Chasing the Flame

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

La vie est un sommeil, l'amour en est le rêve." -
English Translation: "Life is a long sleep and love is its dream."

The next morning, I awoke at exactly 6 a.m., denied the comfort of sleep. Ethan's touch, his voice, and the way he treated me lingered in my mind, replaying in an endless loop that had kept me awake all night.

It wasn't just the strange attraction I felt toward him. It was the terrifying realization that I wanted him to feel the same way about me. That desire, as irrational and impossible as it seemed, gnawed at me—something I knew could never happen. Yet, the thought refused to leave me.

Determined to shake off the restless night, I slipped into my usual routine: a quick shower, dressed, and ready to head to the main house to make breakfast for my boss.

After preparing the meal, I waited for thirty minutes, but there was still no sign of Ethan. That was unusual. He was never late—Ethan Salvaire was nothing if not punctual. Efficiency was his hallmark, a trait that had carried him to the top, and he avoided anything that might slow him down.

"Good morning, Kimberly," Karen's voice caught me off guard as she tapped my shoulder from behind.

"Hey, Karen." I turned and hugged her.

"Hope your night was as splendid as mine," she teased with a playful smile.

I chuckled, though my laughter felt hollow. "Could've been better."

Her eyes flickered with curiosity as she adjusted her leather jacket, motioning for me to step closer.

"I heard Mr. Salvaire's in a foul mood. He lost a major deal—one that cost a fortune and months of effort," she whispered, making sure no one else could hear.

A cold shiver crawled down my spine as I recalled how he looked the night before—tired, drained, and unlike his usual self.

"He wants breakfast served in his room," Karen added, her gaze lingering on the plush carpet beneath us.

I nodded, my stomach knotting with nervousness at the thought of entering his private sanctuary. As she walked off to her station, I rubbed my sweaty palms on my floral dress, taking sharp, shallow breaths until I mustered the courage to face him.

Standing at his bedroom door, I knocked gently. Silence. I knocked again, but there was still no response. Maybe he wanted to be left alone. Just as I turned to leave, a faint sound from the other side stopped me in my tracks.

"Come in."

I cautiously turned the door knob and pushed it open just enough to peer inside. The room was dimly lit, shadows masking everything. I stepped in further and saw him sprawled across his enormous king-sized bed, his tanned body almost lazily draped in a dark blanket, revealing just enough to make my breath hitch. He was a vision—a dangerously attractive one.

Ethan Salvaire, in all his perfection, was truly a masterpiece.

A lump formed in my throat as I swallowed hard, trying to stay composed. He hadn't noticed me yet, his back turned as he lay on his stomach, the blanket barely covering his muscular form. There was something different about seeing him like this—vulnerable, peaceful, as though the weight of the world had finally caught up with him.

So, even billionaires needed rest.

I shrugged off the odd fascination and cleared my throat softly, hoping to wake him gently.

"Morning, Miss Stafford," he muttered groggily, not bothering to turn toward me.

"Breakfast is ready, sir."

He stirred slightly but didn't rise. His body shifted beneath the blanket, frustration written across his face as he reluctantly moved to sit up.

I quickly averted my gaze as he tossed the blanket aside, grateful to find he still had his boxers on, though it did little to diminish the sheer magnetism of his presence. His bare back glistened as he stretched, his movements slower than usual—almost sluggish. Something was wrong.

His usual sharp, commanding energy seemed to have faded, replaced by exhaustion. Dark circles framed his eyes, and there was a gentleness in his expression that was foreign to the Ethan I knew.

He stood, staggered slightly, and disappeared into the bathroom. I stood awkwardly in his room, trying to rid myself of the heat crawling up my neck at the thought of him, naked under the stream of water. My mind betrayed me, wandering into forbidden territory.

I shook my head, forcing myself back to reality. This was all wrong. Ethan Salvaire was wrong for me in every possible way. And yet, the attraction—no, the pull—was undeniable.

Minutes later, he re-emerged, wearing nothing but a towel, shivering slightly as he rubbed his arms. His pace was slow, his eyes still dark and heavy with fatigue.

"Are you still cold?" I asked, concerned.

"Yeah," he admitted softly.

I pulled the comforter from the bed and draped it over his shoulders, rubbing his hands gently in an attempt to warm him. His body stiffened under my touch, though he didn't pull away.

"Do you feel better?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"I do," he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

"No, you don't," I replied, a bit more firmly. "You're pretending to be fine because you're obsessed with your work."

His eyes flickered with surprise at my boldness, but I couldn't hold back. It pained me to see him like this—so consumed by his career that he was willing to sacrifice his health.

"Stay here," I said, my voice softer this time. "I'll be right back."

I returned a few minutes later with pain relievers and a bottle of water. He hesitated, so I opened the packet and handed it to him, along with the water. Reluctantly, he accepted and took the medicine.

"You need to rest," I insisted as he set the bottle down. "You can't keep pushing yourself like this."

He didn't respond, but I could see the tension in his posture ease slightly. He was trying to act strong, but even Ethan Salvaire had his limits.

After a while, he dressed and came out of his bedroom, looking a bit better but still not his usual self.

"You should see a doctor," I urged gently.

"I don't need to," he replied, though I could tell he wasn't fully convinced.

I stepped closer and placed my hand on his forehead. His temperature had finally come down.

"Thank you, Kimberly," he said, his voice soft as he took my hand in his, rubbing it gently. "For looking out for me."

His blue eyes met mine, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade. The intensity of his gaze was almost too much, and I pulled my hand away, suddenly aware of how close we were.

He handed me a note, his expression back to its usual calm control. "Here's a list of things I need you to pick up for me."

I took the note, trying to steady my breathing, but his touch had already sent a ripple through me that I couldn't quite shake.

"And Kimberly," he added, his voice softer again. I turned back to face him.

"Thank you," he said, offering me a rare smile. One that reached his eyes.