Lukas stared down at the bowl. His fox ears twitched violently as he fought a brutal internal war between his pride, his severe sensory exhaustion, and the sudden, ravenous hunger gnawing at his stomach.
He could just claim it was poison and have her taste it right there but her heart... It was beating way too fast and too loud. It didn’t sound like the heart of someone guilty or trying to hide something... It sounded like the heart of someone’s struggle and sacrifice.
He clenched his fist where she couldn’t see.
With an angry, dramatic huff, he reached out and snatched the heavy silver tray right out of her hands.
"Fine, the dish is mine to do as I please. Now vanish," he snapped, stepping back and slamming the heavy, soundproof door right in her face.
BANG.
Blair stood alone in the dark, silent hallway, blinking at the closed wooden panel. She let out a long, shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her shoulders slumping in relief.
He hadn’t called it dirty. He hadn’t thrown a fit and slapped it to the floor. He hadn’t poured it over her head, either... He had taken it.
Ding.
A vibrant blue light illuminated the dim corridor, hovering softly in front of her eyes:
[Secondary Mission Objective Complete!]
[Target: Lukas Deruno has accepted the home-cooked meal and is eating it.]
[Reward Issued: +3 Days Added to Life Expectancy]
[Phase 2 Vitality Recovery: Lung Function Restored by 5%]
[Current Life Remaining: 42 Days]
A sudden, intense wave of soothing warmth bloomed deep within Blair’s chest. The constant, burning dryness in the back of her throat vanished.
Her lungs expanded smoothly, allowing her to draw in a deep, clean breath of air without the familiar, sharp sting that had plagued her for months.
Her pale cheeks flushed with a tiny touch of healthy color.
She stared at the floating blue screen, a small, genuine smile gracing her lips. Now she had a total of forty-two days to live. Three days gained just for giving a hungry, exhausted fox a bowl of quiet porridge.
"Thank you, Lukas," she murmured softly to the closed door.
Turning back to her service cart, Blair looked down at the two remaining covered trays. The West Wing was next—Philippe, the wheelchair-bound panther tycoon whose cold body rejected cold food and whose pride was as sharp as a razor.
If she could get him to accept the food, that would be 3 more days added. But she was more than prepared for failure as well.
Grasping the handles of the cart, Blair pushed it forward down the quiet hallway, ready for her second husband.
She wheeled the cart down the quiet corridor toward the dimly lit West Wing.
Unlike Lukas’s sensory-deprived wing, Philippe’s quarters felt grand yet stark and frigid. The double doors to his vast study were slightly ajar. Inside, the high-ceilinged room smelled faintly of ocean mist and cold, metallic tech. Air conditioning hummed at a chilling temperature, making the air bite at Blair’s skin.
Philippe sat in his high-tech wheelchair near the center of the room, his back turned to the entrance. He was staring at four floating hologram screens displaying flickering stock indices and complex financial charts.
His long, black panther tail rested completely motionless against the side of his chair—unmoving, heavy, and cold.
Blair paused at the threshold. Taking a soft breath, she tapped her knuckles gently against the doorframe.
"Master Philippe?" she called softly.
Philippe didn’t turn around. His dark eyes remained fixed on the glowing screens, his voice cutting through the silent room like a blade of ice. "I believe I made myself clear in the conference room, Miss Blair. I have no need for domestic antics."
"I know," Blair said automatically, shrinking slightly and bowing her head to the back of his chair. "And I—I’m sorry for disturbing you, I just..."
She took a slow, hesitant step into the room, holding the covered silver tray with both hands. She walked toward a small side table near his desk, moving carefully so her footsteps didn’t make a sound against the rug.
Setting the heavy stoneware bowl onto a built-in warming coaster, she uncovered it. A soft cloud of fragrant steam drifted into the chilly room, carrying the deep, savory aroma of braised beef and subtle warming herbs.
"Chef Henderson mentioned that... cold air can make your joints stiff," Blair continued, her voice small, timid, and entirely free of judgment or pity.
She kept her eyes lowered to the table, choosing her words with extreme care so as not to sound like she was diagnosing him. "I’m sorry if I’m overstepping... but I thought... Maybe this broth could help keep you warm while you work."
Philippe finally spun his wheelchair around with a sharp, mechanical whir. His broad chest rose and fell, and his dark, fierce gaze locked onto her frail frame.
High ego, intense defensiveness, and deep physical frustration radiated from him like a cold shadow. He hated being perceived as weak, and he hated even more the idea of anyone looking at his paralyzed legs with sympathy.
"Do not pretend to understand my condition," Philippe said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl that vibrated through the floorboards. "Leave."
Blair didn’t flinch, nor did she look at him with sorrowful, mournful eyes. Her expression remained gentle, quiet, and completely neutral—treating him not like an invalid, but simply like a man working late in a cold room.
"I’m sorry," Blair murmured again softly, her posture humble. "It’s... it’s just soup. Please enjoy it while it’s hot."
Without waiting for his response or giving him a chance to lash out, she gave another small, apologetic bow.
She backed out of the study with quick, quiet steps, closing the door behind her until only a tiny crack remained—leaving the steaming bowl right beside his cold, resting hand.