Episode 8
The meticulously constructed silence of the Lennox mansion was shattered at 4:00 AM by a sound far worse than a broken piece of china: the unmistakable distress of a child being violently ill.
Ella, sleeping lightly due to the constant strain, was instantly awake. She found Lily in her expansive new bed, shivering hard, her fiery red hair sticking to a fever-damp forehead, her bright green eyes dull with misery. The floor around the bed was a scene of undeniable, messy chaos.
Ella's immediate reaction was pure Guardian instinct. She moved with focused speed, cleaning the immediate mess, stripping the bedding, and soothing Lily. She assessed the situation: high fever, stomach bug, clear need for comfort.
The disturbance reached Zavian's wing quickly. He appeared in the doorway moments later, fully dressed in black silk pajamas, his dark eyes sharp and narrow. He viewed the scene with cold detachment.
"What is the status?" he demanded, treating the illness like a sudden complication.
"Status is serious, contagious, and unexpected," Ella replied, without looking up. "High fever, vomiting. She needs fever reducers and fluids. And you need to stay back. Call your doctor immediately."
Zavian, for all his power at Lennox Capital, was momentarily paralyzed by the sheer, unquantifiable mess of the situation. He was used to commanding results; he had no plan for common sickness and childhood misery. He retreated to make the call, his focus already shifting to securing resources: summoning his private physician and arranging for specialized help.
The rest of the morning saw the complete reversal of authority in the house. Zavian was forced to cancel his entire day, leaving multi-million dollar deals on hold. He sat rigidly in his office, issuing directives to his staff and demanding updates on Lily's condition, viewing the illness as a threat to the stability he was contracted to provide.
Ella became the only functional expert. She moved calmly, patiently giving Lily water and medicine, changing the linens, and providing the close, messy comfort a sick child desperately needed. She was dressed in an old T-shirt and sweatpants—a soft, worn contrast to her tailored suits—and she moved with a quiet authority Zavian couldn't challenge.
He watched her from the doorway repeatedly—a silent, intense surveillance. He saw the gentle firmness of her hands, the endless patience in her gray eyes as she coaxed Lily to drink. He saw a natural, maternal warmth that was completely absent in the sharp, sarcastic woman he fought daily. He realized he had misjudged her capacity for deep care.
"The physician is arriving at eleven," Zavian stated in the afternoon, entering the room quietly. He stood near the door, keeping a careful distance. "I have secured all necessary supplies. Do you require any further assistance?"
"I require a break, not supplies," Ella replied, her voice low with exhaustion. "She's sleeping now. Her fever is down slightly. She needs someone to watch her for two hours so I can finally clean myself up."
Zavian stiffened. "Me? That is the housekeeper's duty..."
"The housekeeper is busy disinfecting the rest of the house. You," Ella said, handing him a simple glass thermometer, "are the only other adult whose presence won't terrify a sick child. You are responsible for ensuring this reading stays below a hundred and one degrees. If it rises, wake me immediately."
He accepted the task with the rigid discomfort of a man accepting a dangerous assignment. He was left alone with Lily, sitting awkwardly in a massive armchair, the tiny, vulnerable child sleeping soundly under his stern, watchful gaze.
By late afternoon, the crisis had passed. The fever broke, the physician confirmed it was a common bug, and Lily was settled into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Ella, utterly drained, was slumped on the floor next to Lily's bed, her back resting against the wall. She was still in the soft, old clothes, a smudge of dirt or something worse on her cheek, her posture completely defeated.
Zavian entered the room. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, watching her for a long moment, the controlled lines of his imposing figure softened slightly by the low light and the quiet relief in the room.
"She'll be fine," he murmured, his voice low and private.
"I know," Ella whispered, too tired to summon her usual cutting edge. "She's tough."
Zavian walked closer, not toward the bed, but toward Ella. He knelt down, bringing his face level with hers. He reached out slowly, and Ella, exhausted and defenseless, didn't pull away. His fingers gently brushed a stray, damp lock of dark brown hair away from her forehead. The touch was simple, a gesture of shared exhaustion and respect.
"You handled the situation with... efficiency," he said, his cold hazel eyes holding hers. It was the highest praise he could give, and yet, it sounded fragile. "Thank you, Ella."
The exhaustion, the quiet relief, and the raw sincerity in his eyes stripped away all of Ella's defenses. She saw past the ruthless investor, past the contract, and saw only a man relieved that a child under his protection was safe.
His face was close—too close. The heat of his body, the faint scent of his expensive cologne, all mixed with the clean smell of the sickroom, was overwhelming. The air between them was thick with shared adrenaline and a desperate, fragile intimacy.
Ella knew the rules: Business Only. But the moment was unplanned, raw, and completely outside the contract's terms. His gaze dropped to her lips, and the controlled power that defined him seemed to melt into a heavy, charged anticipation. He lowered his head slowly, and Ella found herself waiting, trapped by the inevitability of his approach.
Just as their lips were about to meet—the point of no return—Ella's own instinct flared, but not to protect Lily.
She recoiled sharply, pressing her shoulder hard against the wall. "Don't," she breathed, the word a desperate plea more than a command.
Zavian froze, his own control snapping back instantly, his face turning hard and distant. He stood up swiftly, creating an immediate, absolute distance between them.
"Right," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "The boundaries remain. Understood. I will arrange for the driver to take you to the office tomorrow. The schedule resumes."
He left the room without looking back. Ella remained on the floor, shaking not from fatigue, but from the sudden, sharp realization that the contract was irrelevant. The emotional risk between them had become intensely real, and she had just proved that she was terrified of what came next.