Isabella woke to pale morning sunlight filtering through her curtains and, for a moment, thought the previous night had been a fever dream.
But no—the glass of water on her nightstand was real. The medicine bottles with their careful instructions in Liam's handwriting were real. And the chair beside her bed, now empty, still held the impression of someone who'd sat there for hours.
He'd been real too.
Isabella sat up slowly, testing her body's limits. The fever was gone completely now, leaving behind only a bone-deep exhaustion and a scratchy throat. She felt weak but functional. Human again.
She glanced at the clock: 7:23 AM. Saturday morning. No work. No reason to rush.
But where was Liam?
Isabella pulled on a robe over her pajamas and padded out of her room on unsteady legs. The penthouse was quiet—that eerie, expensive kind of quiet that came from perfect soundproofing and absence of life.
Then she heard it: the soft sound of running water, the clink of ceramic.
The kitchen.
Isabella found him there, standing at the counter in sleep pants and a white t-shirt—the most casual she'd ever seen him—making coffee with precise, efficient movements. His hair was still messed up from sleeping in that chair, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
He looked tired. Human. Almost vulnerable.
Then he glanced up and saw her, and the vulnerability vanished behind cold walls so quickly Isabella wondered if she'd imagined it.
"You should be in bed," Liam said flatly, turning back to the coffee maker.
"I'm okay." Isabella's voice came out hoarse, and she cleared her throat. "Better, I mean. The fever's gone."
"I'm aware. I checked two hours ago."
Isabella's heart did something complicated. He'd been checking on her. Even after she fell back asleep, even after he'd left the chair, he'd been checking.
"You didn't have to do that," she said softly.
"Someone needed to monitor your condition." Liam poured coffee into two mugs with mechanical precision. "You were at 103 degrees. Fever-induced complications are common at that temperature."
So clinical. So detached. Like last night—the gentle touches, the careful hands, the way he'd stayed—had never happened.
Isabella moved closer, her legs still shaky. "Liam, about last night—"
"Coffee?" He held out a mug, not quite looking at her. "You should stay hydrated."
"Thank you." Isabella took the mug, their fingers brushing for just a second. Liam pulled back like he'd been burned. "I wanted to thank you. For everything. For bringing me home, calling the doctor, staying with me—"
"It was necessary." Liam's voice was colder now, that businessman tone she knew so well. "You collapsed at work. I handled the situation."
"You stayed all night."
"To monitor your condition."
"You could have hired a nurse."
"I made a judgment call." Liam finally looked at her, and his eyes were completely shuttered. "Don't make this into something it wasn't, Ms. Hart."
Ms. Hart. Not Isabella. Back to formality. Back to distance.
"Something it wasn't?" Isabella repeated, hurt creeping into her voice despite her best efforts. "You sat by my bed for hours. You took care of me. You were—"
"Doing my job." The words were sharp, cutting. "You're my secretary. My employee. When you collapsed, I took responsibility. That's what an employer does."
"That's not—" Isabella stopped, frustration building. "You held my hand. I remember. You—"
"You were delirious." Liam set his coffee down with controlled force. "Fever dreams. Nothing more."
"I wasn't that delirious. I remember you saying—"
"Whatever you think you remember is irrelevant." Liam's voice dropped to something dangerous and cold. "You were sick. I ensured you received proper care. End of story."
Isabella stared at him, at the rigid set of his shoulders, at the way he wouldn't quite meet her eyes. He was lying. She knew he was lying. The evidence was right there in the chair beside her bed, in the careful notes about her medicine, in the exhaustion on his face from staying up all night.
But he'd never admit it.
"Why won't you just—" Isabella started.
"Just what?" Liam turned to face her fully now, and there was something almost desperate in his eyes beneath the ice. "What exactly do you want me to say, Isabella?"
Her first name. He'd slipped again.
"The truth," she whispered. "I just want the truth."
Liam's jaw clenched. For a moment—one brief, breathtaking moment—she thought he might actually tell her. Might admit that last night meant something. That his care wasn't just professional obligation. That maybe, possibly, he felt something too.
Then his expression hardened.
"The truth is that you pushed yourself too hard and collapsed," he said coldly. "The truth is that I couldn't have one of my employees dying on company property because it would be bad for business. The truth is that I did what any responsible employer would do—ensured you received adequate medical attention."
Each word was a knife.
"And the truth," Liam continued, his voice dropping to something cruel, "is that you need to stop misinterpreting basic human decency as something more. I can't have my secretary dying on company property. It's bad for business. That's all this was."
Isabella felt like he'd slapped her.
Bad for business. That's all she was. A business concern. A liability to be managed. Not someone worth caring about, not someone whose well-being mattered beyond her utility to him.
The whiplash from his tenderness last night to this cruelty now was devastating.
"I see," Isabella said quietly, setting down her coffee mug with shaking hands. "Thank you for clarifying. I won't misinterpret your... basic human decency... again."
"Good." Liam picked up his coffee. "You have the weekend to fully recover. I expect you back at work Monday, fully functional. We have the board meeting Tuesday, and I need you sharp."
"Of course, Mr. Black."
The formality hung between them like a wall.
Liam walked past her toward his bedroom, and Isabella caught a scent—his cologne, mixed with something uniquely him. The same scent she'd been surrounded by when he carried her. When he held her. When he stayed.
He paused in the doorway, his back to her.
"Isabella," he said quietly.
Her heart leaped. Maybe—
"Don't do that again." His voice was rough, strained. "Don't push yourself until you collapse. It's..." He stopped. "It's not acceptable."
Then he was gone, his bedroom door closing with quiet finality.
And Isabella stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the two coffee mugs—his and hers, sitting side by side on the counter like a mockery of domesticity—and tried not to cry.
He'd stayed with her all night. Had held her hand and cooled her fever and whispered words she couldn't quite remember but felt in her bones.
And now he was telling her it meant nothing.
Bad for business.
Isabella picked up her coffee and walked back to her room, her legs steadier now but her heart shattered.
She looked at the empty chair beside her bed, at the evidence of care that Liam would never acknowledge, and realized something devastating:
Liam Black did care. She was certain of it now.
But he was so terrified of that care, so determined to maintain his walls, that he'd rather be cruel than admit to feeling something real.
And Isabella had no idea how to survive loving a man who'd destroy himself before admitting he might love her back.