"Selene… Selene…"
The voice echoed softly, dragging her from a darkness that clung to her like heavy velvet. A beeping sound pulsed steadily in her ears — the only rhythm grounding her to reality. Her lashes fluttered, lids heavy like iron curtains. And when her eyes finally opened, the first thing she saw was him.
Zenon Vander.
Slouched in a chair beside her hospital bed, his suit jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up. His head leaned back against the chair, eyes shut, jaw tight — as if even in sleep, he couldn't unclench from the world.
*Was he… sleeping?*
She blinked slowly. Her hand moved, and a faint tug reminded her of the IV drip connected to her wrist. Her gown was still on. No bruises, no warmth, no—
*"Geez… wasn't I making love to this devil man?"* she whispered to herself.
Her heart sank. She glanced down her body, frustrated. "Argh…" It was all a dream. Damn it.
When her eyes lifted again, his gaze was waiting — sharp, unreadable.
Silence stretched between them.
"Please tell me it was real," she murmured, barely above a whisper.
Zenon didn't blink. "You passed out in the elevator before we could get to the room. Did your head say otherwise?"
His tone was calm, but the edge was there — teasing, maybe. Or cautious.
"You slept for nine hours," he added, his gaze unreadable as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
Selene stared out the window. Night had fallen. "Nine?" she repeated, half to herself.
"You staggered, collapsed on me," Zenon continued. "Ruined my T-shirt. Ten thousand dollars. You owe me."
She scoffed under her breath. "Pfft. Take it off my hospital bill."
He leaned forward, gaze narrowing. "Doctor said it's a result of your condition. I'm not allowed to touch you for a month."
Selene almost sat up. "A month?!"
Zenon gave her a pointed look — the kind that said: *if you like, break your head.*
"You heard me," he said flatly. "No baby-making until a month."
Before she could retort, a knock came.
"Mr. Vander…" the doctor peeked in.
Zenon didn't even turn his head. "Get out."
The doctor stammered. "S-sir—"
"Out."
Another knock. Five minutes passed.
"Get in," Zenon finally said, bored.
Selene rolled her eyes. Seriously?
The doctor shuffled in, bowing. "Mrs… your condition is worsening. You need to rest."
Selene's brows drew together. "Rest? You told me to get a baby husband and I did — what's next, a coffin?"
The doctor blinked nervously. "I… is he really your husband?"
Selene closed her eyes and exhaled sharply. "Yes."
"Mr. Vander," the doctor stammered. "She needs vegetables, clean meals. You should feed her. Care for her."
Zenon, oddly, just listened — arms crossed, face thoughtful.
"Mrs. Vander, like I said your condition is worsening," the doctor said, glancing between the two of them. "The stress, physical strain, and hormonal imbalance are aggravating your reproductive system. You need complete rest—no intimacy, no stress, no strenuous activity—for at least a month. If not, you may reduce your chances of conception even further."
When the doctor left, silence returned.
Selene's thoughts drifted again — to the dream. *That kiss. That weight. That warmth.* The way he'd held her like she was breakable… but real.
*Too good to be true.* She bit her lip, frustrated.
Zenon stood slowly. His tall frame loomed as he leaned over the bed, both fists pressed into the mattress, face inches from hers.
His voice dropped, velvet-smooth and deadly calm.
"So, tell me…" His eyes narrowed, one brow raised. "What kind of dream makes you frown and smile at the same time?"
Selene's heart stuttered.
He tilted his head. "Was it about someone… whose name starts with Z?"
*"Yes."*
She answered simply.
Zenon smirked, clearly satisfied.
*"Zebras,"* she added quickly.
*"Zebras having a wonderful time with their kids… because their husband allowed them to have one."*
He chuckled lowly, his eyes glinting.
*"Guess I already know what your dream was about."*
He stood straighter.
*"You're grounded for the month. No going out. If you must, only as far as the garden. Any public engagements involving you are postponed."*
He turned to glance back at her.
