Chapter 6 - The Bedside
I don't know how long we stayed on the floor.
When her shivering finally slowed from violent spasms into a deep, rhythmic tremble, I used the edge of the bed frame to pull myself up, lifting her with me in one fluid, agony-filled push of my arms.
I placed her on the center of my king-sized mattress—the vast, pristine black silk duvet swallowing her tiny frame completely.
I reached for my chair, pulled it close, and heaved myself back into the leather seat. My arms were trembling with exhaustion, my shoulders burning with lactic acid, but I didn't care.
I pulled off her soaked canvas sneakers, tossing them into the corner of the room where they hit the wall with a dull thunk. I peeled off her wet socks. Her feet were white, cold as marble, and bruised at the heels.
I took a dry, plush bath towel from the bathroom and rubbed her feet until the skin turned a faint, healthy pink. Then I wrapped her in three layers of heated blankets, set the bedroom thermostat to seventy-eight degrees, and sat in my chair beside the bed.
I didn't call the house medical staff. I didn't call Mrs. Gable.
I sat there in the dark, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the blankets.
At 4:30 AM, she moved.
A soft groan escaped her lips, her eyelids fluttering open. She looked around the vast, dimly lit room—at the dark wood ceiling, the massive fireplace, the velvet drapes—before her eyes finally landed on me.
I was sitting three feet away, my arms crossed over my chest, my face illuminated only by the warm glow of the gas fireplace.
She blinked, confusion clouding her eyes. "Mr... Mr. Vance?"
"You're an idiot," I said. My voice was thick, dry, and low.
She tried to sit up, her hands pushing against the mattress, but the heavy heated blankets held her down. "What... where am I? What time is it?"
"It's four in the morning," I said. "You collapsed in the hallway from hypothermia because you decided to walk two miles through a blizzard in summer shoes."
She looked down at the dark silk sheets, then at the thick blankets wrapped around her. A sudden flash of panic crossed her face.
"My shoes..." she whispered. "My shift... I didn't finish the library..."
"If you mention the library one more time tonight, I'm going to throw your cleaning bucket out the fifth-floor window," I growled, leaning forward in my chair.
She went quiet, looking up at me through her long, dark lashes. Her skin had regained its color—a soft, pale peach—and her eyes were no longer dull. They were bright, clear, and intensely focused on my face.
"You carried me," she said softly. It wasn't a question.
I looked away, staring into the flickering yellow flames of the fireplace. "I dragged you. There's a difference."
"You could have left me in the hall and rang for the guards."
"The guards were busy clearing the driveway," I lied instantly. "And I didn't want a corpse rotting outside my bedroom door. It ruins the real estate value."
A tiny, faint smile touched the corner of her lips—a movement so subtle I almost thought I imagined it.
"Thank you, Victor," she whispered.
I froze. The sound of my name on her lips—spoken not with fear, not with anger, but with a quiet, undeniable warmth—sent a strange, sharp tremor down my spine.
"Don't thank me," I said, my tone turning harsh to cover the sudden tightness in my throat. "You're taking tomorrow night off. I'll have Luke drive you home in one of the armored SUVs once the plows clear Marlborough Street."
"I can't take tomorrow off," she said instantly, trying again to sit up. "I need the hours—"
"Your mother's account at Oak Park has been paid," I interrupted, the words spilling out before I could stop them.
Emma went completely still. The blanket fell from her shoulders as she sat straight up in the center of the bed, her eyes widening in pure, unadulterated shock.
"What?" she whispered, her breath catching in her throat.
"The balance is zero," I said, keeping my face completely expressionless. "An anonymous corporate trust paid the account in full yesterday morning. They also pre-paid the next five years of private care, including dedicated nursing."
Emma stared at me. The room went so quiet I could hear the wind howling against the glass three floors down.
"You..." she breathed, her hand going to her mouth. "It was you."
"It was a corporate tax write-off," I said smoothly, leaning back into my chair and resting my hands on my lap. "Sterling Capital cleared several million in offshore capital gains this quarter. My legal team needed a charitable deduction in Cook County to balance the filings. It meant nothing to me."
Tears welled up in her green eyes—huge, brilliant drops that spilled over her lashes and ran down her pale cheeks. She didn't sob. She didn't hide her face. She just sat there on my bed, staring at me as if I had just reached down from the heavens and rewritten the laws of physics.
"Why?" she asked, her voice cracking. "Why would you do that for me?"
"Because you're annoying," I growled, looking back at the fire. "And because I couldn't stand listening to you drag your feet down my hallway every night like an old donkey."
Emma let out a sound—a mix between a sob and a laugh—and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
"You're a terrible liar, Victor Vance," she whispered, her voice thick with tears.
"I'm a mafia boss, Emma," I said, turning my head back to meet her eyes, my expression darkening into something serious, heavy, and real. "I'm a liar, a thief, and a murderer. Don't forget who sits in this chair."
"I know who sits in that chair," she said softly, looking straight into my dark, cold eyes without a single trace of fear. "It's the only man in this city who gave me a blanket when I was dying."
She lay back down on the black silk pillows, pulling the heavy down blanket up to her ears, her eyes never leaving my face.
"Go to sleep, Emma," I said softly.
"Are you staying?" she asked.
I looked down at my dead legs, then back at her small, pale face resting against my black pillows.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said. "I can't."
She smiled—a real, full, beautiful smile that lit up her pale face like the spring sun—and closed her eyes.
May you like
Within two minutes, her breathing turned deep, slow, and peaceful.
I sat in my chair by the bedside until the sun rose over Lake Michigan, watching over the only woman on earth who had looked at my broken body and found a human being inside.
