Chapter 4 - The Midnight Fever
At eleven o’clock that night, my phone shattered the silence of my Ravenswood apartment.
I bolted upright on the mattress, heart racing. The caller ID was Vincent’s private line. I had blocked his corporate numbers, but I had left his personal cell open for emergencies involving Lily.
I swiped the screen. "Vincent, if this is about Isabella’s circus at the school today—"
"Claire."
His voice didn't sound like a billionaire founder. It didn't even sound like an adult. It was choked, hollow, and thick with terror.
"It’s happening again," he whispered.
My blood turned to ice. "What is happening?"
"Her fever. It’s 104.2. She’s... she’s shaking, Claire. She started throwing up twenty minutes ago and now she won't open her eyes. I gave her the medicine, but she brought it back up. The ambulance is on its way, but they said there’s a six-car pileup on Lake Shore Drive, it’s going to take twenty minutes—"
"Did you put her in a lukewarm bath?" I screamed, already leaping off the mattress, grabbing my coat with one hand and jamming my boots on with the other.
"I... I don't know! I didn't want to move her, I wrapped her in blankets—"
"Take the blankets off, Vincent! Now!" I shouted into the phone, sprinted down the three flights of stairs into the freezing night. "She is febrile! Wrapping her traps the heat, it will trigger a seizure! Strip her down to her diaper, get a lukewarm washcloth—not cold, lukewarm—and wipe down her neck and armpits! Do not leave her side! I am coming!"
I threw myself into my car, tires screeching against the wet pavement as I blew through the quiet Ravenswood streets toward the Gold Coast.
My mind was a terrifying kaleidoscope of memories: the sterile white lights of Northwestern Memorial three nights before I filed for divorce; Lily’s small, limp body convulsing under the pediatric trauma lights; the horrific, gut-wrenching beeping of the cardiac monitors while I begged God to take my life instead of hers.
And Vincent hadn't been there. Because his phone was off. Because Isabella had scheduled a late-night closed-door session with European underwriters.
*Not tonight. Please, God, not tonight.*
I ran three red lights, my hazard flashers blinking frantically. When I reached the Gold Coast penthouse, I didn't wait for the valet. I slammed my car onto the curb in front of the building, blew past the startled night doorman, and jammed my key into the private elevator.
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse foyer.
The house was in utter chaos. Books and papers were scattered across the floor. In the living room, a shattered glass lay on the rug.
I sprinted down the hallway toward Lily’s nursery.
The scene in the bedroom stopped my breath.
Vincent was on his knees on the hardwood floor beside Lily’s toddler bed. His thousand-dollar shirt was torn at the shoulder, soaked with water and sweat. He was holding Lily’s limp, burning body against his bare chest, desperately wiping her forehead with a dripping washcloth, his hands trembling violently.
"Daddy’s here, baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please wake up, please look at Daddy," Vincent was sobbing, tears streaming unchecked down his face, dropping onto Lily’s flushed cheeks.
He looked up when my boots hit the doorway.
In that single, agonizing second, all the corporate armor, all the billionaire arrogance, all the cold, untouchable power evaporated. He looked at me with the raw, naked terror of a drowning man.
"Claire," he choked out. "She won't look at me."
I didn't speak. I dropped to my knees beside him, my maternal instincts overriding every ounce of pride, anger, and betrayal.
I pressed my palm to Lily’s chest. Her heart was galloping like a trapped bird, her skin radiating heat like an oven. Her eyes were rolled back, fluttery and unfocused.
"Lily, baby, Mommy’s here," I said, my voice dropping into the low, hypnotic register I always used when she was sick. I took the washcloth from Vincent’s shaking hand, soaked it in the basin of lukewarm water, and began methodically wiping down her torso, her groin, the backs of her knees—the major arterial cooling points.
"Get a bottle of cold electrolyte solution from the fridge," I commanded Vincent without looking at him. "And get the rectal acetaminophen from the master bathroom cabinet. Bottom drawer, behind the vitamins."
Vincent scrambled to his feet, slipping on the wet floor, and tore out of the room like a madman.
For ten minutes, we worked in frantic, desperate harmony. I cooled her body while Vincent held her tiny hands, murmuring apologies, kissing her knuckles, his face gray with agony. When the medication was administered and the washcloths began drawing the heat out of her core, Lily’s breathing gradually slowed from a terrifying pant to a deep, ragged sigh.
Her eyes fluttered open.
She looked up through fever-glossed lashes, her gaze drifting past Vincent and locking onto me.
"Mommy?" she whimpered, her tiny hand reaching out, fingers curling into my sweater.
"I’m here, my sweet girl," I whispered, gathering her into my lap, rocking her back and forth against my chest. "Mommy’s right here. You’re safe."
Lily closed her eyes, nuzzling her face into the curve of my neck, and within two minutes, she had fallen into a deep, natural sleep. Her skin was still warm, but the fever had broken; a sheen of cool sweat coated her forehead.
The nursery fell into an absolute, haunting silence, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the white-noise machine and the distant sound of Chicago traffic far below.
Vincent remained on his knees on the floor.
He didn't move. He sat there, his head bowed, his broad shoulders shaking silently as the adrenaline drained away, leaving him hollowed out and destroyed.
"I didn't know," he whispered into the carpet.
I stroked Lily’s damp curls, looking down at the man I had loved for nearly a decade. "You didn't know what, Vincent?"
"I didn't know it was like this," he choked out, raising his head. His eyes were bloodshot, swollen with tears, his face ravaged by exhaustion. "The night she was in Northwestern... when you called me thirty times... I thought you were exaggerating. I thought it was just a high temperature. Isabella told me... she told me mothers panic over nothing, that it was routine, that the European deal couldn't wait..."
He buried his face in his hands, a jagged, ugly sob tearing out of his chest.
"I sat in a boardroom drinking twenty-year-old scotch while you watched our baby almost die alone," he whispered. "I thought being a father was about providing the trust fund. I thought paying the tuition and buying the penthouse meant I was protecting her. But tonight... when she started shaking... I realized that if she died, all the money in the world couldn't buy one more second of her breath."
I listened to him, feeling a dull, aching sorrow in my chest.
"You didn't see it, Vincent," I said softly, "because you never had to. I shielded you from every fever, every tantrum, every sleepless night, every doctor’s appointment, and every fear. I made parenting look invisible so you could be a genius. And then you let Isabella convince you that because my work was invisible, it had no value."
Vincent looked up at me, his gaze pleading, raw with a desperation no boardroom opponent had ever witnessed.
"Come back, Claire," he begged, reaching out with a trembling hand, his fingers barely touching the hem of my jeans. "Please. I don't care about the trust. I’ll fire Kirkland. I’ll step down as CEO. I will do whatever you want. Just don't leave me alone in this house. I don't know who I am without you."
Before I could answer, the front door of the penthouse clicked open down the long hallway.
High heels echoed against the marble foyer.
"Vincent?" Isabella’s sharp, authoritative voice sliced through the silence of the apartment. "I saw your car on the curb and the building security said an ambulance was called. What happened? Did you sign the revised Kirkland affidavit?"
Vincent froze.
I looked at him, my expression freezing into ice.
May you like
"Your Chief Legal Officer is here, Vincent," I whispered, gently lifting Lily off my lap and laying her into her crib, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. "Go take care of your company."
***
