Chapter 28
Alex's POV
When Grace's call came through, the pain in her voice sent ice through my veins. I was already moving before conscious thought caught up, grabbing my trench coat and heading for the door.
"Floor it," I instructed my driver as the Maybach pulled away from my estate. "Wilson Holdings. Now."
I kept calling her back, but each attempt went straight to voicemail. My jaw clenched tighter with each unanswered ring.
The Wilson Holdings building was dark except for the security lights. I took the elevator straight to her floor and began methodically checking each conference room. When I saw light spilling from under a door at the end of the hallway, I quickened my pace.
I found her collapsed on the floor near the doorway, curled into a fetal position. Her face was ghost-white, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.
"Grace," I breathed, kneeling beside her. "What's wrong? What happened?"
I gathered her into my arms, alarmed by how hot her body felt, her designer blouse soaked through with sweat.
"I'm calling my doctor," I said, already reaching for my phone.
Her hand weakly caught my wrist. "No... just... cramps," she whispered. "Period... pain. No hospital."
I glanced around the conference room—spread across the table were dozens of fragrance formulation documents, market analyses, and a still-glowing computer. She'd clearly been pushing herself past any reasonable limit.
My mouth tightened as I looked back at the woman trembling in my arms. "You're working yourself to death," I said, my voice low and controlled despite the concern churning inside me.
I lifted her as gently as possible, trying not to jostle her. She whimpered anyway, her fingers clutching desperately at my arm.
"Still hurts that bad?" I asked, carefully adjusting my hold.
She nodded against my chest, her breathing shallow and quick.
"You need to take better care of yourself," I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice. I wanted to comfort her, but seeing her like this—pale, shaking, clearly in agony because she'd ignored her body's needs—sparked something protective and angry inside me.
As I carried her toward the elevator, her hand fisted in my shirt, knuckles white with strain. I could feel her fighting not to cry out with each step.
I held her closer, my chest tight with an unfamiliar ache. Whatever was happening between us, I couldn't bear seeing her in pain.
"Hold on," I murmured, stepping into the elevator.
I carried Grace through the glass doors of Wilson Holdings Building, rain pounding heavily against the facade. Her body trembled in my arms, every small movement making her wince. I could feel her trying not to make a sound, her fingers gripping my shoulders with surprising strength for someone in tremendous pain.
"My car is just outside," I said softly, carefully adjusting my position to block the curious gaze of the night security guard.
The moment we stepped out the doors, Starport's storm hit us with full force. Rain swept sideways, driven by howling winds that threatened to knock us over. I pulled Grace closer to my chest, minimizing her exposure to the downpour.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the storm, "I shouldn't have bothered you."
I looked down at her pale face, shocked by her apology. "Calling me was exactly what you should have done, Grace." My voice was harsher than intended, but the thought that she'd hesitated to ask for help in this condition stirred something protective in me.
By the time we reached my Maybach, we were both soaked through. I carefully settled her in the back seat, and when the car drove over a speed bump in the parking lot, her sharp intake of breath made me wince too.
"I'm fine," she said reflexively, though her clenched jaw and curled posture clearly indicated otherwise.
"You're not fine." I adjusted her position. "Try to relax. We'll be at my place soon."
She nodded weakly, her eyelids already beginning to droop. Within minutes, her breathing deepened as she fell into an uneasy sleep. Even unconscious, her face remained tight with pain.
I made a phone call. "Lucas, I need the east wing guest room prepared. Hot water bottles, pain medication, clean towels and clothes. Have Dr. Fischer here within thirty minutes."
Grace stirred slightly at my voice, her eyes cracking open. "I should go home," she mumbled, trying to sit up. "My apartment..."
"No." The word came out firm and non-negotiable. "Your apartment has no one to take care of you."
She had no strength to argue, slipping back into exhausted sleep. I glanced sideways at her, feeling something unfamiliar rise in my chest. My normally sharp, calculating mind seemed focused on only one priority: making sure she was alright.
By the time we drove into the underground garage of my estate, the storm had intensified. Before getting out, I wrapped Grace in my jacket, thoroughly drenching myself in the process. Wind howled through the concrete structure as I carried her toward the entrance.
Lucas ran over with an umbrella.
"Dr. Fischer has arrived, sir," he said, leading the way to the prepared room.
The east wing guest room had been transformed with clinical efficiency. The housekeeper and two other staff members waited with fresh clothes and medical supplies. The doctor stepped forward immediately.
"Put her on the bed, Mr. Morgan," he instructed, already pulling out his stethoscope.
I hesitated before stepping back to let her team take over. They worked with practiced movements, helping Grace into dry clothes while Fischer began his examination. I stood in the doorway, water still dripping from my clothes onto the marble floor.
"You should change, sir," Lucas suggested quietly.
I shook my head, my gaze locked on Grace's pale face. Her lips were almost colorless, with dark circles prominent beneath her closed eyes.
Twenty minutes later, Fischer reported to me in the hallway. "Anemia and extreme fatigue," he said grimly. "She's been dangerously overworking herself. I've administered pain medication and fluids, but she needs a complete workup."
I nodded, still not leaving my position.
Shortly after, the housekeeper emerged from the room. "She's talking in her sleep, sir. About perfumes and market projections."
My jaw tightened. Even in her subconscious, Grace was thinking about work.
The night stretched long as I kept vigil, eventually sitting beside her bed when she grew restless. Watching her sleep, I noticed how she clutched the blanket, her knuckles white even in rest. Occasionally, she would murmur fragments about work.
But once, just once, her expression softened slightly, and I distinctly heard her whisper: "Alex... thank you."
In that moment, looking at her vulnerability, something stirred within me. I reached out, hesitated, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Rest, Grace," I said quietly. "Just rest."