A Bitter Pill

Genevieve spoke her mind with stunning bluntness, stripping away the polite veneer Melody usually hid behind. The words hung in the air of the private clinic, thick and suffocating. Melody froze in her seat, her face caught in a mask of sudden awkwardness. She pressed her lips together and averted her eyes, unable to formulate a proper comeback to such a direct statement.

The heavy silence dragged on until Doctor Patrick returned. He handed a highly specific prescription for traditional cooling medicine to Melody, breaking the tension.

"Although your friend refuses modern medication, she needs to drink this," Patrick instructed, pointing to the paper. "It is a traditional brew. It will clear the heat without harming her body. Just a few doses will do the trick."

"I understand. Thank you, doctor," Melody replied, quickly taking the prescription to escape the stifling room.

The three of them departed the clinic shortly after. The car ride back to the grand Prescott Residence was steeped in unspoken tension. Genevieve leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, her breath shallow and hot. The fever burned through her veins, leaving her limbs feeling like lead. She closed her eyes, desperate for the ride to end so she could bury herself under the blankets in her room.

The vehicle finally rolled up the sweeping driveway and stopped in front of the massive double doors of the villa. Genevieve pushed the car door open. She stepped out, but her feverish discomfort threw her off balance. Her legs buckled instantly beneath her weight. The gravel driveway rushed up to meet her face.

A strong hand shot out. Donovan caught her slender arm in a vice-like grip, his reflexes snapping into action before she could hit the ground. He hauled her upright. His thick brows pulled together in a deep frown, forming a sharp crease on his forehead.

"You're in this state, yet you still refuse to take medicine or get a shot. You're something else." Donovan muttered the words, his deep voice carrying a strange mix of raw frustration and an inexplicable, reluctant concern.

Genevieve swayed on her feet, the heat radiating off her skin under his firm touch. Before she could pull away, Melody hurried out of the car. Her eyes locked onto Donovan’s hand wrapped around Genevieve’s arm. A flash of sharp jealousy tightened Melody's jaw. She immediately rushed over, forcefully inserting her own body between the two of them.

"Let me help her, Don," Melody said, her tone bright but her movements aggressive as she pried Genevieve away from him.

Melody wrapped an arm around Genevieve’s waist and practically hauled her up the wide front steps. The heavy front doors swung open. Several maids were currently dusting the grand foyer and arranging fresh flowers. They paused their work, their eyes widening in shock as they watched Melody personally escort the sick madam of the house inside.

Hushed whispers broke out the second the trio moved toward the grand staircase.

"Did I see that right? Wasn't that Miss Dawson?" a young maid whispered, clutching a feather duster to her chest.

"Who is Miss Dawson?" another newly hired girl asked, leaning in close.

An older, veteran maid scoffed quietly, casting a knowing look toward the stairs. "Melody Dawson. She is the woman Mr. Prescott actually loves. How do you not know this yet?"

"Mr. Prescott loves her?" The young maid gasped, her eyes darting toward the staircase. "But Mr. Prescott is already married to the madam."

"Most marriages within these wealthy families are just sterile business deals. There is no real love involved," the older maid explained loudly, adopting a gossipy, authoritative tone. "You younger girls are new, so you don't grasp the reality of this elite social circle. I was working here when the whole thing went down. Melody isn't just a pretty face Mr. Prescott fancied. She is his one true love. She miraculously saved his life from a raging river years ago. She went abroad to study, and he has been waiting for her return ever since."

"Then why on earth did he marry someone else?" the new girl asked, thoroughly invested in the drama.

The older maid let out a sly, knowing smirk. "Because Old Mrs. Prescott got desperately sick. She threw a fit and demanded to see her grandson settle down and start a family before she died. Mr. Prescott had no choice but to find a temporary bride to appease his grandmother. Right around that time, the Ashford family tragically went bankrupt. They needed money, and he needed a wife. You know how these transactions go. It was a perfectly orchestrated arrangement."

"I genuinely thought Mr. Prescott and his wife were in love. I had no idea it was all just a fake act," a third maid chimed in, sounding visibly disappointed by the lack of romance.

"Of course it is an act. Don't be so hopelessly naive," the older maid retorted.

The maids leaned in closer, ready to dissect the madam's tragic situation further. A loud, stern cough echoed through the foyer, shattering the gossip session. The maids jumped and spun around.

Arthur, the veteran butler, stood near the hallway entrance. His graying eyebrows were drawn together, and his expression was dark and forbidding.

