chapter 72
Elena's POV:
Margaret's lips pursed at Sebastian's accusation, and for a fleeting moment, I caught something almost embarrassed flashing across her aristocratic features.
She smoothed down her vintage Chanel suit with deliberate precision, buying herself time to respond.
"Don't be ridiculous, Sebastian," she said, her tone shifting from maternal concern to practical authority. "You're ill, and Elena is pregnant. I can hardly leave two people who both need care in the same household. What kind of grandmother would that make me?"
The logic was sound, devastatingly so.
I found myself nodding before I could stop myself, some dormant part of me that had always craved reasonable adult guidance responding automatically to her sensible words.
Sebastian's dark eyes found mine across the room, and whatever he saw there made his jaw tighten.
"The doctor said my fever will break by tonight," Sebastian countered, his voice still hoarse but gaining strength through sheer determination. "Besides, I've already arranged for a prenatal specialist to start regular house visits. She'll be here tomorrow morning to meet Elena and establish a care routine."
I blinked in surprise. This was the first I'd heard of any house visits or a prenatal specialist. The ease with which he spun this story was almost impressive. Sebastian could lie as naturally as breathing when it suited his purposes.
"You should have discussed this with Elena first," Margaret said, echoing my thoughts with uncanny precision.
"I was going to tell her today," Sebastian replied. "This doctor specializes in pregnancy care. She can help make these months easier for Elena, especially during the third trimester. She's also trained in prenatal massage to relieve fatigue. Of course, everything depends on Elena meeting her first and deciding if she wants her to stay."
Margaret turned to me, her expression expectant. "Well, Elena? What do you think?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but Sebastian cut in smoothly. "Her name is Rose Mitchell. She comes highly recommended."
The name immediately caught my attention. Rose— Nicholas's Rose, the woman who'd fled their engagement while carrying his child.
My gaze snapped to Sebastian's face, searching for confirmation, and the knowing look in his dark eyes told me everything. This wasn't a coincidence.
Curiosity instantly won over any other consideration.
"Actually," I heard myself saying, my voice surprisingly steady, "Sebastian's right. I should stay here. It would be silly to relocate when the doctor is already arranged to come here tomorrow."
Margaret's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose a fraction, clearly detecting the sudden shift in my position. Her sharp gaze moved between Sebastian and me, trying to decode what had just transpired in our silent exchange.
"I see," she said slowly, and I could tell she knew something had changed but couldn't quite grasp what. "Well, if that's what you prefer, darling."
She gathered her handbag with movements that spoke of graceful defeat, but paused at the bedroom door to issue final instructions. "Marcus, keep an eye on his condition. And Elena—make sure you get some rest."
"I will," I promised.
After she left, the apartment felt oddly quiet.
Sebastian's eyes found mine across the room, dark and unreadable in his pale face. The weight of that look—expectant, calculating even through fever—made my cheeks burn.
"I should... work on my sketches," I mumbled, retreating to the guest room and my makeshift studio. "The Beaumont collection won't design itself."
He didn't respond, but I could feel his gaze following me until I disappeared from view.
I tried to focus on my work, I really did.
The phoenix transformation bottles needed refinement, and Henri Beaumont expected preliminary concepts by week's end. But concentration proved impossible.
Every scratch of pencil on paper seemed too loud in the quiet apartment, and my ears stayed tuned to any sound from the master bedroom.
Sebastian's sleep was fitful at best. The fever seemed to ebb and flow like a tide—one moment he'd be quiet, the next I'd hear the sheets rustling.
I found myself checking on him every few minutes. Just quick glances from the doorway—noting the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way he'd kicked off the covers only to pull them back up moments later, how his breathing would quicken then slow again.
By the third hour, my sketches had devolved into meaningless scribbles.
My eyes burned from trying to focus, and a deep, bone-heavy exhaustion was settling over me.
I set aside my portfolio and stretched, wincing at the crick in my neck.
Through the doorway, Sebastian had finally settled into what looked like deeper sleep, his breathing more even. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, painting golden stripes across his fevered face.
My own body felt impossibly heavy. The guest bed looked more inviting by the second, its pristine white linens promising rest.
I told myself I'd just lie down for a moment, just close my eyes briefly before returning to work.
The pillow was cool against my cheek as I curled onto my side, automatically positioning myself where I could still see into the master bedroom through the open doors.
---
The room was dark when consciousness returned.
I sat up too quickly, head spinning slightly, and reached for my phone. Nearly eight o'clock. I'd slept for almost four hours.
The master bedroom was bathed in shadow, the bed ominously empty.
Panic flared sharp and immediate. Where was he? Had his fever spiked? Had Marcus taken him to the hospital without waking me?
I stumbled from the guest room, bare feet silent on the thick carpet as I checked the bathroom—empty.
I spun toward the bedroom door just as it opened, and momentum carried me straight into a solid wall of warmth. Strong arms caught me automatically, steadying me against a familiar chest, and Sebastian's voice rumbled above my head.
"What's wrong?"