Fake Date, Real Fate
Chapter 152: Something’s Not Right

Chapter 152: Something’s Not Right

ADRIEN’S POV

3:04 AM

The quiet in the hospital room was thick and still, broken only by the soft, steady beeping of the heart monitor and the faint hum of machines. She was finally asleep.

I sat back in the chair beside her bed, her hand in mine, my thumb tracing the faintest circles along her knuckles. The dim lighting bathed everything in a bluish glow, casting soft shadows on her skin. She looked so damn small in that bed—still flushed, even in rest.

The door creaked softly behind me. I didn’t look up. I didn’t have to.

"Got what you asked for." Cameron’s voice was low, almost a whisper. He held up a paper bag and a folded black shirt, then frowned when I didn’t move. "You haven’t eaten since you brought her in, man. At least take the damn food."

I reached for the shirt instead, letting go of Isabella’s hand for the briefest moment. The cold hit me immediately.

"You know it’s been nineteen hours, right?"

I didn’t respond.

He sighed loudly and set the bag on the side table. "Adrien, you haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept. You haven’t even blinked properly since you carried her in."

Still nothing.

He flopped down into the armchair on the far end of the room, eyeing me with his usual brand of tired amusement. "You look like you fought someone."

I slipped the clean shirt over my shoulders, buttoning it slowly. "I did."

"Tch," Cameron let out a sigh, then held out the bag again. "Eat something. I didn’t drive to that god-awful 24-hour deli because I missed your charming company."

I ignored the bag.

He huffed. "Come on, Adrien. Even cyborg CEOs need to eat. It’s just grilled chicken and rice. No poison. I promise."

"Go home."

"Nope. Not until I see you chew."

I finally looked at him. The exhaustion must have been etched on my face, carved into the lines around my eyes, because his playful smirk softened into something closer to genuine concern.

"Just chew," he repeated, softer this time. "Then I’ll be a ghost. You can go back to your silent, brooding vigil."

My jaw tightened. I glanced back at Isabella, at the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest.

"I will. Later."

His playful tone shifted then. "So... when are you going to talk to Clara? About the cucumber thing at the spa?"

I didn’t answer right away. My jaw clenched harder. I exhaled slowly, buying myself time to gather my thoughts.

"Soon," I replied, my voice a little tighter than I intended.

Cameron raised an eyebrow, his teasing grin never leaving. "That’s it? ’Soon’? Come on, you can’t keep dodging it forever."

I turned my gaze back to Isabella, my thoughts drifting back to the chaos of the last few hours. "I’ve got it covered. Just not now," I muttered, hoping the conversation would end there.

"She’s already pretending nothing happened. Like she didn’t almost—" he cut himself off, then whistled low. "Honestly, Adrien, if it were anyone else—"

"It’s not anyone else. It’s Clara."

"Exactly why I’m saying this."

I didn’t say anything anymore.

Cameron groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "God, you’re so dramatic when you brood. Should I sing lullabies too?"

I gave him a glare that promised slow death.

He grinned. "Knew that’d do it."

"Out," I said quietly.

"Oh come on—"

"You’ll wake her."

Cameron’s mouth opened, then closed again. "Fine. Fine. But if I come back and find you unconscious from starvation before confronting Clara, I’m writing on your headstone: Here lies Adrien Walton—rich, ruined, and ridiculously stubborn. He died as he lived: grumpy and hungry." He punctuated the last word with a dramatic flourish.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that rushed back in was heavier than before. It was just me, her, and the symphony of machines keeping her tethered to the world.

I took her hand again, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast to the cold dread that had settled in my bones. Cameron was right. I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t slept. My body was a machine running on fumes and fury, and the fuel was running low.

3:23 AM

I sat forward with a sigh and reached for the container Cameron left. The food had gone lukewarm, but I didn’t care. I opened it and stabbed a piece of chicken, chewing without tasting. One bite. Then another. Maybe it would take the edge off the hollow pit gnawing inside me.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Fragile. Off.

My head snapped up.

"Mmnh..."

She shifted under the blanket, her body curling in on itself like she was trying to outrun something inside her. Her jaw clenched. Her back arched slightly—and then came the next sound.

A strangled, muffled cry. Sharp. Pained.

"Isabella?"

The container slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.

Rice and chicken scattered across the floor, but I didn’t register the clatter. My world had narrowed to the bed, to her.

I was beside her in an instant, my hand covering hers, the other moving to brush the sweat-damp hair from her forehead. Her skin was on fire.

"Bella," I whispered, my voice rough.

But her eyes didn’t open.

She was burning up.

"Shit," I hissed, pressing my palm gently to her cheek. Her skin was damp with sweat, hot to the touch, flushed red.

Another tremor rippled through her body.

Then another.

Shivering—

Her body was fighting something. Hard.

The heart monitor beeped faster.

"I’m... cold," she whispered, though her body radiated hot heat.

My pulse roared in my ears. I brushed a damp strand of hair off her face. "Stay with me, baby."

She jerked again, her legs twitching, muscles tightening with some internal war I couldn’t see.

Fuck. Fever.

She was fine. She was sleeping. What the hell changed?

I slammed the call button.

Nothing.

I didn’t wait.

I threw open the door.

My voice thundered through the hall. "Dr. Kassel! Now!"

The guards moved. Voices rose.

Chaos unfurled.

I was already back at her side, pulling the blanket down to her waist.

Her hospital gown was sticking to her, soaked with sweat, and her skin, beneath the thin fabric, was blotchy and red. Her eyes were still squeezed shut, but a low moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure agony that clawed at my gut.

"Isabella? Can you hear me?" I whispered, pressing my hand against her burning forehead again. My fingers brushed over the pulse point at her temple—fast, thready, too rapid.

The monitor’s beeping jumped again.

Fuck, fuck—

Something was wrong.

Very, very wrong.