From Dictator to lover

Back to Square One

*Harper POV*

The first week was unbearable.

I avoided Nicholas as much as possible, keeping conversations short and focused strictly on work. If anyone noticed the tension between us, they didn’t say anything, but I could feel his eyes on me every time we were in the same room.

By the second week, things began to settle. We fell back into our old rhythm, and for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. He was back to being the demanding, perfection-obsessed CEO, and I was back to silently cursing him under my breath as I scrambled to meet his impossible deadlines.

But something was different.

He was harder on me than usual, pushing me to the brink with late-night emails and last-minute changes. It was like he was trying to prove something—to himself, to me, or maybe to both of us.

I hated it. And I hated that, despite everything, part of me still couldn’t get him out of my head.

By the time the second week ended, I was exhausted. The late nights, the stress, and the constant pressure had taken their toll. I’d been feeling off all morning, my stomach twisting uncomfortably, but I’d pushed through, telling myself it was nothing.

But halfway through the meeting, as Nicholas was presenting the final stages of the Sutton deal, a wave of nausea hit me like a freight train.

I gripped the edge of the table, willing it to pass, but it only got worse. My vision blurred, and the room felt like it was spinning.

“I need a moment,” I managed to whisper, standing abruptly and making a beeline for the nearest trash can.

I barely made it before I was doubled over, the contents of my stomach spilling out as the room fell silent.

Nicholas’s POV

It took me a moment to realize what was happening. One second, Harper was sitting at the table, her expression tight but focused, and the next, she was gone, rushing toward the corner of the room.

It wasn’t until I saw her hunched over the trash can, trembling, that it hit me.

“Harper,” I said, my voice sharp as I abandoned the presentation and crossed the room. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t respond, her face pale and covered in a sheen of sweat.

“Someone call medical,” I barked to the room, my usual calm shattered.

“It’s fine,” she whispered hoarsely, waving me off. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” I snapped, crouching beside her. “You’re sick. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, and I saw something other than defiance—vulnerability.

“I didn’t think it was important,” she muttered.

I clenched my jaw, anger and worry warring inside me. “That’s not your call to make,” I said, my voice softer now.

“Mr. Maxwell, I’ll be okay,” she said weakly, trying to stand.

I caught her arm before she could collapse, my grip firm but careful. “You’re going home,” I said firmly. “Now.”