"Don't you all have actual work to do?" Arthur barked.

The maids scattered like a flock of startled birds, grabbing their cleaning supplies and vanishing into the adjoining rooms. Arthur remained standing in the grand foyer, his sharp eyes fixed on the empty staircase. It all made sense now. He finally understood why the madam had been acting so strange, heartbroken, and utterly defeated late last night. Melody Dawson had returned to claim her rightful place.

Upstairs in the sprawling master suite, Melody played the role of the devoted, caring nurse to perfection. She guided a weak, trembling Genevieve toward the massive king-sized bed, helping her sit down on the edge of the mattress.

"Thank you," Genevieve muttered, her voice barely a rasp.

"Don't mention it. You should get some rest now," Melody replied, flashing a sweet, flawless smile.

Genevieve kicked off her shoes and slumped back against the plush pillows. Heavy footsteps sounded against the hardwood floor. Donovan strolled into the master bedroom. His intense, dark gaze swept carelessly over Genevieve’s resting form before landing softly on Melody.

"Shall I send you home?" Donovan offered gently.

Melody had no legitimate reason to linger in the Prescott Residence, especially with the staff watching. She nodded eagerly.

"Sure, thanks," Melody agreed.

She turned to grab her designer handbag from a nearby chair. As she pivoted, her eyes landed on the tall wooden coat rack standing in the corner of the room. A bespoke, tailored men's suit hung casually from the hooks. The rich fabric and exact cut belonged unmistakably to Donovan.

Melody’s sweet expression shattered. Her face drained of color, turning a sickly, pale white. The stark reality crashed into her chest like a physical blow. She had assumed Genevieve and Donovan slept in separate wings of the house. Seeing his clothes discarded so casually in this room proved that they genuinely shared this intimate space. They shared this bed. Deep, toxic jealousy clawed at Melody's throat, making it hard to breathe. Mortified and burning with envy, she clamped her mouth shut and quickly followed Donovan out the door.

The heavy bedroom door clicked shut, plunging the suite into silence.

Genevieve opened her eyes. The facade of sleep slipped away, leaving her staring blankly up at the ornate plaster ceiling. A dizzying, suffocating dread washed over her, far worse than the fever burning her skin.

She pressed a trembling hand over her flat stomach. The secret hidden inside her felt like a ticking time bomb. She could hide her pathetic, unrequited love for Donovan for years. She could swallow the humiliation of watching him leave with another woman. She could pretend she felt nothing when he looked at Melody with those soft, devoted eyes.

But a pregnancy was physical. It was undeniable.

She knew with terrifying certainty that a child could not be hidden away forever. In a few months, her belly would begin to grow, stretching the fabric of her clothes. Donovan would see it. Melody would see it. The gossiping maids would see it. The very thought of facing Donovan’s reaction to a child he never wanted paralyzed her with fear. Would he force her to get rid of it? Would he accuse her of trying to trap him?

The terrifying scenarios spiraled in her mind, draining the last ounces of her strength. Exhausted by the mental agony and the relentless fever, Genevieve felt her eyelids grow heavy. The ornate ceiling blurred out of focus. She surrendered to the darkness, slipping into a deep, feverish sleep.

The heat inside her body became unbearable. In the hazy, surreal depths of her dreams, Genevieve felt a shift in the air. Someone sat on the edge of the mattress. Long, deft fingers brushed against her burning neck. The person gently unbuttoned the collar of her silk pajamas, exposing her flushed skin to the cool air of the room.

The touch was incredibly soothing against her raging fever. A heavy, warm weight shifted over her. Genevieve let out a soft sigh and instinctively clung to the presence. She wrapped her arms and legs around the solid, muscular frame, desperate to anchor herself to the relief he offered.

A muffled groan vibrated against her chest. Heavy, ragged breathing filled the quiet space. A large hand gripped the back of her neck, the hold rough yet strangely careful.

Then, a mouth covered hers.

It was a wet, rough, and deeply passionate kiss. The man crushed his lips against hers, demanding and hungry. His tongue pushed forcefully past her teeth, invading her mouth and tasting her deeply. The raw intimacy of the physical contact sent a jolt of panic through her sleep-addled brain.

Frowning deeply in her dream, Genevieve rejected the sudden intrusion. She clamped her jaw shut and bit down fiercely on the man's lower lip.

A sharp, metallic taste of fresh blood instantly flooded her tongue.

