BETHEL

Conflicted feelings

Bethel lay curled up on her couch, shivering despite the layers of blankets wrapped around her. A relentless fever had taken hold, and the only sounds in the apartment were her occasional coughs and the ticking of the clock, each second stretching into eternity. She had hoped to power through the week, but the stress of her job and the turmoil in her mind had finally caught up with her.

The doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts. Bethel groaned, forcing herself to sit up. When she opened the door, Mrs. Anderson stood there, her warm smile instantly comforting. She stepped in, carrying a bag filled with homemade soup and remedies.

"Bethel, dear! You look terrible!" Mrs. Anderson exclaimed, her voice a mix of concern and affection. "I've come to take care of you. You need to rest."

Bethel managed a weak smile as Mrs. Anderson began to unpack her supplies. "I'm fine, really," she protested, but it was clear she was far from it.

"I'm not taking no for an answer," Mrs. Anderson said firmly. "You've worked hard for my son, and now it's time to let someone take care of you."

For the next few days, Mrs. Anderson kept Bethel company, preparing nourishing meals and checking in on her. She even insisted on bringing Bethel tea and honey each morning, chatting animatedly about anything to distract her from her illness.

After a few days of caring for Bethel, Mrs. Anderson glanced at her watch and realized she had plans that night—a poker night with friends. She hesitated, looking at Bethel, who was dozing on the couch.

With a sigh, Mrs. Anderson picked up her phone and dialed her son, Isreal.

"Isreal, it's your mother," she began when he answered. "I need you to come over."

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his tone shifting to concern.

"No, no, nothing's wrong," she assured him. "But Bethel is still sick, and I have poker night. You'll have to take care of her for a bit. She's your assistant, after all."

There was a pause on the other end, and Mrs. Anderson could almost hear Isreal's internal struggle. "I have a meeting scheduled," he finally replied.

"Cancel it. Bethel needs you more than your meetings do. Besides, you've worked her hard; the least you can do is make sure she's okay," Mrs. Anderson insisted.

Isreal sighed, knowing there was no arguing with his mother when she was like this. "Fine. I'll be there shortly."

When Isreal arrived at his mother's house, he found Bethel still on the couch, looking pale and exhausted. She tried to sit up, attempting to appear more composed than she felt.

"Sir," she croaked, "you didn't have to come. I'm fine."

Isreal crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Clearly, you're not," he replied, his voice a mix of annoyance and something softer. He stepped closer, studying her with narrowed eyes. "You should be in bed, not pretending you're fine."

Bethel felt a flutter of confusion at his concern. "Mrs. Anderson has taken care of me."

"Good," he said curtly, though the tension in the room was palpable. He shifted his weight, glancing around the room as if unsure what to do next. "I'll get you some water."

As he moved about the kitchen, Bethel couldn't help but notice how different he was outside of the office—more human, more real. He returned with a glass of water, handing it to her before sitting on the edge of the coffee table, his gaze focused on her.

"Just rest. I'll be here," he said, his tone softer than before.

The atmosphere between them began to shift as Isreal remained with her, allowing his usual façade of cold professionalism to slip slightly. He'd check his phone occasionally but stayed close by, watching her.