Chapter 6 - The Soup and the CEO
When Daniel opened his eyes again, sunlight was streaming blindingly through the high library windows.
The fever had broken, leaving his skin damp and clammy, his muscles sore as if he had run a marathon, but the crushing weight in his chest had lifted.
He was no longer in the wingback chair.
He was lying flat on his back in his own master bed upstairs, wrapped in three heavy goose-down duvets. On the mahogany nightstand beside him sat a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup, a glass of ice water with a lemon wedge, and a small, perfectly folded drawing of a green dinosaur wearing a red birthday hat.
The door to the master suite clicked open.
Maria walked in carrying a fresh tray with a pot of black coffee and toast. When she saw him propped up against the pillows, her eyes widened in profound relief.
“Mr. Hale! Thank God. You gave us the fright of a lifetime this morning.”
Daniel cleared his throat, his voice sounding like gravel being crushed under a truck tire. “What... what time is it?”
“It’s past ten on Saturday morning,” Maria said, setting the tray down gently on the nightstand. She looked at him with an unreadable mix of professional anxiety and human compassion. “Lily wandered into the library around 3:00 AM. She woke me up screaming that the 'ice king stove' was broken and burning up. When I found you, you were delirious with a hundred-and-three-degree fever.”
Daniel stared up at the vaulted plaster ceiling of his bedroom.
“She brought her pink blanket,” he murmured, his voice rough.
Maria smiled softly, a gentle, understanding expression that touched the corners of her eyes. “She did. She insisted on tucking it under your chin herself. She told me you looked lonely.”
Daniel closed his eyes, a heavy, complicated knot tightening in his throat.
“Maria,” he said quietly, opening his eyes to look directly at her. “Why didn't you leave months ago? You’ve seen how cold this house is. You’ve seen how people treat me—how I treat people.”
Maria picked up the empty soup bowl from the nightstand, her movements steady and deliberate.
“My husband died three years ago, Mr. Hale,” she said softly, her voice steady. “When you lose someone like that, you learn to look past the armor people wear. You saw an Ice King who didn't need anyone. I saw a little boy who never learned how to stop freezing.”
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Daniel flinched as if he had been physically struck. He didn't answer. He couldn't.
“Eat your soup, Mr. Hale,” Maria said, turning toward the door. “And when you’re feeling stronger, the green dinosaur wants to show you her new coloring book in the garden.”
