Chapter 4
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Her hand fumbled in the darkness, but the name on the screen instantly cleared the fog from her mind—Marcus Lane. A call at this hour couldn't be good.
"Marcus?" she answered, voice still rough with sleep.
"Rachel, I apologize for the hour," Marcus's voice was taut with tension. "Mr. Blake's been hospitalized—gastric hemorrhage. All tomorrow's appointments need rescheduling."
Rachel shot upright, fully awake now. "How bad? Which hospital?"
"Westlake Medical Center, Gastroenterology wing. Doctors say it's not life-threatening, but he needs observation for several days." Marcus paused. "He explicitly ordered that no one visit him and that business continue as usual."
Rachel was already pulling clothes from her closet. "I'll be there in thirty minutes."
"Did you not hear me? He specifically said no visitors—"
"I heard you," Rachel cut him off, yanking a sweater over her head. "You handle the schedule changes. I'm going to the hospital."
A beat of silence. "You understand what happens to people who defy direct orders from Ethan Blake, right?"
"I'll deal with the consequences myself." Rachel ended the call, splashed water on her face, and grabbed her keys.
The pre-dawn autumn air bit through her clothes as she waited for a taxi. When one finally stopped, the stale cigarette smoke and artificial pine scent inside made her already churning stomach worse. She cracked the window, letting in the cold air to clear her head.
Ethan Blake. Gastric hemorrhage. The words kept cycling through her mind. For three months, she'd watched him abuse his body—fourteen-hour workdays, coffee instead of meals, cold sandwiches eaten absently while working, sometimes no food at all. She'd tried to intervene, only to be silenced by that arctic stare.
The hospital corridor stretched empty and silent, her footsteps echoing off sterile walls. At the nurses' station, she got Ethan's room number and approached quietly. Through the small window in the door, she saw Marcus standing beside the bed where Ethan lay—the always-commanding Ethan Blake, now pale against white sheets, an IV line in his arm, brow furrowed even in sleep.
Rachel reached for the door handle just as Marcus spotted her. He quickly stepped out, blocking her entry.
"I thought I was clear," he whispered harshly. "He doesn't want visitors."
"When can he leave?" Rachel tried to see past him into the room.
"Three days minimum," Marcus sighed. "Look, he's in a foul mood. Going in there now is career suicide. Whatever you need to handle can wait until morning."
Rachel bit her lip. "How did it get this bad so quickly?"
"Old problem," Marcus shook his head. "He's had gastric issues since college. Got worse when he took over the company. Doctors have warned him repeatedly, but…" He shrugged helplessly.
A weak voice called from inside. "Marcus?"
Marcus shot Rachel a warning glance before slipping back inside. Rachel pressed closer to the door, catching fragments of conversation.
"Who's out there?"
"Just a nurse checking rounds, sir."
"The board meeting tomorrow—"
"Already rescheduled. You need to rest."
"Get me my laptop."
Rachel couldn't stop herself—she pushed the door open. "You can't possibly work now!"
Both men turned sharply. Ethan's eyes flashed with anger despite his pallor. "Who authorized you to be here?"
Marcus made frantic "get out" gestures, but Rachel was already at the bedside. "What's the doctor's prognosis?"
"Get out." Ethan's voice was quiet but lethal.
Rachel stood her ground. "You need rest."
"I said," each word precisely enunciated, "get out."
Marcus grabbed her elbow. "Let's go before you make things worse."
As Marcus pulled her from the room, Rachel caught one last glimpse of Ethan—struggling to reach for his laptop despite the IV line, his expression a mixture of fury and frustration, like a caged predator.
…
At eight the next morning, Rachel returned to the hospital carrying an insulated food container. With the night nurses gone, no one questioned her presence. She approached Ethan's room, took a steadying breath, and knocked softly.
Silence.
She knocked once more before easing the door open. Ethan was propped against pillows, typing on his phone. He looked up, eyes instantly hardening.
"I explicitly said no—"
"Yam and millet porridge," Rachel interrupted, holding up the container. "Gentle on the stomach lining."
