Under CEO'S Authority

6

The car ride to the meeting was filled with a thick silence. Lyra stared out the window, but she didn’t see the city passing by. All she could see was the memory of Charles’s gentle hands and the look in his eyes in his quiet kitchen. Her finger, with its tiny bandage, felt like it was burning a hole in her lap.

Charles was quiet too. He looked over some papers in his portfolio, but his focus seemed off. He would occasionally run a hand through his hair or adjust his tie, small signs that he was also thinking about what had just happened.

They arrived at the meeting for the new diamond boutique. The room was full of important-looking people discussing security systems, display lighting, and VIP invitations. Lyra sat quietly in a corner, notebook in hand, trying to listen. But her mind kept drifting back to the townhouse.

She watched Charles. He was professional and sharp, asking all the right questions. But she noticed a slight paleness to his skin that hadn’t been there before. Once, he reached for his glass of water, and his hand seemed to shake just a little.

After the meeting, they walked back to the car. The silence between them felt different now. It wasn’t cold or awkward. It was… full. Full of things neither of them knew how to say.

Back at the office, they both buried themselves in work. It was easier to focus on emails and schedules than on the strange new feeling hanging in the air. Lyra tried to forget the almost-touch in the kitchen.

A few hours later, Anya, the COO, came out of Charles’s office. She didn’t look happy. She walked over to Lyra’s desk, her voice low.

“Has he seemed off to you today?” Anya asked.

Lyra thought about the shake in his hand. “A little. Why?”

“He’s burning up. I think he has a fever. I just told him to go home and get some rest, but he just growled at me about a deadline. He’s too stubborn to admit he’s sick.” Anya sighed, looking worried. Then her eyes landed on Lyra. A small, knowing look passed over her face.

“You,” she said, her voice firm but kind. “You need to get him out of here. He won’t listen to me, but he might listen to you. Make him go home. He’s no good to anyone like this.”

Lyra’s eyes went wide. “Me? How am I supposed to do that?”

“Figure it out,” Anya said, already walking away. “Tell him it’s a direct order from his COO if you have to.”

Lyra sat at her desk, her heart pounding again. How could she possibly tell Charles Laurent what to do? She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and walked to his office door. She knocked softly.

“Enter.” His voice was rough.

She opened the door. Charles was at his desk, staring at his computer screen. He looked terrible. His face was pale, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Sir?” Lyra said quietly.

“What is it, Lyra? I’m busy.” He didn’t even look up.

“I… I think you should go home. You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice tight. He finally looked up at her, and his eyes were glassy with fever. “This report can’t wait.”

Lyra took a step closer. She remembered what Anya said about being stubborn. She decided to try a different way.

“The report will still be here tomorrow,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “But if you get sicker, you’ll be out for days. Isn’t that worse for the company?”

Charles stared at her, looking surprised that she was talking back to him. He opened his mouth to argue, but then a small shiver went through him. He closed his eyes for a second, as if fighting a wave of dizziness.

Seeing him like that, looking vulnerable instead of powerful, made something inside Lyra soften. “Please,” she said, her voice gentle. “Let me call Marcel. Let me take you home.”

He was quiet for a long moment. The fight seemed to drain out of him along with his energy. He finally nodded, a slow, tired movement. “Alright,” he mumbled. “Alright.”

Twenty minutes later, Lyra was once again sitting in the back of the town car with Charles. This time, he was leaning his head against the window, his eyes closed. He looked exhausted.

They got to his house. Lyra helped him out of the car and up the steps. He was heavy, leaning on her more than he probably wanted to admit. She got him inside and onto the large sofa in the living room.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, even as he sank into the cushions. “You can go.”

Lyra ignored him. She couldn’t just leave him here alone, shivering and sick. She found a soft blanket draped over a chair and tucked it around him. His skin was hot to the touch.

She went into the big, clean kitchen. She remembered what he had said. “I can cook for myself.” Well, not tonight, he couldn’t.

She opened his fridge. It was very organized, with simple, healthy food. She found some chicken, carrots, and celery. She could make soup. It was the only thing she knew to do.

As she started chopping vegetables, she felt a strange sense of calm. The huge, quiet house didn’t feel so cold anymore. It felt peaceful. She was taking care of him. The powerful CEO was asleep on his sofa, and she was making him soup.

After a while, the smell of the cooking soup filled the kitchen. Lyra was stirring the pot when she heard a soft noise behind her.

She turned. Charles was standing in the doorway, wrapped in the blanket. His hair was messy, and he looked younger. His grey eyes were watching her, no longer glassy, but soft and curious.

“You’re still here,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“The soup’s almost ready,” Lyra said, feeling a little shy. “You should sit down.”

He didn’t move. He just kept looking at her, as if he was seeing her for the first time. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she said, turning back to the soup to hide her blush. “But everyone needs help sometimes.”

She felt him come closer. He stood next to her, looking down into the pot. The simple, homely smell seemed so out of place in his sleek kitchen.

“It smells good,” he said. He was standing very close to her. She could feel the warmth coming from him, not just from the fever now, but from his body.

“It’s just soup,” she whispered.

“It’s not just soup,” he said. His voice was low. “No one has… done something like this for me in a long time.”

Lyra’s heart was beating fast. She turned to look at him. The space between them was small. His gaze dropped to her lips, just like it had in the kitchen earlier that day. But this time, there was no phone to interrupt them.

The moment hung in the air, fragile and warm like the steam from the soup. He leaned in slowly, giving her time to move away. She didn’t.

But just as his face was inches from hers, a powerful shiver racked his body, and he swayed on his feet, putting a hand on the counter to steady himself. The moment was broken by his sickness.

Lyra quickly put a hand on his arm. “You need to sit down. Now.”

This time, he listened. She led him to a chair at the kitchen table. She filled a bowl with the hot soup and placed it in front of him with a spoon.

“Eat,” she said, in a voice that sounded a little like his own bossy tone.

A small, tired smile touched his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”