When Silvia pushed open the grand double foyer doors of the mansion after a brutal, endless day crammed with back-to-back tense board meetings and rescheduled crisis calls, the cool, conditioned marble air washed over her like a sharp, refreshing slap.
There was unnatural stillness everywhere, broken only by the faint, rhythmic tick-tock of the antique grandfather clock echoing down the hall.
Her stiletto heels clicked out crisp, authoritative echoes across the polished white marble floors as she strode purposefully toward the living room, tailored blazer slung casually over one arm.
Why did she come home so quickly?
Her piercing red eyes narrowed instantly at the heartbreaking sight waiting there.
Lyra curled up foetal-tight on the expansive couch like a terrified child hiding from a storm, knees hugged desperately to her chest, sweaty blonde waves matted messily across her fever-flushed porcelain face glowing unnaturally pink.
The cashmere blanket had slipped half-off her rumpled black sheath dress, breaths coming in weak, raspy little hitches.
She looked utterly beaten down, fragile as cracked glass, like someone had bullied her mercilessly without a shred of mercy.
Anyone walking in on this pitiful scene would instantly blame me, Silvia thought, her stomach twisting into a hard knot of dread and irritation.
What if word leaks to the staff, the tabloids—or worse, reaches my parents?
They’d swallow the lie whole, accuse me of abusing her behind closed doors.
No way in hell—she wasn’t that kind of monster, never had been, never would stoop to it.
“Lyra, wake up already,” Silvia said firmly but with an edge, standing tall and imposing over the couch, arms crossed tight over her chest as her strong alpha pheromones spiked instinctive and dominant in the air.
Max lingered awkwardly by the arched doorway, pretending to scroll his phone screen unnecessarily, then let out a loud, heavy sigh loaded with quiet judgment.
“Boss, come on—please go easy on your wife for once.
She looks absolutely wrecked, like she’s been through hell.”
“You’re still miserably unmarried yourself, Max—no right or experience to dish out advice like some marriage guru,” Silvia snapped back icy-sharp, her red eyes flashing a clear warning glare.
“My girlfriend loves me fiercely at least—treats me like gold, no endless complaints or cold shoulders,” he fired back calm but pointed, straightening his tie with deliberate slowness.
“Love’s a pathetic waste of time—makes fools weak and irrational, nothing more,” she shot down quick and dismissive, flicking a hand like swatting a fly.
“Still, at minimum, be a little gentle with her today.
She’s legitimately sick again, fever raging high, and downright terrified of you—she confessed it straight to me in the car, voice shaking.”
Silvia’s gaze flicked down sharp and assessing to the curled form.
“Lyra, come on now, wake up properly.
This isn’t some lazy afternoon nap time.”
Lyra mumbled something soft and incoherent, fever-slurred— “N-no…
s-sorry…
p-please…”—her long lashes fluttering weakly over glassy, half-lidded eyes, but she didn’t fully stir.
“I’m heading back to the office now, Boss.
Just…
try to take proper care of her this time—she’s way too fragile right now to handle your usual routine.”
“Just leave already—now—before I change my mind and dock your overtime pay for the month,” Silvia ordered sharp and final, jaw set.
He nodded once silent, shot a last sympathetic glance at Lyra, and walked out briskly, the heavy front door clicking shut with a resounding echo behind him.
Silvia let out a long, tired breath that she’d been holding, stepping closer to really study Lyra’s flushed, sweat-sheened face up close—cheeks blazing hot pink and unnatural, full lips dry and parted on shaky exhales, breaths rattling faint in her congested chest.
She reached out hesitant at first, her rough calloused fingertips brushing Lyra’s forehead gently but sure—scorching hot, fever burning bad and unrelenting.
Idiot pushed herself way too far today—stubborn fool.
Her hand trailed slow and exploratory down to Lyra’s slender wrist, fingers encircling it fully—so impossibly soft, smooth like the finest silk velvet, nothing at all like Silvia’s own roughened and calloused hands.
Lyra’s delicate fingers felt tiny and fragile curled limp in her larger grip, nails short and neatly bitten down from chronic stress, faint blue veins threading under translucent pale skin.
