Chapter 209
The morning sun spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Isabella Voss’s penthouse, turning every surface into something out of a glossy magazine spread. Warm gold light slid across the marble counters, kissed the velvet sofas, and shimmered over the quiet luxury that seemed to breathe on its own. Even the air felt curated—fresh coffee drifting in from the kitchen, lavender humming softly from the diffuser Isabella insisted would “calm the soul p>
For the past two days, Henry Jackson had been hidden away in this glittering sanctuary, a man taking refuge inside someone else’s world while his own burned to ash. He lay sprawled across the king-sized bed, the sheets twisted around his legs like they were trying to anchor him. His once confident, clean-cut features had hollowed out; his skin carried the faint sheen of a fever, and his breath came in uneven waves. Sweat clung to his brow, soaking into his dark hair, while his warm blue eyes—eyes that used to shine with that quiet, earnest drive—were now swollen and rimmed with red, raw from nights where sleep refused to stay and memories refused to leave.
He looked nothing like Henry Jackson, the man who was always cheerful and lifted everyone up, no matter who they were.
He looked like someone trying to survive the wreckage of a heart that had finally, violently, given out.
Henry stirred weakly, his head pounding like a drum. The fever had hit him hard the morning after his arrival, a brutal combination of the bar fight’s injuries, the alcohol’s aftermath, and the emotional wreckage left by Eliana’s rejection. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, its screen cracked from yesterday, and saw the missed calls—dozens from Eliana, a few from his family secretary. But he couldn’t bring himself to answer. Picking up would mean hearing her voice, that soft, melodic tone that had once been his anchor, now a dagger twisting in his chest. “No,” he muttered to himself, tossing the phone aside. “I can’t. Not yet p>
The penthouse door to the guest room creaked open, and Isabella entered, carrying a tray laden with chamomile tea, toast, and a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with fresh berries. Her elegant silk robe swished softly against the hardwood floor, and her red hair was pulled back into a loose bun, revealing the concern etched on her flawless features. She had met Henry only nights ago at that fateful bar, both drowning their sorrows, now, here she was, playing nurse to a man who was practically a stranger, yet felt like a kindred spirit in heartbreak.
“Henry? You’re awake,” Isabella said gently, setting the tray on the bedside table. She perched on the edge of the bed, her hand brushing his forehead to check his temperature. It was still alarmingly high, but better than the night before when he’d been delirious, mumbling Eliana’s name in his sleep.
He turned his head toward her, his voice raspy and broken. “Isabella… you don’t have to do this. I should go home. Or… somewhere p>
“Nonsense,” she said—firm, but with that quiet warmth that always slipped through the cracks of her polished-steel businesswoman exterior. “You told me you both live together. Going back to your empty house would only torture you. Every corner would whisper her name… every room would drag up memories you’re not ready to face p>
Henry let out a shaky breath, his voice thin and ragged. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, sounding like the weight of those words alone was enough to break him. “Maybe I should… go back to the hospital. Try harder—anything—to convince her not to leave me.” His voice wavered, the tears pushing through before he could stop them.
“Henry, no.” Isabella’s expression softened instantly, the sadness flickering in her eyes betraying how deeply she cared. “The hospital? For what? To stand in front of Eliana and beg her to choose you over a billionaire who already has her heart?” She shook her head slowly. “Absolutely not p>
She moved closer, slipping an arm behind his back with unexpected gentleness. “You’re staying here,” she said quietly, “until your body stops shaking and your heart can at least defend itself. Now—come on. Sit up a little p>
She lifted a porcelain cup from the tray beside him, the steam curling upward like something patient and calming. “Drink this,” she murmured, guiding it into his hands. “It’ll soothe your throat… and maybe the rest of you too p>
Henry pushed himself up against the pillows, wincing as pain shot through his bruised ribs. He took the cup from her, the steam rising like a veil between them. “Why are you being so kind? We barely know each other. That night at the bar… I was just trying to help you forget your own mess with Logan p>
Isabella’s eyes, a striking emerald green, flickered with empathy. She remembered that night vividly—the shock of overhearing Logan’s whispered plans with his lover in their bedroom, plotting to marry her for her fortune and then dispose of her. The wedding dress still hung in her closet like a ghost. “Because I know what it’s like to have your heart ripped out,” she confessed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “To trust someone completely, only to realize it was all a lie. You were there for me, Henry—defending me when Logan showed up angry and aggressive at the hotel. You didn’t hesitate. Now, let me be here for you. Eat something. Please p>
He managed a weak sip of tea, the herbal warmth easing the ache in his chest just a fraction. But then the tears came again, unbidden, spilling down his cheeks. “I miss her so much, Isabella. Eliana… she’s everything. We met in college, you know? I loved her from the start, but she was with Jason back then. I kept it hidden, supported her through everything. When she dropped out, I thought she’d transferred schools—that’s what Jason said. But now… she’s pregnant with Rafael Vexley’s child, and she’s choosing him. She said she loves me like a brother. A brother! She has never chosen me as a man. Never p>
Isabella reached out, wiping his tears with a soft tissue. Her touch was maternal yet intimate, born from shared vulnerability. “Shh, it’s okay to cry. Let it out. I cried for hours after I found out about Logan. That slimy bastard and his baby mama plotting in my own home—the wedding was supposed to be the next day! I felt like a fool. But you? You’re not a fool, Henry. You’re a good man who’s loved deeply. And sometimes, that love blinds us. She doesn’t see what she’s losing, but you will heal. I promise p>
As the day wore on, Henry’s fever spiked again, leaving him shivering under the blankets. Isabella stayed by his side, applying cool compresses to his forehead and reading aloud from a book of poetry she’d found on her shelf—verses about lost love and renewal that mirrored their pains. In the quiet moments, he’d murmur about Eliana: “I want to check on her father, Frank. He’s in a coma because of her mother’s schemes. And the baby…even if it’s not mine. I want to go so badly. But I know, if I go to that hospital, I’ll break. I’ll beg her not to marry him, and I’ll look pathetic p>
“You won’t look pathetic,” Isabella assured him, adjusting the pillows behind his head. “You’ll look human. But like I said minutes ago, right now, you’re not ready. Stay here, heal. When the time comes, you’ll face it with strength p>
To be continued p>