Isabella knew she was pushing too hard.
Two weeks after Liam's return from Tokyo, she was working sixteen-hour days, managing three major accounts, and barely sleeping. The Chen account reassignment had doubled her workload, and she was determined to prove she could handle everything.
More than that—she was determined to be indispensable.
Because if she was indispensable at work, maybe Liam wouldn't discard her when the contract ended. Maybe he'd keep her on as his secretary. Maybe she'd still have a reason to see him every day.
It was pathetic, and she knew it. But it was all she had.
By Wednesday afternoon, Isabella's head was pounding. By Thursday morning, her throat felt raw. By Friday, she could barely focus on her computer screen.
"You look terrible," Jennifer said, stopping by her desk at lunch. "Seriously, Isabella. Go home."
"I'm fine," Isabella said automatically, even though the room was spinning slightly.
"You said that last time, and you were out for three days. Just go home before—"
"I'm FINE." The words came out harsher than intended.
Jennifer backed away, hands raised. "Okay. Your funeral."
Isabella buried herself in work, ignoring the way her hands trembled, the way her vision kept blurring, the way standing up made the floor tilt.
At 3:00 PM, she was carrying files to Liam's office when the world suddenly tilted sideways.
The files scattered. The floor rushed up to meet her. And everything went black.
Isabella woke to voices. Distant, urgent, swimming through fog.
"...called the ambulance..."
"Cancel it. I'm taking her myself."
That voice. Cold. Commanding. Liam.
"Mr. Black, maybe we should wait for—"
"I said cancel it. NOW."
Isabella tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. Everything hurt. Everything burned.
"She's burning up," another voice said. "Fever's at least 103, maybe higher."
"Idiotic woman," Liam's voice, closer now. "Working herself into the ground."
Isabella felt something cool against her forehead. Wanted to lean into it. Couldn't move.
"Ms. Hart." Liam's voice was right above her now. "Can you hear me?"
She managed a small sound. Maybe a yes. Maybe just a whimper.
"I'm taking you home. Don't argue."
As if she could argue. As if she could do anything but burn.
Then she was moving. No—being lifted. Strong arms under her knees and back, cradling her against something solid and warm that smelled like expensive cologne and something uniquely Liam.
He was carrying her.
Liam Black was carrying her.
"Sir, are you sure you don't want me to—" Marcus's voice, worried.
"Just get the car." Liam's voice vibrated through his chest, and Isabella's cheek was pressed against that chest, feeling every word. "Now, Marcus."
The elevator. Cool air. The parking garage. Isabella drifted in and out, aware only of the steady rhythm of Liam's heartbeat and the careful way he held her—like she was something fragile. Something that mattered.
The car ride was a blur. Isabella was vaguely aware of being in the back seat, her head in someone's lap, cool fingers brushing her burning forehead.
"Hang on," Liam's voice said above her. "We're almost there."
Why did he sound so worried? This was Liam. Cold, emotionless Liam. He didn't worry.
The penthouse. The elevator. More carrying. Isabella's bedroom door opening.
Then the softness of her bed, the gentle way Liam lowered her onto it, his hands careful and controlled even in urgency.
"I need to change," Isabella mumbled, not entirely coherent. "Can't sleep in work clothes."
"Later. Rest now."
"No, I..." She tried to sit up, and the world spun violently.
"Don't move." Liam's hand pressed firmly against her shoulder, keeping her down. "You're burning up. I'm calling the doctor."
"No doctor," Isabella protested weakly. "Too expensive. I just need sleep."
"Don't be ridiculous. Money isn't—" Liam stopped himself. "Just stay still."
Isabella felt him move away, heard his voice on the phone, sharp and commanding. Ordering someone to come immediately. Threatening consequences if they didn't.
Then he was back, and she felt the bed dip as he sat beside her.
"The doctor will be here in twenty minutes," he said, and there was something strange in his voice. Something almost like fear. "Until then, we need to bring your fever down."
Cool cloth against her forehead. Her neck. Her wrists. Isabella's eyes fluttered open—just barely—and saw Liam leaning over her, his expression intense and focused as he carefully cooled her burning skin.
"Why?" she whispered.
"Why what?"
"Why do you care?"
Liam's hand paused mid-motion. His jaw tightened. "You're my secretary. I need you functional."
"Liar," Isabella breathed, too delirious to filter her words. "You care. You stayed last time too. I remember."
"You're hallucinating."
"No." Isabella's hand moved weakly, catching his wrist. "You stayed. You took care of me. You got the medicine and the water and you..." Her eyes closed. "Why?"
Liam was silent for a long moment. Then, so quietly she almost didn't hear it: "Because you're too stubborn to take care of yourself."
"That's not why."
"Sleep, Isabella."
Her name. Not Ms. Hart. Not his secretary. Isabella.
