Chapter 178
“Thank you.”
Isabella Sinclair managed to murmur the words, but her exhaustion was impossible to hide.
She was too drained to think about Dominic Sterling or anything else. Her mind felt sluggish, her thoughts moving through thick molasses.
Standing up, she added, “Mr. Kingsley, I’ll find a room to rest.”
But the moment the words left her lips, her body swayed dangerously.
Alexander noticed instantly. Without hesitation, he reached out to steady her. The moment his fingers brushed her skin, he recoiled slightly—she was burning up. Feverishly hot.
Even Isabella could feel it now.
“You’re running a fever,” Alexander said, guiding her back down into the chair. “And it’s high. How didn’t you notice?”
Isabella offered a weak smile. “Happens all the time. I’m used to it.”
“I don’t want you getting used to this, Isabella,” Alexander muttered, his voice tight with frustration. “At the very least, you should tell someone when something’s wrong.”
His irritation simmered beneath the surface. Isabella was burning up, yet she’d been speaking to him so casually, as if it were nothing. He remembered the first time he’d seen her fridge—empty except for instant noodles. How did she live like this, so indifferent to her own well-being?
“It’s just a fever,” Isabella shrugged, bewildered by his concern.
Pain was no stranger to her. Headaches, fevers—these were normal. During missions, she’d gone days without medication, simply enduring. And after marrying into the Blackwood family, she’d learned to swallow everything—Ethan’s disdain had forced her to bury every emotion deep inside.
This was the first time someone had urged her to speak up.
The care, the concern—it felt foreign. Uncomfortable.
Alexander immediately called for the doctor. “Isabella has a fever. Come take care of it.”
Though she was the one who was sick, Alexander’s expression was dark, almost angry.
“Wait here,” he ordered. “I’ll get a wet towel to cool you down.”
Isabella wanted to tell him it wasn’t necessary—that all she needed was medicine and rest—but when she saw the hard set of his jaw, the frustration simmering beneath his controlled exterior, she stayed silent.
She let him fuss over her.
When the doctor rushed in, he was met with a sight he never expected: Alexander Kingsley—the famously distant and moody CEO—was carefully dabbing Isabella’s forehead with a damp towel.
Not only that, but Isabella was sitting in his wheelchair.
The doctor blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating. He hurried over, pressing a hand to Isabella’s forehead. Even without a thermometer, her temperature was obvious.
As he pulled away, his gaze caught on an inflamed wound at the nape of her neck. His breath hitched.
“This looks like an infection from a venomous insect in the forest. We don’t have many supplies on the yacht—we need to return to Ontdale immediately.”
He rifled through his medical kit. “I’ll find something for Ms. Sinclair.”
Alexander frowned. “I’ll give it to her. You go check if Dominic has any antibiotics.”
Meanwhile, exhaustion dragged at Isabella like an anchor. Her eyelids were impossibly heavy, her body surrendering to fatigue.
Odd—when she hadn’t acknowledged the fever, she’d pushed through. But now that Alexander had pointed it out, now that she saw the worry etched into his features, she felt herself unraveling.
In a haze, she heard a voice.
“Open your mouth.”
But she couldn’t respond. Her body felt like lead.
Then, gently, her chin was tilted up. Something cool touched her lips, followed by the warmth of a tongue prying them open. She swallowed, the bitterness of pills dissolving against her tongue, chased by liquid.
The breath against her skin was hot, fevered. Isabella felt like she was melting, burning from the inside out.
Her lips parted instinctively, her tongue flicking out to wet them.
A bittersweet taste lingered—mingled with something fresh, familiar… soothing.
Alexander’s grip loosened as he set the cup aside.
When he’d fed her the medicine, Isabella had unknowingly licked his lips.
The contact had been fleeting—but it was enough.
Enough to ignite something.
“Isabella?” Alexander’s voice was rough, strained.
But she didn’t answer.
The moment the pills had gone down, she’d fallen asleep—oblivious to what had just happened, unaware of the quiet storm brewing inside him.
Alexander’s pulse hammered. His own body burned hotter.
He stood abruptly, retreating to the bathroom for a cold shower.
As icy water cascaded over him, he closed his eyes, forcing himself to regain control—to push back the heat coursing through his veins.
I must be losing my mind.
