23.

DANIEL'S POV

The sound of hurried footsteps reached my ears, and moments later, Dr. West stepped into the room, his medical bag in hand. He was an older man, his sharp eyes missing nothing as he approached the bed.

“What happened?” he asked briskly, setting his bag down and immediately beginning his examination of Vera.

“She fainted,” I replied, standing back to give him space. My voice was calm, controlled, but inside, I was replaying the moment over and over again. The way she crumpled on the stairs, her family’s indifference as if she were nothing more than an inconvenience.

Dr. West hummed thoughtfully, his hands moving with practiced precision as he checked her pulse, her breathing, her vitals. After a moment, he glanced up at me, his expression unreadable.

“Has she been under any kind of stress or pressure lately?” he asked, his tone neutral but probing.

The question hit me harder than I expected. My mind flashed back to the past few weeks—her movements stiff, her responses robotic. She carried herself like someone who was simply going through the motions, her emotions locked away behind an invisible wall. I remembered how she’d tried to plaster on a smile when Cecily visited, throwing a party as if everything was fine. But even then, her smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

“Yes,” I admitted quietly, my jaw tightening. “She’s... been under pressure.”

Dr. West sighed, straightening up as he stepped back from the bed. “She’s exhausted,” he said bluntly. “Physically, emotionally, mentally. And that’s dangerous. Her body is shutting down because it’s trying to cope with something her mind hasn’t addressed.”

I stared at him, his words settling like a heavy weight in my chest.

“She needs more than rest,” he continued, his gaze steady. “She needs to be loved. Cared for. That’s not something anyone can force upon her, but it’s necessary. Vital, even.”

His eyes met mine, and for a moment, it felt like he was speaking directly to me, not as a doctor but as someone who understood the fragility of the human spirit.

“If you want her to recover, to truly recover,” he said, his voice softening, “you need to give her time. Time to heal, time to feel, time to breathe. She’s not a machine, Daniel. You can’t fix her with efficiency and control. You need to behave like a human with another human.”

His words struck a nerve, cutting through the armor I’d so carefully built around myself.

I nodded stiffly, my eyes flickering to Vera’s face. She looked so small, so fragile, lying there like a shadow of herself.

“I’ll make sure she gets what she needs,” I said finally, my voice low but resolute.

Dr. West packed up his bag and gave me a long, measured look. “Good,” he said. “Because this isn’t just about her. If you can’t give her that time, you’ll lose her. And that loss will stay with you far longer than you realize.”

I didn’t respond, but his words echoed in my mind as I watched him leave the room.

I sat back down beside Vera, my gaze fixed on her face. The girl who had fought so hard to keep herself together, only to fall apart when no one was looking.

Time. That was all she needed.

And for once, I decided I’d make sure she got it. No matter what it took.

I walked out of Vera’s room, leaving her under the careful watch of Dr. West, and headed for the kitchen. My steps were steady, purposeful, though the weight of the doctor’s words lingered in my mind. She needed care, love, time—things I wasn’t used to giving, but things I realized she deserved.

The kitchen was quiet when I entered, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant clatter of dishes being washed by the staff. I scanned the shelves and fridge, pulling out the ingredients I needed. Fresh vegetables, chicken stock, and a few herbs. Nothing fancy, just something warm and nourishing to help her regain her strength.

As I began chopping the vegetables, I heard hushed whispers drifting from the other end of the kitchen.

"Can you believe it?" one of the maids murmured. "Mr. Daniel, cooking? For Miss Vera?"

"Maybe he’s finally grown a heart," another voice giggled.

"Or maybe it’s guilt," a third chimed in. "He’s always so cold to everyone. Who would’ve thought he’d bother with something like this?"

I clenched the knife in my hand, not out of anger but sheer irritation. Their gossip was nothing new, and normally, I wouldn’t have cared. But this time, it felt different. This wasn’t about me—it was about Vera.

I focused on the task at hand, ignoring the murmur of voices behind me. The vegetables were chopped, the chicken simmering in the pot. The aroma of fresh thyme and garlic began to fill the air as I worked, the repetitive motions strangely calming.

The whispers grew quieter as they realized I wasn’t reacting. One of the maids timidly approached, standing a few steps away.

“Sir,” she said cautiously, “would you like us to finish this for you?”

I shook my head without looking up. “No. I’ll handle it.”

She nodded quickly and retreated, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the bubbling pot of soup.

As I stirred, I couldn’t help but think of Vera lying in that bed, pale and lifeless. She didn’t need grand gestures or empty promises. She needed something real, something steady. Maybe I wasn’t the best man for the job, but I could start here—with something as simple as a bowl of soup.

Once the soup was ready, I poured it into a bowl and garnished it with a sprig of parsley. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

Carrying the tray carefully, I left the kitchen and made my way back to her room. The staff’s curious eyes followed me, but I paid them no mind. This wasn’t about appearances or proving anyone wrong.

This was about her. And for the first time, I realized how much I wanted to get it right.