"Does this mean the director has decided to take on the case?"
"Let's wait and see. Gather everything on the Sunray King project and bring it to me." Blaine Jackson's voice was clipped, but his dark eyes wandered—drawn, almost involuntarily, to the staircase leading to the second floor.
That girl. She'd been upstairs for over an hour. Why hadn't she come down? Left? Done... something?
"Understood, Director. I'll get it done right away," Annie replied, already turning toward the door.
"Wait—" Blaine's voice cut through the air, sharper than he intended.
Annie paused, looking back with a touch of hesitation. "Is there anything else you need, Director?"
"Oh, uh…" Blaine faltered, uncharacteristically unsure. "Just… is today colder than yesterday?"
Annie blinked. Of all the things he could've asked, she hadn't expected that. "Colder?"
"I haven't been outside," Blaine clarified, a faint frown tugging at his lips. "I just wondered."
Annie caught on quickly, a knowing smile lighting her face. "Definitely colder. And with the flu going around, Director, maybe you should take care of yourself too."
"Noted. Thanks. You can go now."
"Of course." She nodded and left, her footsteps fading into the hall.
**The flu?**
The thought lingered, nagging at him. That girl had no appetite. Her face had been flushed earlier, but her lips pale. She'd seemed unsteady, even fragile, her usual spark dimmed. Blaine glanced at the clock, his irritation growing. It was nearly noon. Still no sign of her. Should he check on her?
---
Upstairs, Chloe Grace lay curled in bed, restless and miserable. Sleep evaded her like a cruel joke.
This wasn't excitement. It wasn't even discomfort—it was something far worse. Her head throbbed relentlessly, and her body felt as though it had been thrown into a furnace.
She tried to open her eyes, but even that small effort felt impossible. Moving? Out of the question.
It hit her then, with a heavy, sinking dread—she was seriously unwell. How had this crept up on her? She'd always been healthy, rarely even catching a cold.
Her hazy thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of her door opening. Footsteps—hurried and purposeful—approached her bed.
A hallucination? That had to be it. Other than Blaine, who was busy downstairs, there was no one else here. The staff wouldn't dare venture upstairs without permission.
But then, she felt it—a large, cool hand pressing against her forehead. The sensation was so soothing it almost brought tears to her eyes. Instinctively, her fingers reached out, clasping onto the hand as if it were a lifeline.
"Chloe, let go." Blaine's voice was soft, yet firm. His hand, however, remained steady against her burning skin.
Her fever was raging—far worse than he'd feared. Guilt clawed at him. He should've known. The signs had been there, glaringly obvious, when she stumbled on the stairs and clung to him for balance. But instead of staying, he'd bolted, brushing her off with cold indifference.
"Chloe, you're burning up. You've got a fever," he murmured, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. "Be good and let go of my hand. I'll get medicine for you."
But Chloe only tightened her grip, her delicate face scrunching in discomfort. Her lips—still soft and flushed—pouted in stubborn refusal.
"Chloe?" Blaine leaned closer, alarm creeping into his voice. "Can you hear me?"
She didn't respond.
Sighing, Blaine carefully pried his hand free. But just as he turned to leave, something stopped him—a tug at his leg.
Looking down, he found her arms wrapped around his leg, her weight resting against it as though it were the only solid thing in her fevered world.
Even in his worry, he couldn't suppress a wry smile. "Chloe, you're impossible," he muttered under his breath.
With a resigned shake of his head, Blaine grabbed a thick coat from the nearby chair, wrapping it around her frail frame. Scooping her into his arms, he carried her out of the room.
---
Annie nearly dropped the stack of documents she was holding when she saw Blaine descending the stairs with Chloe in his arms.
"Director? Is she…?"
"She has a fever. It's bad. I'm taking her to the hospital," Blaine said brusquely, his jaw tight. His eyes flicked to the files in her hands. "Hold onto those for now. I'll deal with them later."
"Yes, Director." Annie nodded, but her gaze lingered on his face. It was rare—no, unheard of—for Blaine Jackson to wear such a raw expression of concern.
"Annie," Blaine called over his shoulder as he reached the door. "Where's the nearest hospital?"
"Oh! Just take a left outside the gates, then about three hundred meters, turn right, and it'll be on your left." She hesitated, then added, "Take the sedan Mrs. Zeller left for you."
"Thanks." Blaine adjusted Chloe in his arms and strode toward the sleek black car parked outside.
Settling Chloe into the passenger seat, he tried coaxing her upright. But her fevered daze left her clinging to him like a lifeline, her face pressed into his chest.
"Chloe," he said softly, yet firmly. "You need to sit up. The faster we get to the hospital, the faster you'll feel better."
She didn't move, her fragile hands clutching his shirt as though letting go would shatter her world.
Blaine sighed, exasperation melting into something softer. He closed the car door and turned toward the street, flagging down a taxi instead. Some things, it seemed, couldn't be rushed.