The Stranger's Wife

Chapter-10

Aaira paced outside Arthur’s study, her hands wringing together in frustration. It had been three days since the slap, and he had not spoken a single word to her. She had tried everything to get his attention—waiting by his door, leaving him notes, even making his favorite coffee—but nothing worked. Arthur Black, the powerful, arrogant man, had chosen to ignore her entirely.

Her conscience weighed heavily on her. She had acted out of impulse, misunderstanding his intentions, but now she saw the truth. He had saved her life. Instead of gratitude, she slapped him. Aaira knew she needed to fix this, but how?

She took a deep breath and knocked on the study door again. "Arthur, please just hear me out!"

No answer.

"I know you're in there," she tried again. "At least tell me how I can make it up to you!"

Still, nothing.

Frustration built inside her. "Fine! Ignore me all you want, but I won’t stop until you forgive me!"

With that, she stormed off, determined to find a way to break his silence.

Aaira tried various ways to apologize over the next few days, but Arthur remained stubborn.

She cooked his favorite dishes—he refused to eat them.

She left handwritten apology notes on his desk—he threw them away.

She even tried bribing his grandmother to intervene, but Grandma only smiled and said, "Give it time, dear. Arthur is more sensitive than he lets on."

But time was not on Aaira’s side. The guilt was eating her alive.

Finally, she decided on a grand gesture—she would organize his study exactly the way he liked it. She spent hours meticulously cleaning, aligning books, adjusting his files, and even restocking his secret stash of whiskey. Surely, this would impress him.

When Arthur walked into his study that evening, she stood before him with a hopeful smile.

"I cleaned your study," she announced. "I know you hate it when things are disorganized."

He glanced around the room, his sharp eyes scanning every detail. For a moment, Aaira thought she had succeeded.

Then, he shrugged. "Didn’t ask you to."

Her jaw dropped. "You—! I spent hours here! At least acknowledge the effort!"

Arthur smirked. "Did I ask you to waste your time?"

Aaira threw her hands up in frustration. "You are impossible!"

Arthur simply walked past her, completely unfazed, leaving her fuming.

Arthur looked tired and was coughing, his shoulders rising and falling in exhaustion. His usual sharp and arrogant expression had softened into something worn-out. His skin looked a little paler, his lips dry. Aaira hesitated, debating whether to check on him.

“You don’t look good,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

Arthur scowled, waving her off. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t believe him for a second.

Aaira took a step closer. “Let me check if you have a fever.”

Arthur leaned back slightly. “No need.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Arthur—”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice hoarse.

Aaira didn’t have it. She marched right up to him, determined. "Stop acting like a stubborn child. I need to check—"

Arthur sighed in defeat, rubbing his forehead. Realizing she wouldn’t let this go, he dropped onto the couch with an exasperated huff. “Fine.” If it’ll make you happy.” He extended his hand lazily toward her, as if humoring a child.

Aaira raised an eyebrow. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“You wanted to check if I had a fever,” he said smugly. Here. Feel my hand.”

She rolled her eyes and, instead of taking his hand, she stepped closer and sat beside him on the couch. Without hesitation, she pushed his hand aside and reached directly for his forehead.

Arthur tensed. Her fingers were cool against his warm skin. The moment she touched him, he closed his eyes.

“You do have a fever,” she murmured, frowning.

“Mild,” he mumbled, his voice unusually soft.

“You need to rest properly,” she scolded.

Arthur cracked an eye open, smirking slightly. “You’re no fun.”

Aaira ignored him, placing the back of her hand on his neck to check the warmth there as well. He swallowed.

“You’re actually worried about me,” he teased, his voice lower now.

Aaira scoffed but didn’t pull away. “Someone has to be.”

Arthur let out a breathy chuckle, but it quickly turned into another cough. She sighed and stood up.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed before you collapse on the couch,” she muttered.

For once, Arthur didn’t argue. Instead, he let her guide him to his bedroom, a strange warmth settling in his chest that had nothing to do with the fever.

