Chapter 3 - The Midnight Fever
The clock in the west wing tower struck two in the morning.
Lily hadn't slept. She lay on the broad, four-poster bed in her guest suite, staring up at the intricate plaster patterns on the ceiling. The sheets smelled of lavender and fresh starch, but the mattress felt like stone beneath her.
Every sound in the old house made her pulse spike—the groan of the oak floorboards, the whistle of the wind against the thick glass, the distant, muffled thud of footsteps from the courtyard below where armed guards patrolled the dark.
She pushed back the heavy duvet, slipped her feet into her velvet slippers, and threw a wool cardigan over her cotton nightgown. She couldn't stay in that bed any longer.
She opened her room door quietly and stepped into the carpeted corridor of the children's wing.
The hallway was shrouded in deep shadows, lit only by low-voltage nightlights installed near the baseboards. As she reached the central play area, a low, wet cough echoed through the dark.
Lily froze.
It came from the room on the far left—the door painted a soft, muted blue. Leo’s room.
She moved quickly, pushing the door open without hesitation.
The room was warm, overheated by a roaring radiator that hissed loudly in the corner. In the center of a high wooden bed, small beneath a mountain of blankets, lay seven-year-old Leo. His face was flushed a deep, unhealthy crimson, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Lily was across the room in three steps. She pressed the back of her hand against his cheek.
He was burning.
"Leo," she whispered, her professional instinct taking over before her fear could catch up. "Leo, sweetheart, can you hear me?"
The boy let out a weak, whimpering groan, his eyes rolling beneath his closed lids. His breathing was fast and shallow—stridor, the sharp, raspy sound of an obstructed upper airway.
Lily pulled back the heavy blankets immediately. "Too hot. Far too hot."
She turned and ran to the adjoining bathroom. She turned on the cold tap, soaking a hand towel, then grabbed a clean glass and filled it with tepid water.
When she came back to the bed, she sat on the edge, gently lifting Leo’s shoulders. He was shivering violently despite the fever.
"Drink a little bit for me, Leo," she murmured softly, pressing the rim of the glass to his dry lips. "Just a sip."
He swallowed weakly, coughing again—a harsh, barking cough that made his small frame shudder.
"Cruip," Lily muttered to herself, her fingers feeling the racing pulse in his small neck. "Severe croup with a secondary fever. He needs cool air and antipyretics now."
She reached for the intercom button on the wall near the door frame, pressing it firmly.
Within twenty seconds, heavy footsteps thundered down the hall.
The door flew open, and Beckett stood on the threshold. He wore dark trousers and an unbuttoned black shirt, a heavy black pistol held down at his side, his face dark with lethal tension.
Behind him stood two guards with tactical vests and automatic rifles.
"What happened?" Beckett demanded, his eyes sweeping the room in a second before locking on Lily holding his son.
"Put the gun away!" Lily snapped, her voice filled with a sharp, commanding authority that made even the two security men pause. "Your son has a fever over 103 and his airway is constricting! Get me a bowl of ice, cold water, and tell me where his pediatrician keeps his emergency medication!"
Beckett stared at her for a fraction of a second, shocked by the total absence of fear in her face. Then, he lowered his weapon, motioning sharply to the guards.
"Call Dr. Vance," Beckett ordered one of the men. "Tell him to bring a nebulizer to the estate immediately. Move!"
The guards vanished.
Beckett stepped into the room, holstering his weapon in his waistband. He walked over to the bed, looking down at his son. His face, usually an unreadable marble mask, cracked open. A deep, agonizing worry flashed in his dark eyes.
"He gets these," Beckett said, his voice dropping, lose of its icy edge. "Since he was three. His lungs are weak. Eleanor... Eleanor used to stay with him."
"Then don't just stand there!" Lily barked, wrapping the wet cold towel around Leo’s forehead. "Open that window! He needs cool air to reduce the swelling in his throat!"
Beckett didn't argue. He walked to the heavy sash window and threw it open, letting the crisp, cold lake air rush into the overheated room.
Lily picked up the shivering boy, wrapping him in a light cotton sheet, and carried him closer to the window, sitting in an armchair right beside the cold breeze. She began to hum—a low, rhythmic melody, an old lullaby her mother used to sing before the debts and the lies ruined their family.
Leo leaned his hot cheek against Lily’s neck, his tiny hands clutching at the fabric of her cardigan. His ragged breathing began to slow, matching the steady rhythm of her chest.
Beckett stood by the window frame, watching them.
May you like
He didn't move. He didn't speak. He watched this woman—the daughter of a coward, a woman he had purchased like a piece of legal property—holding his sickest child in the dead of night, humming softly while the cold wind blew her soft brown hair across her face.
Something shifted in the dark bedroom. Something ancient, heavy, and dangerous began to break beneath the weight of a simple, quiet song.