She’s so small everywhere—her whole hand fits right in my palm like a child’s.
“You feel like fire—how’d you let it get this bad?” Silvia murmured low to herself, almost accusatory.
“I’m carrying you up to bed now, okay?
Don’t even try to fight it,” she added firmer, bending down deliberate and scooping Lyra up effortlessly bridal-style into her strong arms.
Lyra felt light as a feather, warm and completely limp against her chest, body moulding soft and trusting.
Damp blonde curls brushed and tickled Silvia’s neck intimately, heat radiating insistent through her thin blouse, a heady mix of lingering hospital antiseptic and that innate sweet omega scent peeking through the sweat.
Lyra’s faint ribs pressed subtle under the clinging dress fabric—too skinny now from overwork, but softer somehow than her previous-self, with a quiet resilient strength humming underneath.
“Easy, I’ve got you,” Silvia whispered gruff as she climbed the wide oak stairs steady, one arm secure under knees, the other cradling her back; Lyra’s head lolled heavy on her shoulder, soft breaths warming Silvia’s skin, small arms draping loose around her waist instinctive.
In the bedroom, she laid Lyra down softly on the bed’s crisp white sheets, propping supportive pillows carefully under her head and bent knees to ease breathing.
Sweat had soaked dark patches into the dress everywhere—Silvia ducked quick into the bathroom, soaking a fresh hand towel in ice-cold water from the basin, squeezing out the excess drops before draping it tenderly across Lyra’s burning forehead.
Switched to a dry, soft microfiber cloth next—wiped slow and methodical along the slender neck beads of sweat, down fragile arms, around the delicate dips of her collarbone, brushing away sweaty blonde tendrils from flushed cheeks with feather-light strokes.
Why the hell did you drag yourself to that film set anyway?
Reckless.
“Why push yourself to that damn film set today when you could barely stand?” Silvia asked quiet but probing, almost to herself as she worked the cloth.
“P-please…
don’t throw me out…
anywhere…” Lyra whispered delirious in her fevered sleep, pretty face twisting in pained distress, brows knitting tight.
“I’ll p-pay rent…
just let me stay…
please, I beg…”
Rent?
Seriously, what fever dream nonsense?
Silvia paused mid-wipe, a complex storm churning inside—annoyed frustration, reluctant sadness, sharp pangs of unwelcome confusion.
Actually, thinks I’ll kick her out mid-fever crisis?
Like some pocket change rent fixes a sham marriage eviction?
“No rent needed from you, dummy—not now, not ever,” Silvia said soft but firm, resuming the gentle wipe across clammy palms and fingers.
“I am too rich, you little idiot.”
“P-please…
I-I’ve got nowhere else to go…
truly…” Lyra whined weak, shifting faint under the sheets.
“I won’t throw you out—promise you that much,” Silvia replied gruff and resolute, pulling the fresh dry sheet up snug around her shoulders.
“Just sleep easy now, alright?”
“R-really?
No home left…
no one to turn to…” Tears slipped silent from her closed eyes, trailing hot down temples.
Silvia’s jaw clenched hard, her hand lingering warm on Lyra’s fever-hot cheek—thumb wiping a stray tear away slow and tender, petal-soft skin fever-flushed but impossibly delicate under her touch.
No one?
That’s a flat-out lie—my parents think of her as their family.
“Shh, enough of that—you’re safe right here, fever or not.
Doctor is on the call, coming soon.”
Her voice cracked rough with unpractised gentleness, but she leaned in closer instinctive, wrapping a strong arm loose around Lyra’s trembling shoulders in a protective half-hug, pulling her slight frame near against her side.
Lyra sighed faint and relieved in her sleep, nestling deeper into the solid warmth instinctive like a kitten, small hand clutching tight at Silvia’s silk blouse fabric with surprising need.
Silvia froze solid for a beat, heart thudding odd and unfamiliar in her chest—then held her tighter deliberate, chin resting gentle on damp blonde hair, inhaling that intoxicating scent deep into her lungs.
Why did I never smell this scent before?
She smells too good to be true.
“Just till the fever finally breaks…
nothing more,” she muttered to herself, but didn’t pull away.