Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter VII - THE FEVER

He could scarcely believe he had spent nearly three hours rooted to Gabrielle's sofa, watching her... watch Harry Potter. Two full films—The Order of the Phoenix and The Half-Blood Prince—and she had barely moved an inch. Knees drawn up, chin resting lightly upon them, eyes wide and earnest as a child's. The notorious Gabrielle Davis, tabloid darling and social hurricane... transformed into a solemn little witchling entirely absorbed in magic and mayhem.

By the time the end credits rolled, she was visibly fading. Her eyelids drooped, her head lolled gracelessly toward the armrest, and she slumped sideways—still hugging her knees, as though even sleep ought not disturb her defensive posture.

Vincent couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped him.
Strip away the couture, the gloss, the armour she wore for the world, and she was—God help him—nothing more than a girl.

"Go to your room, munchkin," he murmured, and she scowled vaguely, refusing to open her eyes.

He reached for her, intending only to coax her upright—and immediately froze.
Her skin was hot. Alarmingly so.

"Du liebe Zeit..." he breathed under his breath, the old German exclamation slipping out before he could catch it. He pressed his palm gently to her cheek. Fever. High.

She didn't stir, even when his hand moved to her forehead.
Even when he slid an arm beneath her knees and another behind her shoulders, lifting her effortlessly against his chest.

The last thing she consciously registered was the peculiar sensation of floating—his warmth, his scent, the steady, protective strength of him carrying her away.

He laid her upon her enormous bed, noting immediately that she had changed the sheets. Trust Gabrielle to present chaos to the world and order to her private sanctuary. She frowned even in sleep, thick brows knitting as though troubled by dreams.

Vincent sat on the edge of her bed and simply... looked at her.

Her lashes—God, they were absurdly long. Her skin so pale and delicate it almost frightened him to touch it. And her mouth—soft, flushed, shaped with such infuriating perfection he found himself wondering, for one reckless, unguarded heartbeat, whether it still tasted faintly of cherry the way it had that morning.

His breath halted.
Before he realised what he was doing, he had leaned in—drawn by a quiet, magnetic inevitability he could neither name nor resist. Their lips were a whisper apart—

She stirred.

A small groan. A shiver rippling through her body. The spell shattered.

Vincent exhaled sharply, dragging himself back with a muttered curse in German. She was cold now. Shivering in that slip of a dress that clung to her like liquid silk—utterly impractical for someone in the grip of fever.

He covered her with the duvet, tucking it around her with unexpected tenderness, then slipped to the bathroom. Moments later he returned with a basin of cold water and a soft towel, the domesticity of the act almost ludicrous for a man whose life was normally carved out of steel and discipline.

And yet he spent the entire night at her side.

Cooling her fever.
Adjusting the duvet.
Ensuring she did not wake chilled or trembling.
Watching over her with a vigilance he would never admit to another soul.

Just before dawn, when her temperature finally settled, he leaned down—hesitated—then pressed the gentlest kiss to her forehead.

"Until next time, Münchner Kindl..."
His voice barely above a breath.
And then he was gone.

A Week Later

It had been more than a week since she had last seen that maddeningly handsome stranger.

Vincent.
She tested the name silently, remembering flashes.
His dark humour.
His quiet competence.
The chamomile-scented candles he left burning when she woke.
The cool rosewater basin.
The faint indentation on the mattress where he must have sat.

She had opened her eyes that morning half-expecting—half hoping—to find him still there. Instead, only the soft perfume of chamomile and the warmth of memory remained.

Sweet memory, she corrected herself begrudgingly.

Her Outlook reminder chimed again, severing the reverie.

"Top VIP Meeting: Mr. Conrad Walton — 12:00 PM — The London NYC."

Gabrielle groaned. A week of entertaining her father's business associates had drained her patience to embers. Men with too much money, too little conscience, and a nauseating eagerness to impress the daughter of Gabriel Davis.

She despised the entire charade.
Despised playing her father's immaculate puppet.

But what choice did she have?
Walk away, and she lost the only family who had ever loved her: Ade's family.

She slipped on her white blazer, smoothing it over the red pencil dress that hugged her figure with ruthless precision, and stepped out of her office.

Margaret—the acting CEO—was waiting. Impatient, irritated, and transparent as glass.

"With New York traffic, Miss Davis, we should have left earlier—"

"Margaret," Gabrielle cut in, her tone silky and lethal, "given the pressure Mr Walton is under to close this deal, I imagine he would wait an entire day for my signature. We are not the ones in need. They are."

Margaret opened her mouth—as she often did—to voice some dreary, dutiful objection.

"And yes," Gabrielle added lightly, "I imagine it must be dreadfully annoying that an 'inexperienced bitch,' as I believe some of the staff kindly phrase it, is being positioned as the next CEO. Truly, I feel your pain."

Margaret turned an alarming shade of beetroot.

"I am not here to wage war with you," Gabrielle said coolly. "Do relax... yourself."

The elevator doors opened, revealing the security team waiting in the lobby. Her heart leapt involuntarily—stupidly—as she scanned their faces.

No Vincent.
Of course.

Twenty minutes later they arrived at The London NYC. A concierge ushered them to a conference room where several VIPs were gathered.

"Miss Davis," an elderly gentleman said warmly, rising as she entered. "An honour indeed."

Conrad Walton—well into his eighties, though surprisingly vigorous—took her hand in a firm handshake. Something about him tugged at recognition she could not place.

The meeting was swift. Her father had already agreed; all that was required was her signature.

"So," Conrad said finally, shaking her hand once more, "we shall see you at the cocktail reception, yes? And do give your father my warmest regards."

"Of course, Mr Walton—"

"Conrad," he corrected with a grandfatherly smile. "No need for formalities. After all... we will soon be family."

Family?

She blinked, offering a polite, non-committal smile, assuming he merely meant corporate family.

It never occurred to her—not yet—to question the peculiar gleam in his eyes.