Under CEO'S Authority

7

Charles finished the soup, his eyelids growing heavier with each spoonful. The simple, warm food seemed to finally chase away the last of his energy. He leaned back in the chair, his head nodding.

"Thank you, Lyra," he mumbled, his words slurred with sleep. "That was... perfect."

Before Lyra could respond, his breathing deepened and evened out. He had fallen asleep right there at the kitchen table. She sat for a moment, unsure of what to do. She couldn't just leave him like that.

Gently, she shook his shoulder. "Charles? You should go to your bed. You'll be more comfortable."

He stirred, blinking slowly. With her help, he managed to stand and shuffle to his bedroom. He practically fell onto the large bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. He was asleep again in seconds.

Lyra stood in the doorway, her heart pounding. She was alone in Charles Laurent's bedroom. It was as clean and minimalist as the rest of the house—a large bed, dark wood furniture, and nothing out of place. She quietly pulled the blanket over him and tiptoed out, closing the door behind her.

Now what? She couldn't just leave. What if he needed something? What if his fever got worse? She decided to stay for a little while, just to make sure he was okay.

Alone in the huge, silent house, her curiosity grew. This was a side of Charles no one at the office ever saw. She walked quietly through the living room, her eyes taking in details she’d missed before.

On one wall, tucked away in a hallway, she found a few framed photographs. She moved closer. One was of a young Charles, maybe ten years old, grinning widely and holding a small trophy. He looked happy and carefree. Another showed him as a teenager, standing next to a man who had the same stormy grey eyes. His father. They were standing in front of a small, messy workshop—his father's old jewelry store. Both of them were smiling, but his father’s eyes looked tired, even then.

Lyra looked at the photos one by one. There were more of Charles and his father—at a graduation, fishing by a lake, working on a piece of jewelry together. The love between them was clear. But as she looked, she realized something was missing.

There were no pictures of a mother.

Not a single one. No wedding photo, no family portrait, no image of a woman smiling beside them. It was like she had never existed. Lyra wondered what had happened. Did she leave? Was there a tragedy? It made Charles’s loneliness make a little more sense. His drive to fulfill his father’s dream felt even heavier.

She wandered over to the large window that looked out into the back garden. Even in the fading evening light, she could see it was beautiful. Neat rows of flowers bloomed, and a small sitting area was surrounded by green plants. It was clear someone spent a lot of time taking care of it. Charles. He really did everything himself.

Looking around the spotless house, she understood. He worked all day at the office, then came home to cook and clean and garden. No wonder he got sick. He was trying to do everything alone. He didn't let anyone in, not even a housekeeper. This big, beautiful house wasn't a home; it was another project he was managing perfectly, all by himself.

A soft sound from the bedroom broke her thoughts. She heard her name. "Lyra?"

She hurried down the hall to his room. The door was slightly open. "Charles? Are you okay?" she asked from the doorway.

The room was dark, lit only by a small lamp on the bedside table. Charles was trying to sit up, looking confused. "Lyra? You're still here?"

"I wanted to make sure you were alright," she said, stepping into the room. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. The soup helped." His voice was still rough, but clearer. He looked around. "What time is it?"

"It's getting late," Lyra said, moving closer to the bed to check if his forehead was still warm. "You should drink some more water."

She reached for the glass on his nightstand. As she turned to hand it to him, her foot caught on the edge of the thick rug. She let out a small gasp as she lost her balance.

The world tilted. The water glass flew from her hand, landing on the carpet with a soft thud. Lyra fell forward, right onto the bed.

She landed with a soft oomph directly on top of Charles, her face buried in his shoulder. His arms instinctively came up around her, catching her.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They were frozen, tangled together on the bed. Lyra could feel the solid warmth of his chest under her, the steady beat of his heart. She could smell the clean scent of his soap and the faint, lingering smell of feverish sweat.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, her face burning with embarrassment. "Oh my gosh! Charles, I am so sorry! I tripped on the rug, I—"

She looked down at him. His eyes were wide with surprise, but he wasn't pushing her away. His arms were still loosely around her. The glassy look of fever was gone, replaced by something else—something intense and warm.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice a low rumble beneath her.

She shook her head, unable to form words. She was pinned by his gaze. The air in the room felt charged, like right before a thunderstorm. All the unspoken moments from the day—the bandaged finger, the almost-kiss in the kitchen, the quiet care—crashed together in this one, accidental embrace.

His hand came up, and he gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face. His touch was slow, deliberate. His eyes searched hers, asking a question without words.

Lyra’s breath caught in her throat. This was wrong. He was her boss. He was sick. She should get up.

But she didn't move.