155 Fevered Haze and Familiar Tensions
155 Fevered Haze and Familiar Tensions
Guilt twisted inside Elara. “I didn’t mean to scare her.”
The door opened again. Damien returned, his eyes immediately noting her barely touched food.
A knock interrupted the moment. Dr. Bill entered, smiling when he saw Elara awake.
Damien rose in one fluid motion, pouring water from a pitcher on the nightstand. He helped her sit up slightly, supporting her back as she drank small sips.
“Thank you for checking on me,” Elara murmured, blinking slowly as her eyelids grew
heavy.
The thought of going to Damien’s family home sent a spike of anxiety through her, but she lacked the strength to argue. Clara and Eleanor exchanged worried glances as Cora hovered nearby, clutching her favorite stuffed animal.
The revelation that Damien had not only kept her book but was reading it made her feel strangely vulnerable. As if he had accessed a private part of her thoughts.
“I’ll be fine,” Elara protested weakly. “Just need rest.”
“The medication is working,” came a gentle voice. Dr. Bill Hawkins, the Thorne family physician for decades, stood beside the bed checking her pulse. “Your fever has dropped considerably.”
Amelia’s concerned face blurred before her eyes as Elara made her way to the bedroom. She barely managed to kick off her shoes before collapsing onto the bed, darkness claiming her instantly.
“Water,” she managed to rasp.
“Maybe I’ll lie down for a bit,” she said.
Bill raised an eyebrow. “You’re in his house, in serious condition. I’d say it was entirely
necessary.”
“…should have noticed sooner…”
Elara opened her eyes slowly, taking in the familiar ceiling. Damien’s childhood
155 Fevered Haze and Familiar Tensions
bedroom. She’d been here only once before, years ago when Eleanor had given her a tour of the manor.
Uncomfortable silence
After Bill left, filled the room. Elara’s stomach growled audibly, breaking the tension.
Amelia Vance bustled around Elara’s kitchen, stirring a pot of homemade chicken soup with focused determination. The rich aroma filled the apartment, but Elara could barely appreciate it from where she sat at the kitchen island, her head propped weakly on her hand.
“Someone needs to,” Amelia replied. “You work too hard and sleep too little.”
“Severe exhaustion combined with a nasty viral infection,” Bill explained. “Your immune system was too compromised to fight it off. You needed this collapse to force you to rest.”
“You’re awake,” he observed, closing the book. “How do you feel?”
Eleanor pressed a cool hand to Elara’s forehead. “Still burning up. We need to get her to a doctor.”
A long silence followed her statement. When she finally gathered the courage to look at him again, his expression was thoughtful, almost calculating.
“Nonsense,” Martha replied. “You focus on getting better.”
Damien stood to the side, his face impassive as Bill continued his examination. When the doctor finished, he patted Elara’s hand kindly.
“Forget the meeting,” Clara interrupted firmly. “You have a high fever, Elara. Your mother called us this morning when she couldn’t wake you.”
Inside the car, she leaned against the cool window, consciousness slipping in and out. Fragments of conversation floated around her.
the
The next time she awoke, the room was dimmer. Evening light filtered throu partially drawn curtains. Her fever had broken, leaving her sweaty and uncomfortable but clearer–headed.
Elara obediently took a spoonful. The warm liquid slid down her throat, momentarily
155 Fevered Haze and Familiar Tensions
soothing. She managed several more spoonfuls before a wave of exhaustion hit her
Minutes later, Martha arrived with a tray containing clear soup, toast, and tea. The older housekeeper clucked sympathetically.
“Much better,” he declared after examining her. “Your fever has broken, but you’re still extremely weak. Absolute rest for at least three days.”
Cool sheets. Soft pillow. The scent of sandalwood and old books.
Eleanor was already on her phone, issuing instructions. “The car will be ready in five
minutes. Grab her essentials.”
Elara tried to sit up but fell back, still dizzy. “Where is everyone?”
Elara didn’t need encouragement. Her eyelids were already growing heavy, pulling her back into darkness.
“You scared everyone,” Damien said, his expression unreadable. “Bill said your condition was worse than he initially thought.”
“You gave us quite a scare, Mrs. Thorne,” she said, setting the tray across Elara’s lap. “The little one has been asking about you non–stop.”
“Thank you,” Elara replied, her voice still rough.
“You need to eat something,” Amelia said, her voice laced with concern. “You’ve been looking pale for days.”
“Almost noon,” came Eleanor Thorne’s/voice as she entered the room, followed by Clara Bellweather. “You’ve been unconscious for nearly fifteen hours.”
“Better?” he asked when she finished.