It was well past midnight when Aaira found herself wandering into Arthur’s grand kitchen, her throat parched. She had ended up staying at the mansion at Grandma’s insistence—partly because of Arthur’s fever and partly because Grandma was feeling uneasy about leaving him alone. Aaira had hesitated at first, but after some coaxing (and a lot of guilt-tripping), she finally agreed to stay the night.

She had settled in one of the guest rooms but had trouble sleeping. Maybe it was the unfamiliar space, or maybe it was the weight of everything that had happened between her and Arthur. Either way, after tossing and turning for what felt like hours, she gave up and decided to get a glass of water.

As she padded toward the kitchen, the silence of the house was almost eerie. But then she heard it.

A rustling sound. A faint whisper of movement.

Her brows furrowed. Was someone… breaking in?

She held her breath, inching closer. And then, as she peeked around the corner, she saw him.

Arthur Black—ruthless billionaire, famous actor, and supposedly mature forty-year-old man—was sitting on the floor in front of the massive stainless-steel fridge, a spoon in one hand and a half-eaten tub of ice cream in the other. The cold blue glow of the fridge cast a dramatic light over his bare chest and slightly tousled hair, making the entire scene look absurdly theatrical.

Aaira blinked. “Are you serious?”

Arthur froze, spoon midair like a child caught red-handed stealing cookies. His eyes darted towards her, then back to his ice cream, as if debating whether he should continue eating or pretend this wasn’t happening.

"You're supposed to be in bed," he grumbled.

"You’re supposed to be recovering from a fever," she countered, stepping into the kitchen. "And here you are, stuffing yourself with ice cream in the middle of the night."

Arthur scowled. "It helps me think."

"Think? About what? Brain freeze?”

He ignored her sarcasm and took another spoonful.

Aaira folded her arms. "Grandma asked me to stay the night. She didn’t want you to be alone in case you got worse. "Not that you seem to need any caretaking," she gestured at the ice cream. "Aren’t you afraid of putting on weight, Mr. Actor?"

Arthur scoffed. "Please. My body is a masterpiece. A little ice cream won’t ruin it."

She snorted. "Wow. Such humility."

He smirked, taking another exaggerated bite. "At least I don’t deny my greatness."

Aaira rolled her eyes. "You’re acting like a child at forty."

"So? "Maybe I feel like being childish," he shot back, shoveling more ice cream into his mouth like a defiant teenager.

Aaira sighed. "Fine. Do what you want. But don’t come crying to me when you get sick."

Arthur waved her off dismissively, licking his spoon. "Pfft. You worry too much."

He should have known better.

Because just a few hours later, his fever spiked again.

The next morning, Aaira was woken up by Grandma’s frantic voice. "Aaira, dear! Arthur’s burning up with a fever!"

Aaira shot up from bed, instantly alert. She rushed to Arthur’s room and found him lying on the bed, his face flushed, eyes barely open, and breathing heavily.

"I told you!" she scolded, pressing a hand to his forehead. "You ate too much ice cream!"

Arthur groaned. "Don’t lecture me."

"Oh, I will lecture you!" She grabbed a damp cloth and placed it on his forehead. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

Arthur peeked at her through half-lidded eyes. "Yet, you’re still here."

Aaira faltered. “Yes, I am still here”. And despite everything, she was worried about him.

For the next few hours, Aaira nursed Arthur back to health. She forced him to drink warm soup, changed his cold compresses, and even massaged his temples when he complained of a headache.

At some point, Arthur, still drowsy, muttered, "Why do you care so much?"

Aaira hesitated, looking at him. "Because you saved me. And I was wrong to slap you."

Arthur blinked at her, processing her words. For the first time since the incident, he didn’t look distant or cold. Instead, he looked… tired. Vulnerable.

"You’re forgiven," he mumbled sleepily before drifting off.

Aaira sat by his bedside, watching him. She had seen many sides of Arthur Black—the arrogant, the teasing, the infuriating—but this was new.

And she didn’t hate it.

To be continued…