Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter XXXI - The Blood

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Walton... but your wife is suffering from far more than a migraine," the doctor said gently as he settled beside Gabrielle's bed.

Within minutes, she was rushed to the emergency department for an urgent series of examinations. Vincent followed without a single breath of hesitation, his hand trapped in hers—her grip weak but unyielding even in sleep.

The doctor returned at once, results clutched in hand.

Gabrielle slept on, her fingers still wrapped around Vincent's.

"What do you mean by that?" Vincent asked, throat tightening as he glanced at her pale face.

The doctor exhaled slowly.
"The blood work indicates that Mrs. Walton is experiencing stage-four dengue fever."

"W–what?" He shot to his feet, instinctive panic jerking her hand upward with him. Gabrielle stirred with a soft, pained groan. Her eyes fluttered open, confused, seeking him.

Vincent immediately sat, cupping her face as if she were made of porcelain, kissing her fevered forehead.
"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm right here."

"Le... let's g-go home..." she murmured, voice hoarse and thin. Her burning palm found his wrist, tugging weakly. "Let's go back... to the hotel..."

"Sshhh..." he breathed, brushing his lips softly over hers to silence her.
"You need to recover, Bella."

"N-not here..." she pleaded, breath hitching before her body shook with a sob.

"You must remain under medication," he whispered, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "Please, my love... rest."

"For how long... exactly?" she croaked, turning her frightened eyes to the doctor at the foot of the bed.

"Mrs. Walton, stage-four dengue is extremely serious. You require strict treatment and complete rest."

"Wh–what...? That's imp—" Her voice wavered, dizziness sweeping through her again.
"That's impossible..." she whispered, flinching as nausea washed over her.

Her eyes widened suddenly.
"A-are you certain about the results?" she demanded, gaze sharpening despite the fever.

"We tested your blood sample from last night and another this morning. Both confirmed the diagnosis," the doctor replied.

"V-Vince... the orphanage... that's where—" She broke off in a violent cough. Vincent instantly lifted her, one arm firm around her as he rubbed her back soothingly.

"Vince, the children..." She clutched his wrist, breath trembling. "If I caught the virus there... their immune systems—they're so weak—what if they—"

"I will handle it," he murmured, trying to ease her against the pillows.

"You must make sure—make sure they're safe," she insisted desperately, trying to rise, only for Vincent to push her gently but firmly back onto the bed.

"Vince," she gasped, "you must ensure none of the children—"

"Relax, Bella," he said, though he himself was moments away from unraveling.

God help him, she was burning with fever, frail and shaking—and still her first thought was the children. He hadn't known this part of her. This softness. This fierce compassion. The world had painted her as selfish, calculating, frivolous.

And yet here she was, weeping over children who barely had enough to eat.

"You don't understand," she pressed. "You saw them, Vince—you saw how malnourished they are. If I caught the fever so easily, what chance do they have? You must alert the staff—you must test them—you must—"