Chapter 7: Cracks in the walls

Layla's pov

I wake up to a burning heat spreading over my body. My head is pounding like a drum, my throat hurts, and the blanket on me feels unbearably heavy. I try to rise, but my limbs feel heavy, and a surge of nausea overwhelms me.

There is a problem.

I closed my eyes firmly, attempting to clear the fog in my thoughts. The final memory I have is the family gathering from last night.

The whole thing had been a show—my parents, Celeste, and the rest of them acting as if we were a perfect family. They had smiled and laughed, making sure the outside world only saw what they wanted them to see. But beneath the polished exterior, I knew the truth. They barely acknowledged me.

Celeste had been at the center of it all, wallowing in their admiration. I'm glad I stood my ground; I cannot allow them to dominate me any longer, especially now that I'm away from that house. I needed to return early; I was exhausted from feigning that I wasn’t suffocating in that home.

And now, here I am—weak, aching, burning up.

The bedroom door creaks open. My body tenses. Footsteps approach, slow and steady. I anticipated one of the housekeepers, but when I finally opened my eyes, I saw him.

Damian.

He is positioned at the base of my bed, donning a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his dark hair a bit untidy as if he hasn’t rested at all. In his grasp, he holds a glass of water and a vial of medicine.

"You’re awake," he remarked, his voice calm but tinged with concern.

I blink at him, attempting to clear the haze from my mind. “What... what brings you here?” My voice is raspy, hardly louder than a whisper.

"You've got a fever," he responds plainly, setting the water and medication on the nightstand. "You almost fell over last night when you arrived home."

I frown, trying to remember. The ride back home had been a blur. I felt tired, yet I believed it was just emotional weariness from acting as if I was not affected by my family’s coldness. I didn’t know it was something bigger.

“I’m fine,” I manage to say, though my body betrays me when I try to sit up and immediately feel like collapsing.

Damian sighs, his jaw tightening. “Sure, you are. That’s why you can’t even sit up properly.”

I stare at him intensely, but it lacks strength. He takes the medicine bottle, shakes out two tablets, and extends them toward me. "Take these."

I hesitate. I dislike showing vulnerability, especially around him. We may be married, but we aren't close. This marriage was a transaction, not a love story. And yet, here he is, looking at me like I’m something fragile.

“I don’t need—”

“Layla.” His voice is firm, allowing no argument. “Stop being stubborn and take the damn pills.”

I hate how easily he sees through me.

With a sigh, I take the pills from his hand, brushing my fingers against his in the process. His skin is warm and steady, while mine is ice-cold and trembling. I take the medicine with a sip of water, then rest against the pillows, tired from the simple act.

Damian observes me for a brief moment, then extends his hand and presses the back of his hand against my forehead. I freeze at the unexpected touch. His palm is cool, soothing against my overheated skin.

“You’re burning up,” he mutters. “I’ll get a cold cloth.”

I watch him as he vanishes into the bathroom. My heart races, but not due to the fever. Damian has consistently been composed and unreadable. I've never witnessed him this way—worried, focused.

Why is he concerned?

A moment later, he returns with a damp cloth and gently presses it to my forehead. The sudden chill catches me off guard, and I emit a soft gasp, but he remains close. Instead, he perches on the bed's edge, his hand resting on his knee as he observes me.

"What is the reason for your actions?" I ask quietly.

His gaze flickers to mine, unreadable. “Because someone has to.”

His words sting more than I expect. He’s right. No one else would. My family only sees me as a burden, and the staff here wouldn’t dare cross into personal territory. I’ve always taken care of myself.

I turn my head slightly, breaking eye contact. “I can take care of myself.”

“Not when you’re too weak to stand,” he counters.

Silence stretches between us. The cloth on my forehead alleviates my fever, yet my mind is racing, emotions intertwined.

I should be thankful, but I'm not used to this—having someone who cares about me, someone who appreciates me.

As exhaustion begins to take over, my phone buzzes on the bedside table.

My heart skips a beat.

Damian looks at me, then at the phone. “Want me to get it?”

“No.” My voice is sharper than I intended. I force myself to sit up, my fingers fumbling as I grab the phone.

An unknown number.

I hesitate, then swipe to open the message.

“You don’t belong with him.”

The breath leaves my lungs.

The room suddenly feels colder despite the fever burning inside me. I stare at the words, my fingers tightening around the phone.

“What is it?” Damian’s voice is low, careful.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, locking the screen.

His eyes narrow. “Layla—”

“I said it’s nothing,” I snap, setting the phone down. “It’s probably just spam.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell from the way his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he stands.

“Get some rest,” he says. His voice is tranquil, yet there’s an odd tension in his stance—something uneasy.

I observe him walking toward the door. Just prior to his departure, he takes out his own phone.

I shut my eyes, attempting to forget the unsettling sensation in my abdomen.

Then I hear him.

His voice is quiet, but firm. Controlled, but laced with something darker.

"I have no idea what in the world happened at that event last night, but if any of you played a role in how she feels now, I will find out the truth." A pause. “And I won’t let it slide.”

My eyes snap open.

He’s talking to my family.

And he sounds…angry.

The realization sends a shiver down my spine.

For the first time, I question whether Damian is as unconcerned as I believed.

And if that’s true… What implications does it have for me?