Perched on the sofa where she had collapsed earlier, Sara bit down on her thumbnail, her leg bouncing aggressively.
"Please just be alright," she chanted under her breath, over and over, as if her whispered plea could somehow influence the outcome.
The medics had taken him upstairs to one of the rooms on the second floor, and the doctors were currently examining him. Meanwhile, Sara remained frozen in place, drowning in anxious anticipation. She just needed good news—any excuse to leave this nightmare behind.
Half an hour.
For thirty agonizing minutes, she sat there, teetering between hope and dread. Would the doctors come down with reassuring news? Or would they confirm her worst fears? of him waking up.
Then, finally—footsteps.
Her head snapped up as the doctor descended the stairs. Without thinking, she bolted to the foot of the staircase, her heart in her throat.
"Is he okay?" she asked, her voice almost desperate.
The doctor, an elderly man with kind eyes and a warm, likable smile, seemed to interpret her concern differently. His lips curled into a gentle beam as he reached the last step.
"He's fine," he assured her. "He collapsed due to exhaustion and severe nutrient deficiency. Make sure to give him some juices and porridge when he wakes up."
Sara blinked. "Huh? Why would I?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.
The doctor gave her a brief, knowing look. "Aren't you his—"
"NO!! DEFINITELY NOT HIS GIRLFRIEND!" she practically yelled, her face burning with embarrassment.
The doctor let out a small chuckle. "I meant caregiver."
Sara nearly died on the spot.Oh, God. The mortification was unbearable. Could she just sink into the floor? Maybe hide under the sofa forever?
"Clearing his throat, the doctor continued, unfazed by her overreaction. 'Whoever is looking after him needs to keep a close eye on his condition. Make sure to bring his temperature down as much as possible. I suggest sponging him with a wet towel, preferably on his forehead, neck, and armpits—' He paused, glancing at her before finishing, 'That should be all for you.'"
Sara barely managed a nod as the doctor gave her one last glance before turning to leave.
She followed him to the door, mechanically waving him out, before shutting it behind him.
And then—
"GOD, WHY?!"
She collapsed onto the floor, burying her burning face in her hands.
Why her?!
Of all people, why did she have to take care of the one man who made her blood boil every time she saw him? And worst of all—he hated her just as much.
But there was no escape now.
She was stuck.
Ring. Ring.
Sara's curled-up body relaxed just a little at the familiar sound of her phone ringing in the distance. She wiped the corner of her eyes—barely damp from the few, negligible tears she had shed—and pushed herself up.
Reaching for her phone, she barely had time to glance at the screen before her mother's furious voice exploded into her ear.
"Why are you not home yet? Where are you? Who are you with?"
Sara stiffened. Crap. She had completely forgotten to tell her mother anything about this.
"Hi, Mom," she greeted, forcing a casual tone. "I forgot to tell you—I'm at… Jenny's house! Yeah, she's feeling sick, so I stayed back to take care of her."
A blatant lie.
"I'll be home a little late."
"Late? Have you seen the weather?! You'll get sick too if you go out in this cold! Do you even have an umbrella? What are you wearing? Is it warm enough? Don't tell me Jenny's house is freezing—did she fix her heater?"
Sara let out a heavy sigh, massaging her temples as her mother shot off one question after another like a machine gun.
"Yeah, Mom, everything's fine."
She looked around the centrally heated penthouse, where the temperature was as cozy as a summer day, a stark contrast to how she wanted to feel—cold, miserable, uncomfortable, anything but this.
"Have you eaten dinner yet?"
"No, not yet," Sara admitted.
Her mother tsk-ed loudly."Are you skipping meals again?"
"Mom, how could I? I always eat at home. I just missed it once," she retorted, frowning as she pressed a hand to her stomach. It had started throbbing in protest.
"And what about Jenny? Is she starving too? Do you want me to come over and cook for you two?"
Sara panicked."No! Definitely not! I'll make something for both of us. You just sit back and relax, okay?"
There was silence for a moment, then a very unimpressed 'tsk.'"You'll cook? Poor Jenny."
Sara narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean by that, Mom? I can cook!"
"Sure, love. You can cook… and an ostrich can fly."
Sara deflated. Her mother was relentless. It was true—her cooking skills were catastrophic at best.
She sighed in defeat. "Okay, Mom, just tell me what to do. The doctor said to make porridge or something for hi—I mean, her."
Her mother thankfully ignored the slip. "Check the cabinets for ingredients. Tell me what you have at home."
Sara froze.Home? What home? She had no idea where anything was in this ridiculous penthouse.
"Oh! Let me see."
She spun around, scanning the space, desperately hoping to spot a kitchen.
Where the hell did rich people keep their food?
"Mom, just tell me the recipe for the porridge you always make for me. I think I'll find the ingredients somewhere around here."
"Fine, I'll send you a voice note," her mother said, then abruptly ended the call.
Sara exhaled in relief and set off to hunt down the kitchen.
The first floor yielded nothing. No pantry, no kitchen, not even a damn microwave in sight.
Only when she tiptoed up to the second floor did she finally stumble upon a dining room so massive it could host a family of fifteen.
And right next to it—a sleek, modern kitchen.
Sara stopped in her tracks.
Marble countertops. Built-in machines. Spotless, polished surfaces.
It looked like something out of a luxury interior magazine.
She swallowed hard and headed for the fridge. Swinging the door open— water bottles.
Tons of them. Stacked, shoved, and crammed into every available space.
"What the—?" She flinched, her fingers tightening around the fridge door.
Turning around, she eyed the elegant, high-end cabinets with hope—only to pull them open and find...
Nothing.
Completely empty.
Emptier than a broke, homeless person's food cabinet.
Sara let out a slow, exhausted exhale.
"Of course."
Defeated, she pulled out her phone and searched for the nearest grocery store. Surprisingly, it wasn't far away. "Why the hell does he have nothing but water? Do rich people run on it? " she wondered as she grabbed her bag and headed downstairs.
This time, the concierge lady from before was gone, likely off for the day. The moment she stepped outside, the chaotic sounds of the city crashed into her senses—honking cars, hurried footsteps, overlapping conversations, the distant rumble of the sky preparing to pour.
She instinctively pulled up the hood of her jumpsuit, shielding herself from the drizzle.
Unbeknownst to her, someone in the crowd watched with unusual interest. From a distance, they leaned forward, camera lens poised, snapping pictures of her as she disappeared into the streets.
"Chicken, carrots, butter, parsley, onions… honey, soy sauce, salt, pepper, rice, spring onions, vinegar." She chanted under her breath, plucking each item off the shelves and neatly placing them into the trolley.
With the essentials gathered, she rolled forward, only for her gaze to narrow when she passed the ice cream aisle.
"Should I get some ice cream too?"
She tapped her chin, then smirked. "The doctor said to lower his temperature and feed him juices! This is gonna be a two-in-one remedy."
Amused by her own logic, she yanked open the deep freezer door and pulled out two humongous boxes of popsicles—one mixed variety and the other her favorite apple flavor. With a satisfied nod, she continued walking, only to halt mid-step.
Her eyes widened.
Wait.
Was that—?
"Oh my God, I found them!" she gasped, her heart skipping with pure joy.
She yanked the cart backward, rolling straight to the previous shelf, and there they were—neatly stacked, beautiful, rectangular pieces of joy.
Rice Krispie treats.
Her soul ascended.
It had been forever since she last indulged in these, and now? Now, the universe had blessed her.
Without hesitation, she snatched up three boxes—each packed with sixteen pieces.
Now, this was a shopping trip well spent.
Content, she pushed forward, her trolley significantly heavier—but her heart so much lighter.