The man gasped loudly in stark pain, pulling his mouth back. He pushed her aside, pinning her to the mattress. Strong fingers clamped down on her cheek, squeezing the soft flesh forcefully.

"I've pampered you too much, haven't I?" a deep, familiar voice grumbled faintly in the dark, the words laced with a dangerous edge. "You even bit down on me."

Genevieve winced at the painful pinch. She grumbled incoherently, raising a weak hand to swat the person away. The heavy presence retreated. She rolled over and sank back down into the black void of a dreamless sleep.

The faint glow of twilight filtered through the heavy curtains when Genevieve finally opened her eyes again. The room was bathed in the dim, orange light of evening. She blinked, feeling a strange clarity in her mind. The oppressive heat of her fever had miraculously broken.

She turned her head and found a young maid sitting dutifully in a chair by the bedside.

"Mrs. Prescott, you're awake!" The maid jumped up, her face lighting up with genuine cheerfulness.

The girl reached out and pressed the back of her hand against Genevieve’s forehead.

"Thank goodness. You have finally cooled down, Mrs. Prescott," the maid declared happily.

Genevieve stared at the young girl, her mind racing to piece together the fragmented, sensory memories of her sleep. The cooling touch, the heavy weight, the rough kiss, the taste of blood, the deep voice. She sat up slowly, clutching the bedsheets.

"Have you been sitting here caring for me this entire time?" Genevieve asked, holding her breath.

The maid nodded enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling with pride. "Yes, Mrs. Prescott. I watched over you the whole time you slept."

The immediate confirmation brutally snuffed out the fragile spark of hope in Genevieve’s chest. She looked away, her heart sinking like a stone. The desperate, pathetic part of her had wanted to believe Donovan had returned. She had wanted to believe he was the one tending to her, kissing her, touching her in the dark. But it was just a fever dream. A cruel illusion created by her own starved desires.

Before Genevieve could dwell on her shattered hopes, the young maid turned to the nightstand. She picked up a porcelain bowl filled with a pungent, dark traditional medicine. The thick, herbal stench immediately filled the bedroom, turning Genevieve’s stomach.

"Mrs. Prescott, it is so good that you are awake. The kitchen just finished preparing this," the maid said, pushing the bowl toward Genevieve’s face. "It is still warm. You need to drink it right now."

Genevieve leaned back against the headboard, instinctively avoiding the foul-smelling liquid.

"Mrs. Prescott, please drink it while it is still warm. It will taste even worse once it gets cold," the maid insisted, taking another step forward.

Genevieve turned her head away and waved her hand. "Put it down on the table first. I will drink it later."

"But—"

"I am actually very hungry," Genevieve interrupted, feigning intense hunger and placing a hand over her stomach. "Can you go down to the kitchen and fetch me some real food? Don't worry about this. I promise I will finish the medicine the second you return with my meal."

The young maid hesitated, glancing between the bowl and Genevieve’s pale face. After a moment of thought, she set the bowl down on the bedside table.

"Okay. I will go downstairs and get something for you to eat. But please drink the medicine while I am gone, Mrs. Prescott," the maid instructed cheerfully.

"I will," Genevieve lied smoothly.

The maid turned and walked out of the bedroom. The exact moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut, Genevieve threw the blankets off her legs. She practically leaped out of the bed, her bare feet hitting the hardwood floor.

She snatched the bowl off the nightstand. The dark liquid sloshed against the porcelain rim. Genevieve carried the bitter medicine straight across the room and pushed through the bathroom door. She didn't hesitate. She marched up to the toilet, tipped the bowl forward, and mercilessly dumped every last drop of the pungent brew into the bowl.

She pressed the silver handle. The water swirled loudly, flushing the dark evidence down the drain and leaving no trace behind.

Genevieve let out a massive sigh of relief. A huge weight lifted off her shoulders. She wouldn't have to spend the rest of the evening being endlessly cajoled and guilt-tripped into drinking something she desperately wanted to avoid.

She stood up straight, holding the completely empty bowl in her hands. She turned around to walk back into the bedroom.

Genevieve froze in absolute terror.

Donovan stood just a few feet away. He had arrived entirely unnoticed, his footsteps making no sound on the plush carpets. He leaned casually against the bathroom doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His suit jacket was gone, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone.

He stared at her. His dark, sharp eyes tracked her every movement with a predatory intensity that made the blood freeze in her veins.

"What are you doing?" Donovan asked.