Ethan's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do you have a comprehension problem?"
Rachel ignored him, approaching the bed and opening the container. The warm, comforting aroma of rice and yam filled the sterile room. She produced a bowl and spoon from her bag and served a portion.
"The doctor said no food for twenty-four hours," she said matter-of-factly. "That restriction lifted fifteen minutes ago."
Ethan stared at her, then gave a short, humorless laugh. "Is this supposed to win me over?"
Rachel paused briefly, then continued serving. "No. I just don't want to reorganize your schedule again when you collapse from malnutrition." She held out the bowl. "Eat while it's hot."
Ethan didn't move. "Leave it and go."
Rachel didn't budge. "Your right hand works fine."
They remained locked in silent combat, neither yielding. Finally, Ethan reached for the bowl, jarring his IV line and grimacing in pain.
"Careful!" Rachel instinctively moved to help, then caught herself.
Ethan shot her a cold look before taking a spoonful. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly—the porridge was perfectly warm, the yam tender, the rice cooked to a silky consistency that required minimal chewing.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, tone still frosty despite taking another bite.
"I made it," Rachel said, relief washing over her as he continued eating. "My father has chronic gastritis. His doctor gave us this recipe."
Ethan said nothing more until he finished the bowl. When Rachel moved to serve more, he shook his head. "That's sufficient."
Rachel closed the container. "I'll bring something different at noon."
"Unnecessary," Ethan picked up his phone again. "Return to work."
Rachel ignored his dismissal. "Pumpkin porridge and steamed egg custard for lunch. The doctor says you need to avoid fats and oils for at least three days."
Ethan's gaze sharpened. "Rachel. Don't test me."
"I'm simply fulfilling my duties as your assistant," Rachel replied evenly. "If you're still unhappy when you're discharged, you're welcome to fire me then."
Ethan studied her for a long moment, as if gauging her resolve. Finally, he waved a dismissive hand. "Do whatever you want."
Rachel nodded and turned to leave. As she reached the door, she heard him call out, "Bring my laptop tomorrow."
She paused without turning. "No. Doctor's orders. No work."
She closed the door quickly, cutting off his angry retort.
…
At noon on the third day, Rachel arrived with lunch as usual. Over the past seventy-two hours, Ethan's attitude had evolved from outright hostility to grudging tolerance. He still frowned when she entered, but at least he no longer ordered her to leave.
When she pushed open the door, she was surprised to find Ethan sitting at the small table by the window, reviewing documents.
"Did the doctor clear you for work?" she asked, setting down the food container.
"No," he replied without looking up.
"Then why are you—"
"Just leave the food and go," Ethan cut her off, his voice regaining some of its usual commanding edge despite his pallor.
Rachel noticed the IV had been removed, and his wrist—visible beneath his shirt cuff—looked even thinner than before. She opened the container silently, revealing chicken congee with red dates and goji berries, accompanied by soft rice porridge.
Ethan finally glanced up, looking from the food to Rachel. "Shouldn't you be at the office?"
"Lunch hour," Rachel replied, offering him chopsticks. "You have more color today."
Ethan accepted the utensils but fixed her with a penetrating stare. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?" Rachel asked, genuinely confused.
"This." He gestured at the food. "Ignoring my direct orders. Coming here daily. Don't pretend it's just part of your job."
Rachel considered her answer carefully. "Because I know what it's like to be alone in a hospital room with nothing but your thoughts for company."
Something flickered across Ethan's face—too quickly for Rachel to identify. He took a bite of the congee, then commented, "It lacks flavor."
"The doctor specified low sodium," Rachel explained.
"Add more tomorrow," he said without looking up.
Rachel blinked, recognizing this as his roundabout way of accepting her continued visits. A small, unexpected warmth bloomed in her chest. "I'll adjust the seasoning."
Ethan finished eating and set down the chopsticks. "I'm checking out tomorrow."
"Did the doctor approve that?"
"Do I need permission?" Ethan scoffed, then winced as pain flashed across his face.
