Page 57 of When He Was Mine

“I’ll be fine as long as Brenda stays with me,” I assured him, grateful for his thoughtfulness.

“Are you sure?” Oliver double-checked, his worry lingering in his voice.

“Fine,” I relented, suppressing another coughing fit.

“Christ, Ryleigh, you’re making me rethink my decision,” Oliver confessed, his concern bordering on exasperation.

“Go to London,” I urged him, not wanting him to worry about me.

“I’ll try to be home tomorrow evening,” Oliver promised, his commitment to me unwavering.

“You said you would be away for four days,” I reminded him, wanting to ensure he didn't sacrifice too much for my sake.

“Due to the circumstances, I can cut the trip short. Now go home, and I’ll call you later,” Oliver insisted, his love shining through his words.

“Thank you,” I whispered gratefully, feeling overwhelmed by his care.

“You don’t have to thank me. I love you,” Oliver said softly, his affection warming my heart.

“Love you too,” I replied.

I ended the call and turned to Henri, who was waiting patiently by my side. “Miss Stewart, do you need my assistance downstairs?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted, feeling weak and dizzy.

Henri offered his arm, and I accepted it gratefully as we made our way out of the office. With Henri’s support, I managed to navigate to the waiting limo, where Brenda was already seated, ready to accompany me home.

“You don’t look too well,” Brenda observed with concern, her voice filled with sympathy.

She placed a cool hand on my forehead, and I shivered as the coldness seeped into my skin.

“You’re hot. You must have a fever,” she concluded, her worry deepening.

“I just want to go to bed,” I murmured, feeling drained and exhausted.

I dozed off during the ride home while Vlad expertly navigated the streets to the penthouse. When we arrived, Brenda helped me upstairs, her steady presence a comfort.

I welcomed the warmth of the lobby as we entered, feeling a chill settle over me. I stopped at the thermostat in the hall to raise the temperature, hating the approach of November and the impending winter it signified.

Brenda guided me to the bedroom, her arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get you to bed,” she said softly, her voice a soothing balm to my frazzled nerves.

“I hate this time of year,” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper.

Brenda gave me a sympathetic smile as she helped me out of my coat. “I know. But you’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

I nodded weakly, too tired to respond. It took effort for me to change my clothing, pulling on a pair of flannel pajamas. As I crawled into bed, Brenda pulled the covers up around me and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead.

“Try to get some rest,” she said gently. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

I closed my eyes; the warmth of the blankets and Brenda’s reassuring presence finally allowed me to relax. The sound of her soft footsteps as she moved around the room was the last thing I heard before sleep claimed me.

I wondered if Brenda was a mother. She couldn’t be more than thirty, but she was maternal in every way. She cared for me like I was her child, making me tea and checking on me throughout the day. My fever hovered at one hundred one, only decreasing with a dose of aspirin. I slept most of the time and when the room became dark as evening fell, I stayed in bed.

My appetite was non-existent, and the very thought of food turned my stomach. The next time I woke, my hair was smoothed back from my cheek.

“Mom?”

“No, sweetheart, it’s Oliver.”

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