MY FAKE HUSBAND IS MY BOSS

Chapter five

SICK AND CARED FOR

They landed back in New York at midnight.

Ella felt fine on the plane. Tired, but fine. The adrenaline from the board meeting, the tension in the car, the way Victor’s hand had brushed hers when he passed her a file — it had all kept her awake.

But the second she stepped into the cold New York air, her bones felt heavy.

By 2 AM, she was burning up.

Her head pounded like someone was hitting it with a hammer. Her throat was sandpaper. The Chicago air, the stress, the three hours of sleep in two days — it all finally caught up to her.

She stared at the ceiling of her room in the penthouse. The room that was bigger than her old apartment but felt so empty.

She didn’t want to bother Victor. He had a board meeting at 8 AM. A big one. Investors from London were flying in.

So she did what she always did.

She handled it alone.

Two Tylenol. A glass of water. She crawled into bed and pulled the blankets up to her chin, shivering even though she was sweating.

At 6 AM, her phone rang. The sound cut through her fever.

"Miss Reyes, car is downstairs in 30." Clara’s voice was crisp. Professional.

Ella tried to sit up. The room spun violently and she had to grab the nightstand.

"Clara... I don’t think I can—" Her voice was hoarse.

"Mr. Hale said you have to be at the office. Photoshoot for the company magazine. 'Power Couple' feature." Clara paused. "He said it’s not optional."

Of course it wasn’t.

Ella forced herself into the shower. The hot water felt like needles on her skin. She turned it to cold. Her teeth chattered. She put on makeup to hide how pale she was. Concealer under her eyes. Lipstick to fake some color.

By the time the car came, she was shivering so hard her teeth hurt.

Victor got in. He was already in a suit. No tie. Sleeves rolled up. He looked like he hadn’t slept either.

He took one look at her and frowned.

Deeply.

"You look like hell."

"Thank you," Ella said weakly. She tried for a joke. "You too."

He didn’t smile.

Not even a little.

"Are you sick?" His voice was flat.

"No."

She lied.

Her voice cracked.

"Liar."

Before she could react, he reached over and put the back of his hand to her forehead.

His hand was cool. It felt so good against her burning skin that she almost leaned into it.

Almost.

"You’re burning up," he said. His eyes narrowed. "86.7. That’s a fever."

"86.7 isn’t a thing—"

"It is when you’re 98.6 normally."

He was already pulling out his phone.

"Driver. Change of plans. Hospital."

"No!" Ella grabbed his sleeve. The fabric was expensive and warm. "I can’t. The photoshoot. Your grandfather— he’ll see the photos. If I’m not there he’ll know something’s wrong."

"Will survive." Victor pulled his arm away gently. But he didn’t let go of her wrist right away. "You’re going to the doctor, Ella."

The word Ella.

Not Miss Reyes.

Not the accountant.

Ella.

It made her chest hurt in a way the fever didn’t.

The doctor was fast. Private. Victor didn’t leave her side.

Diagnosis: dehydration, exhaustion, and stress.

"Fever should break in 24 hours. Rest. Fluids. No work. No stress." The doctor looked at Victor. "And someone needs to make sure she actually does it."

Victor paid and didn’t say anything on the way back.

But his jaw was tight.

At the penthouse, he walked her straight to her room. Didn’t let her stop in the kitchen. Didn’t let her argue.

"Get in bed," he ordered.

"I can do it myself."

"I know." He paused in the doorway. "But let me."

Ella climbed in. She was too tired to fight.

Too tired to pretend she didn’t want help.

Victor came back 5 minutes later with a tray.

Water. Chicken soup. Medicine.

And a cold towel.

He sat on the edge of her bed. The mattress dipped under his weight.

"Drink."

Ella sipped. The soup was warm and it burned all the way down.

"You don’t have to do this," she whispered.

"I know."

He wrung out the cold towel and put it on her forehead. His fingers brushed her hair back.

"But the contract says I have to keep you alive for 6 months."

It was supposed to be a joke.

A cold, Victor Hale joke.

But his voice was soft.

Almost gentle.

Ella fell asleep like that.

With his hand resting near hers on the blanket.

With him watching her.

When she woke up, it was dark. The fever had broken. Sweat dried on her skin but she felt human again.

There was a note on the nightstand in sharp, angry handwriting.

_Board meeting cancelled.

Soup in the kitchen.

Don’t die.

- V_

And next to it: a mug of tea.

Chamomile.

Still warm.

Ella held it to her chest and cried.

Silent, ugly crying into the blanket.

Not because she was sick.

Not because she was scared.

Because for the first time in years, since her mom got sick, someone took care of her.

Without asking for anything back.

Down the hall, Victor was on a call. His voice carried through the door.

"No, reschedule it. My wife is sick."

A pause.

The other person said something.

"Yes."

Victor’s voice dropped.

"My wife."