Rachel noticed immediately. "At least stay another day for monitoring."
Ethan didn't answer, just picked up his documents again. Rachel recognized this as his version of agreement and began packing up the containers.
"Rachel." Her name stopped her at the door.
She turned to find his eyes on her, his expression unreadable.
"Thank you." The words came so quietly she almost thought she'd imagined them.
Rachel offered a small smile and slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.
A week later, Ethan returned to work.
Though still somewhat pale, he seemed otherwise unchanged—just as demanding, just as exacting. But Rachel noticed subtle differences: he now took his coffee with milk, and actually ate the lunches she prepared and left in his office refrigerator.
Inevitably, office gossip flourished. Whispers suggested Rachel had earned her position through "extracurricular activities." She tried to ignore them, but the sudden silences when she entered rooms and the knowing smirks still stung.
"Ignore the vultures," Marcus advised during lunch one day. "Blake despises office gossip. If he catches wind of it, heads will roll."
Rachel shook her head. "I'd rather not escalate things."
Marcus studied her with a knowing look. "Do you understand why Blake treats you differently?"
Rachel's pulse quickened. "My… work performance?"
"Partly," Marcus nodded. "But more importantly, you stand up to him. Nobody does that. Not even me."
Rachel recalled Ethan grudgingly eating hospital porridge, and found herself smiling. "He's just a terrible patient, that's all."
"Maybe that's all he lets you see," Marcus said cryptically as he stood. "By the way, tomorrow's Blake's birthday. Company tradition is to send a cake. This year, you're handling it."
Rachel looked up in surprise. "Mr. Blake celebrates his birthday?"
She couldn't picture the austere CEO blowing out candles.
"He doesn't celebrate," Marcus clarified. "But he gets mountains of gifts anyway. Most go straight to charity."
The next morning, Rachel arrived an hour early to place a small cake on Ethan's desk. Rather than the elaborate confections most would choose, she'd selected a simple matcha mousse with "Happy Birthday E.B." in dark chocolate script.
Just as she set it down, the door opened and Ethan walked in. He paused at the sight of her and the cake, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
"Marcus mentioned the tradition," Rachel explained, suddenly nervous.
Ethan approached his desk and examined the cake. "Matcha?"
"Is that wrong?" Rachel's confidence faltered. "I noticed you always choose the matcha cookies from the break room, so I thought—"
"It's perfect," Ethan interrupted, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "Thank you."
Rachel exhaled in relief and turned to leave.
"Wait." Ethan reached into his briefcase and withdrew a flat, wrapped package. "This is for you."
Rachel stared at it, confused. "For me?"
"It's your birthday too, isn't it?" Ethan's tone returned to its usual businesslike cadence. "According to your personnel file."
Rachel accepted the package with trembling fingers. It was indeed her birthday—a fact she'd nearly forgotten herself, let alone expected Ethan to know.
"May I open it now?" she asked quietly.
Ethan nodded, already seated at his desk and powering up his computer as if the exchange were entirely ordinary.
Rachel carefully removed the wrapping to reveal an elegant box bearing the gold-embossed "W&K" logo—Winsor & King, the world's premier design tool manufacturer. Inside lay a complete professional set, the kind featured in design magazines but priced far beyond her means.
"This is—" Rachel's voice caught. "This is too much. I can't possibly—"
"It's a professional investment," Ethan said without looking up. "You start training with the Design Department next Wednesday afternoon. Marcus will handle the arrangements."
Rachel clutched the box, a warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the gift's monetary value. This wasn't just tools—it was recognition. Validation. "Thank you," she managed, her voice barely steady.
"Happy birthday," Ethan replied, eyes still on his screen. "Now get back to work."
Outside his office, Rachel leaned against the wall, trying to steady her breathing. She opened the box again, running her fingers over the precision instruments. At the bottom, she discovered a small card bearing Ethan's distinctive handwriting:
"Talent should never be buried. —E.B."
Rachel pressed the card to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. In that moment, she faced an undeniable truth—she was falling in love with Ethan Blake.