*"Don't take it personally. I'm just doing my job."*
*"What?!"* Selene frowned, sitting up with effort.
*"You don't get to throw my own words back at me."*
Zenon pressed his fingers to his temples, like he was holding back a headache.
*"You've really pampered this woman, Zenon,"* he muttered to himself. *"Now she thinks she can stand and talk back."*
Selene rolled her eyes and folded her arms.
*"I'm obviously *sitting*,"* she replied flatly.
He glanced at her.
*"Good thing you're not nagging me about personal matters. I hate nagging women."*
She sighed.
*"One months gone… five to go."*
*"So we've been married almost a month?"* he said, like he was talking about a board meeting.
*"Feels like yesterday."*
She bit her lip, then said quietly,
*"That's because you're boring."*
He nodded without offense.
*"If you want to see an interesting husband, you'll have to earn it."*
Selene dropped back on the bed with a groan.
*"I'll never in my life imagine you as a caring husband. You're a cruel billionaire, Zenon."*
He ignored her jab, tossing a pill bottle onto the nightstand.
*"Don't move. I'm going to get your food. If you try, I'll show you what a *monstrous* billionaire looks like."*
She faced the wall with a dramatic sigh.
*"Go away."*
But when he turned to leave, her lips curled up in a shy smile.
*He's going to get me food… how romantic.*
Hand on the doorknob, Zenon glanced over his shoulder.
*"Ginger beef soup. And fried lettuce."*
Selene shot up like lightning.
*"No! Not lettuce and ginger soup—wait! Wait, don't go!"*
Zenon smirked, clearly pleased, and walked out without another word.
Selene grabbed a pillow and groaned into it like a sulking child.
*"Why is this man always doing this?!"*
---
Zenon strolled down the quiet hospital corridor, the low fluorescent lights flickering above him. It felt as though the entire hospital had been emptied, cleared just for Selene — *the dramatic woman who nearly collapsed on him like she was auditioning for a stage play*.
He stepped into the elevator, hands in his pockets. As the doors closed, he muttered to himself, "Crazy woman…"
The doors slid open again to a different world — outside, the night was alive.
Children laughed, chasing each other with sparklers, their fireworks lighting up the night like fireflies. The streets were mostly deserted, only a few stalls remained open, their tarps rustling lightly in the breeze under the dim glow of street lamps.
Zenon's eyes scanned the area. *No proper restaurant.* His jaw clenched.
He walked toward a makeshift stall stacked with ginger and beef. Bending slightly, his fingers brushed over the ingredients with quiet precision, rejecting anything less than perfect. The vendor — two young women — could hardly breathe. One nudged the other, both blushing uncontrollably as Zenon's lean, well-dressed figure moved with the grace of a man too powerful to be there.
When he handed the cash, the girls stammered in chorus, "T-thank you… come back again!"
He said nothing and moved on to the lettuce stall.
The lettuce was wilting, limp and pale. He sighed sharply, picking them up and dropping them like broken promises.
"This one's better," a man's voice said beside him.
Zenon turned slowly.
The man — casually dressed, mid-thirties, lean build — was smiling too much. He held out a pack of fresh lettuce like a peace offering.
Zenon's brows lifted in irritation. He scoffed, said nothing, and walked to the next stall.
The man followed.
"You're Mr. Vander, right?" he asked, the same grin on his face.
Zenon stopped. He turned slightly, one brow raised.
"… You flirting with me, or do you always follow random men around"
The man blinked, caught off guard. "What—?"
"What's with the weird smiling?" Zenon cut in, voice low and annoyed. "You're following me like a perfume advert."
He turned again, this time grabbing a fresher bunch of lettuce.
But when he heard footsteps close behind him once more, he halted.
"If you follow me again," Zenon said calmly, not turning around, "you might not live to see the consequences."
There was no threat in his tone — just certainty