A shadow crossed his face. “It had interesting ideas.”
“Having dinner with my grandmother and yours,” Damien replied. “She’s been worried about you.”
“I’ll have Martha bring up some food,” Damien said.
Damien followed her gaze. “I found it in the car after we returned,” he explained. “You
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left it behind.”
“Your daughter is with your grandmother in the garden. Eleanor is making calls. And Damien… Bill paused, checking his watch. “He should be arriving shortly. Eleanor called him.”
Amelia shot her a look that only mothers could perfect – equal parts skepticism and worry. “You’re not fine. Anyone can see that.”
Elara didn’t argue. Her head felt increasingly foggy. The spoon clattered against the bowl as her grip weakened.
“Of course she will,” Clara assured her, though her eyes reflected concern.
The direct question caught her off guard. “I… I’m surprised, that’s all.”
She processed this information slowly. “Cora?”
The soup was ladled into a bowl and set before her. Elara stared at it, her appetite nonexistent. Still, she picked up the spoon to appease her mother.
He moved to the bedside, looking down at the tray with a slight frown. “You need to eat to regain your strength.”
“I can’t stay here that long,” Elara protested.
He helped her take small sips of water before administering another dose of medication. “This will make you drowsy again. Don’t fight it. Sleep is your best
medicine right now.”
She managed a few spoonfuls of soup before setting the spoon down. Her hand trembled slightly from the effort.
And Damien had kept it all this time.
“What happened?” Elara asked, her voice scratchy and painful.
Through a feverish haze, Elara felt herself being helped into fresh clothes. The journey from bed to car passed in fragmented images – Cora’s worried face, the ele or’s descent, the cold air hitting her heated skin.
“…working herself to exhaustion…”
“Almost seven in the evening. You’ve been in and out for most of the day.”
155 Fovered Haze and Familiar Tensions
He sighed and turned toward the door, leaving Elara alone with his challenging observation hanging in the air between them.
“She’s awake!” Cora called over her shoulder, then approached the bed cautiously. “Mom, you’re really sick.”
“You kept it?” The question came out before she could stop it.
“Not really,” Elara admitted.
Elara tried to sit up but fell back, dizzy and weak. “What time is it?”
“Small sips,” Amelia instructed, watching her like a hawk.
“Even after all these years, you still don’t know how to fight back?” Damien finally said, something like disappointment coloring his tone.
Movement caught her attention. A figure sat in the armchair near the window,
illuminated by a small reading lamp. Damien.
Elara looked away, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. “You never have before.”
“Is Mom going to be okay?” Cora asked in a small voice.
He hadn’t noticed she was awake yet. His attention was fixed on the book in his hands, his profile sharp against the soft light. Elara remained still, watching him through
half–closed eyes.
Bill looked at her sternly. “You can and you will. Moving you now would risk a relapse.” “…never seen her this ill…”
Alarm shot through her. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“Mom?” she called weakly.
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” Bill said gently. “The body has ways of forcing us to rest when we ignore its warnings.”
Damien’s gaze shifted from the food to her face, then to the book on the “Does it bother you that I kept your book?”
e table.
The door opened immediately. Not her mother, but Cora’s worried face appeared.
“You need proper medical attention,” Eleanor insisted. “We’re taking you to Thorne
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Manor. Bill can examine you there.
“Why?” His voice held genuine curiosity. “Because I showed interest in something of yours?”
“I’m sorry for the trouble,” Elara murmured.
Heat. Unbearable heat. Elara awoke disoriented, her body burning from within. Sweat plastered her clothes to her skin. Her vision swam as she tried to focus on her surroundings.
Elara nodded weakly, sinking back against the pillows. “What time is it?”
“I know,” Elara said softly. “I’ll try again later.”
“Not hungry?” he asked.
Elara looked away, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Her gaze fell on the book he had set aside – her book. The one she’d been reading during their hot spring retreat months ago. The one she thought she’d lost.
Left alone with the food, Elara found her appetite had vanished again. The soup smelled good, but her eyes kept drifting to the book Damien had left behind. Their hot spring retreat – a rare peaceful moment in their marriage, arranged by Eleanor in one of her many attempts to bring them closer. Elara had spent most of it reading that book, escaping into its pages rather than facing the cold reality of her marriage.
She tried to speak but her throat felt like sandpaper. The small sound she managed was enough to draw his attention. His gaze shifted to her immediately.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Elara protested weakly. “Just tired.”
Panic fluttered in Elara’s chest. “Fifteen hours? But I have a meeting at-”
The familiar gates of Thorne Manor came into view just as Elara’s eyes fluttered closed again.
