Chapter 63: Ice Cream
I spend the entire day trapped at home like a prisoner under house arrest, surrounded by watchful eyes and well-meaning concern that makes me want to scream.
Mrs. Wen appears every hour with something new for me to consume, mostly fruits sliced into perfect pieces, bowls of plain rice, and endless variations of soup that all taste vaguely the same despite her insistence that they’re different recipes with different nutritional benefits.
"This one is good for blood flow," she says, setting down a bowl of clear broth with floating herbs. "The baby needs proper circulation."
I nod and eat it because refusing would just make her worried, and a worried Mrs. Wen is somehow worse than the soup.
Grandmother checks on me twice, appearing in the doorway with her tea like some kind of elegant warden making rounds, asking pointed questions about my rest and whether I need anything while making it abundantly clear that "anything" does not include leaving this room or doing anything remotely strenuous.
Even Liang Feng and Qiao Jun seem to have been given instructions, because when I try to go downstairs just to sit in a different location, they both materialize out of nowhere offering to carry me like I’ve suddenly lost the ability to use stairs.
"I’m fine," I insist. "I can walk."
"Dr. Xi said to rest, Young Master," Liang Feng replies with professional courtesy that doesn’t hide the fact that he’s absolutely going to follow me down these stairs to make sure I don’t collapse.
I give up and go back to the bedroom, defeated by everyone’s collective determination to treat me like I’m made of porcelain.
Bael had been annoyingly gentle the night before and even this morning before leaving for work, moving around the room with unusual quiet, helping me with things I didn’t need help with, asking if I needed anything in that careful tone that suggested he was still thinking about the hospital visit.
I keep thinking about it even though I absolutely refuse to admit it affected me, keep replaying the way he apologized, the way his hand felt in my hair, the way he looked at me when he said he’d be more careful.
It’s irritating.
He’s irritating.
This whole situation is irritating.
By afternoon, boredom has driven me to desperate measures, which apparently means lying in bed scrolling mindlessly through my phone, looking for anything to distract me from the fact that I’m going stir-crazy.
That’s when I see it.
An article with a photo that makes my thumb freeze mid-scroll.
Bael and Xue Lian standing together at what looks like a construction site, both wearing hard hats and professional attire, inspecting something off-camera while workers move around them in the background.
The headline reads: Wuchen Group CEO and Medical Consultant Dr. Xue Collaborate on New Healthcare Facility Development
I click on it before I can stop myself.
The article is professional, carefully worded, explaining that Wuchen Group is expanding into medical real estate and has brought on Dr. Xue Lian as a consultant for their new private hospital project, leveraging his medical expertise to ensure the facility meets the highest standards.
Officially, it’s just business.
Two professionals working together on a legitimate project.
But the way the article is written, the way the photo is framed with them standing close together looking competent and polished, the subtle undertone suggesting they make a striking pair of accomplished professionals...
It didn’t say it outright, of course. It didn’t need to. The message was sitting there between every line...CEO Wuchen looked better beside an omega who could stand next to him in public, not one stuck at home being fed soup like an invalid.
I read every word and hate all of them.
There are more photos scrolling down, Bael pointing at blueprints while Xue Lian leans in to look, both of them in a meeting room with other executives, Xue Lian speaking while Bael listens with that focused attention he gives to things he considers important.
They look professional.
Compatible.
Like they belong in the same world, speaking the same language, operating on the same level.
And I’m sitting here in bed eating soup and being treated like my only job is to stay alive and grow this baby.
What irritates me most isn’t even the article itself, it’s realizing that Xue Lian has changed tactics completely.
No more obvious office visits that I can interrupt.
No more convenient lunches I can crash.
No more easy battles where I can just show up and drag my husband home.
Now he’s inserting himself into Bael’s public life, into his professional world, into spaces where I can’t simply walk in wearing designer clothes and heels to reclaim my territory.
He’s making himself necessary, valuable, irreplaceable in ways that have nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with actual partnership.
I hate how smart that is.
I hate that I didn’t see it coming.
I hate that I’m lying here in mandatory bed rest while he’s out there positioning himself as the perfect professional complement to Bael’s business empire.
I close the article and toss my phone aside with more force than necessary, staring at the ceiling with frustration coiling tight in my chest.
This isn’t over.
Bed rest is temporary, Dr. Xi said two days, and after that I’m going to figure out how to counter this new strategy because I absolutely did not survive this long just to lose to someone who thinks wearing a hard hat makes him irreplaceable.
***
That night, Bael returns later than usual.
I hear him downstairs first, the familiar sound of the front door, his voice speaking quietly to someone, probably Mrs. Wen or one of the security.
Then his footsteps on the stairs, measured and unhurried.
The bedroom door opens and he steps in, already loosening his tie, carrying a shopping bag I hadn’t noticed at first, and I’m definitely not staring at him from where I’m propped against the headboard with my sketch pad.
"You’re awake," he observes.
"Brilliant deduction."
His lips twitch slightly at my tone, and he walks over to the mini fridge in the corner, opening it and starting to load things inside.
I watch him for a moment before curiosity wins.
"What’s that?"
"Ice cream," he replies without looking at me, continuing to arrange the tubs in the freezer. "You were almost out."
He closes the fridge and starts getting ready for bed with his usual efficiency, hanging his jacket, removing his watch, unbuttoning his shirt.
I stare at the mini fridge.
Ice cream.
He noticed I was running low on ice cream and bought more.
Such a small thing, such an unnecessary thing that he absolutely didn’t need to think about or remember or care about enough to actually do something about it.
And somehow, it unsettles me far more than the article did, far more than seeing him standing next to Xue Lian looking professional and compatible, far more than any of Xue Lian’s strategic moves.
Because Xue Lian is out there making himself professionally valuable, positioning himself as a necessary business partner.
But Bael came home and quietly restocked my ice cream without making a big deal about it, without asking for thanks or acknowledgment, just because he noticed I liked it.
I set down my sketch pad and press my palms against my eyes.
This is bad.
This is very bad.
I can handle territorial games with Xue Lian, can strategize and counter-move and play to win.
But I don’t know how to handle this, I don’t know what to do with the way my chest feels tight just from ice cream in the freezer. I don’t know how to process the fact that I keep thinking about small gestures instead of grand romantic moves.
Bael emerges from the bathroom and gets into bed beside me, settling against the pillows with a quiet sigh.
"Go to sleep," he says, reaching over and taking the sketch pad from my lap, setting it on the nightstand.
"I’m not tired."
He doesn’t respond, he just pulls me down beside him, and I let him because fighting it seems like more effort than it’s worth.
I close my eyes and focus on breathing evenly, on not thinking about how ice cream in the freezer shouldn’t mean this much.
I’m in so much trouble.