence, eyes narrowing as he takes me in. “You’re sick.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, even as a violent shiver wracks my body.

He crosses to my desk in three long strides and presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up. Why the hell are you at work?”

“I have deadlines.” I try to stand and immediately regret it as the room tilts alarmingly.

Vince catches me before I can fall, his arm strong around my waist. “That’s it. You’re going home.”

“I can’t,” I protest weakly. “The Hong Kong conference call⁠—”

“Can be rescheduled.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “Diane, clear my afternoon. Ms. St. Clair is ill, and I’m taking her home.”

Diane raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. She’s seen too much working for the Akopovs to be surprised by anything.

“Her home or yours?” she asks quietly.

“Mine,” Vince replies without a morsel of shame. “She needs proper care.”

I want to object—to maintain some semblance of professional boundaries—but I’m too dizzy to form a coherent argument.

The next thing I know, I’m being bundled into his car, his jacket wrapped around my shoulders as I shiver despite the heat blasting from the vents.

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters, though there’s no real anger in his voice. “Why didn’t you call in sick?”

“Can’t miss work,” I mumble through chattering teeth. “Need the… the… m-money.”

He simply scowls. “You’re paid whether you’re in the office or not, Rowan. That’s how salaried positions work.”

I try to respond, but another wave of dizziness washes over me. I close my eyes against the nauseating motion of the car.

“Just rest,” Vince sighs, his hand settling on my knee. Not sexual for once. Just comforting. “We’ll be home soon.”

Home. As if his penthouse is my home, too.

The journey passes in a blur. Vince half-carries me from the car to the elevator, then through his penthouse to the guest bedroom—not his room, I note with a pang of something that feels dangerously like disappointment.

He helps me out of my work clothes and into one of his t-shirts, his touch clinical rather than seductive.

“Into bed,” he orders. “I’ll get medicine.”

I obey, sinking into the soft mattress with a grateful sigh. My head is pounding, my body alternating between fire and ice.

And not in the fun way. This feels more like torture.

Vince returns with a glass of water, pills, and a cold compress. He sits on the edge of the bed, helping me sit up enough to swallow the medication.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice a raspy mess.

“Don’t talk.” He places the compress on my forehead. “Just sleep.”

I catch his wrist as he starts to rise. “Stay? Just for a minute?”

I expect him to refuse. To cite work or meetings or any of the thousand things more important than watching me sleep.

Instead, he settles beside me, his back against the headboard. “Just until you fall asleep.”

I curl onto my side. My head comes to rest against his thigh. His hand hesitates, then settles on my hair, stroking gently.

“My mother used to do this,” he murmurs softly, after what feels like a long silence. “When I was sick as a child. Before everything changed.”

My eyes flutter open, surprised by this rare glimpse into his past. “What changed?”

He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. When he does, his voice is distant, as if speaking from another time, another place.

“I was ten when my father first took me to a Bratva meeting. I thought it was just business. Men in suits talking numbers.” His fingers continue their gentle movement through my hair. “Then they brought in a man who had stolen from my father. Made me watch what happened to him.”

I swallow painfully. “What did they do?”

“Nothing you need to hear about.” His voice hardens briefly, then softens again. “My mother found out. She tried to take me away. To America, away from the Bratva. Away from my father’s world.”

“What happened?”

“My father caught us at the airport.” His hand stills in my hair. “He gave my mother a choice. Stay and accept our life, or leave without me.”

The implications hit me through my fever-haze. “She chose to stay.”

“For me,” he confirms. “She gave up her freedom for me. And I’ve been paying for that sacrifice ever since.”

“By becoming what your father wanted.”

He laughs bitterly. “Not just what he wanted. What he needed. His heir. His perfect soldier. The son who would never question, never resist, never fail.”

“But you do question,” I whisper, fighting to stay awake despite the medicine pulling me under. “You resist in your own way.”

His hand resumes its stroking. “Not enough. Never enough.”

“Is that why you’re going through with the arranged marriage? For her?”

“Among other reasons.” Something in his voice shifts, closes off. “But that’s enough family history for one day. Sleep now.”

I want to ask more. Why stay in a life he resents?

But the pills are working, dragging me down into darkness. The last thing I’m aware of is Vince’s hand in my hair and the strange, tender quality of his voice as he says, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

I believe him.

And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

I drift in and out of consciousness as the fever burns through me.

Each time I surface, Vince is there—offering water, adjusting blankets, checking my temperature with a gentleness I didn’t know he possessed.

“You don’t have to stay,” I mumble during one lucid moment. “I’m sure you have better things to do than play nurse.”

His mouth slants. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Running your empire. Intimidating business rivals. Counting your money Scrooge McDuck style.”

He actually laughs at that—a real laugh, not his usual sardonic chuckle. “I’ll have you know my money-counting pool is being cleaned this week.”

I smile weakly, then fall into a coughing fit that makes my ribs ache.

Vince’s amusement vanishes instantly. He helps me sit up, holding a glass of water to my lips. “Small sips.”

I obey, letting the cool liquid soothe my raw throat. “I’m sorry. For being such a burden.”

His eyes narrow. “Is that what you think you are? A burden?”

“What else would you call it? You’re stuck here babysitting me instead of doing… whatever crime lords do on Wednesday afternoons.”

“I’m not stuck anywhere.” His voice takes on that hard edge I’ve come to recognize as genuine emotion breaking through his controlled facade. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Something shifts in my chest at his words. Something scary and warm that has nothing to do with my fever.

“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He looks away, jaw tightening. “You need rest, not an interrogation.”

“Vince.” I catch his hand, forcing him to look at me. “Why are you taking care of me?”