She wanted to say something about that, about the way it sounded in his voice—rough and concerned and almost tender. But the darkness was pulling her under, and she couldn't fight it anymore.
The last thing she felt was his hand, still holding the cool cloth, gently brushing her hair back from her forehead.
Time became meaningless.
The doctor came. Checked her temperature. Asked questions Isabella couldn't answer properly. Prescribed something. Left orders.
Through it all, Liam's voice. Constant. Demanding updates. Asking about complications. Insisting on the best treatment.
At some point, Isabella was lifted again—carefully, gently—while her bed was changed and fresh sheets were put down. Then lowered back onto cool, clean cotton that felt like heaven against her burning skin.
Someone helped her into pajamas. Gentle hands, efficient but careful. She was too far gone to care who.
Medicine was placed on her tongue. Water pressed to her lips. A command to swallow, and she obeyed because that voice allowed no disobedience.
More cool cloths. More gentle touches. More of Liam's voice saying things like "idiotic woman" and "pushing too hard" and "should have known better."
But his hands were so careful. So gentle. Like she was something precious.
Isabella drifted, caught between fever dreams and a reality that felt too impossible to be real.
In one dream, she was back at the courthouse, signing the marriage contract. But this time, when the judge asked if she took Liam to be her husband, he looked at her. Really looked at her. And said, "Don't. You deserve better than this."
In another, she was standing in the rain, and Liam was walking away, and she was screaming his name but no sound came out.
In another, she was burning up, and someone was there, holding her, whispering, "I'm here. I've got you. You're safe."
That one felt too real to be a dream.
Isabella woke in darkness.
The fever had broken, she realized distantly. She was still hot, still weak, but the delirium had faded. Her mind was clearer, her body less like it was being consumed by fire.
She tried to sit up and couldn't. Everything ached.
The nightstand light clicked on—dim, gentle light that didn't hurt her eyes.
And Isabella saw him.
Liam sat in the chair beside her bed, his suit jacket discarded, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was disheveled—actually disheveled, not the careful styled look he sometimes wore, but truly messed up like he'd been running his hands through it.
He looked exhausted.
And he was asleep, his head tilted back against the chair at an angle that would definitely hurt his neck, one hand stretched toward her bed like he'd fallen asleep while reaching for her.
On her nightstand: a glass of water, fresh and cool. Medicine bottles with dosage instructions written in Liam's sharp handwriting. A bowl of water with a cloth. A digital thermometer.
Evidence of care. Of attention. Of hours spent watching over her.
He stayed.
Isabella stared at him, her heart doing something painful and complicated in her chest. This man—this cold, ruthless, emotionally unavailable man who'd married her for convenience and treated her like an employee—had stayed by her bedside.
All night, from the looks of it.
Why?
As if sensing her gaze, Liam stirred. His eyes opened slowly, taking a moment to focus. Then they locked on her face, and something flashed through them—relief, sharp and undeniable, before his usual mask slammed back into place.
"You're awake," he said, his voice rough from sleep. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck," Isabella whispered, her throat raw.
"Your fever broke an hour ago." Liam sat up straighter, wincing slightly—definitely hurt his neck—and reached for the thermometer. "Let me check."
He leaned close, carefully placing the thermometer under her tongue, his fingers brushing her chin. This close, Isabella could see the exhaustion in his face, the worry lines between his brows, the way his eyes kept scanning her face like he was checking for something.
The thermometer beeped. Liam checked it and nodded. "99.8. Better. Still elevated, but better."
"You stayed," Isabella said softly.
"Someone had to monitor your condition."
"You could have hired a nurse."
"I—" Liam stopped, his jaw tightening. "I wanted to make sure you were properly cared for."
"You stayed," Isabella repeated, because that was the part that mattered. That was the part that changed everything.
Liam stood abruptly, putting distance between them. "You need rest. Take your medicine and go back to sleep."
"Liam—"
"Don't." The word came out harsh. "Don't read into this, Isabella. You collapsed at work. I took responsibility. That's all this is."
But he'd used her first name again. And his hands had been so gentle. And he'd stayed, all night, watching over her.
"That's not all this is," Isabella whispered.
Liam's back was to her now, his shoulders rigid with tension. "Get some sleep, Ms. Hart. We'll discuss your reckless work habits when you're recovered."
He walked toward the door.
"Thank you," Isabella called after him. "For taking care of me."
Liam paused in the doorway, his hand on the frame. He didn't turn around. "You're welcome."
Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
But Isabella lay there, staring at the chair where he'd spent the night, at the water and medicine he'd prepared, at the evidence of care he'd never admit to.
And she realized with devastating certainty that she wasn't the only one breaking the rules.
Liam Black—cold, controlled, emotionless Liam Black—was starting to care too.
He just didn't know how to admit it.