CHAPTER 218: NINE WAYS TO SAY YES: THE PLANNING [PART III]

I’d been walking on eggshells for days, nervous she’d catch on that I am about to propose to her. She was far too perceptive, my Isabella. The slightest shift in my routine, and her brows arch in suspicion, her eyes scrutinizing me with an intensity that could peel back layers of carefully constructed composure.

"You’re humming," she remarked one morning, her voice soft with sleep yet edged with curiosity. I’d been in the bathroom, shaving, a tune from some obscure opera playing in my head – a melody of soaring triumph and profound joy. I’d caught myself mid-bar.

"Just a good mood, mia cara," I’d replied, trying to sound nonchalant, the razor poised precariously. "A man is allowed a good mood, no?"

She’d appeared in the doorway, wrapped in one of my oversized silk robes, her hair a wild, beautiful tangle. cute. "A consistently good mood, perhaps. But yours has a... specific vibrato lately. A nervous excitement. Are you planning to overthrow a small country? Or merely redesign the entire west wing?"

I’d laughed, a little too loudly, and splashed water on my face, grateful for the distraction. "No coups, no renovations. Just enjoying the peace. Something wrong with that?"

Her gaze had lingered, a faint smile playing on her lips, before she’d shrugged and padded back into the bedroom, leaving me to my racing heart and the lingering suspicion that she hadn’t quite bought my performance.

Aria, bless her heart, had proven invaluable as a co-conspirator. She’d developed a sudden, fervent interest in Isabella’s wardrobe, dragging her on elaborate shopping excursions for "fall refreshers" – covert operations to ensure Isabella was unable to come my place too much while the pool transformation and reconstruction was secretly set in motion.

Cameron, despite his usual cynicism, had been surprisingly efficient in coordinating the logistics – the flowers, the candles, and the discreet team of groundskeepers who would execute the setup under the cloak of darkness. He even managed to keep a straight face when Isabella asked him why he was suddenly so interested in the mansion’s lighting schematics.

"Just making sure the mood is right for our illustrious guests, Isabella," he’d deadpanned, a flicker of amusement in his eyes that only I caught.

The month had flown by in a blur of covert glances, whispered phone calls, and an almost unbearable anticipation. Each day, I watched Isabella, noting the subtle return of her vibrant energy. The shadows beneath her eyes had receded, replaced by a clear, bright sparkle. Her laughter, once a rare, delicate sound, now filled the rooms with its unrestrained beauty. She was strong, healthy, and radiant – just as I’d wanted her to be. My heart swelled with a fierce, protective joy. Nothing would mar this day.

I scrawled my signature at the bottom of a contract, the scratch of the pen the only sound in the quiet sanctuary of my corner office. Today, Friday, it felt less like a beat and more like a countdown. My gaze swept over the expansive city skyline, a familiar tableau of power and ambition. The digital clock on my desk read 4:32 PM. Almost closing time. Almost time for the carefully orchestrated plan to unfold.

A soft knock at my office door, subtle yet firm, pulled me from my thoughts. Isabella. "Come in," I commanded, my voice betraying none of the anticipation swirling beneath my composed exterior.

She walked in with that quiet confidence that always seemed to command space without demanding it.

"Mr. Walton," she began, "The monthly report from the director. He wanted you to review it." she said, her voice retaining its professional crispness, but it was thinner than usual. A fraction off-key.

"Adrien," I corrected softly, a reminder that we are alone and she can drop the title. She placed the thick folder on the corner of my desk, her fingers trembling slightly around the folder. I took it, but my eyes didn’t move to the pages. They stayed on her.

She was sweating.

The air conditioning was set to a crisp twenty degrees. My office was practically a meat locker, cool enough that I hadn’t taken off my jacket. And yet, a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, her cheeks flushed unnaturally pink.

"Isabella," I murmured. "Are you good, love?"

Her eyes, usually so direct, flickered, avoiding mine for a fraction of a second.

"I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache." She offered a small, dismissive smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a deflection. A firewall. I saw through it instantly.

I pushed my chair back and rose, rounding the desk in two long strides. Her scent—a faint mix of vanilla and something uniquely her—was usually a calming agent. Now, it was laced with something else. The scent of distress.

"You’re sweating, Isabella."

"It’s just... warm in here," she lied, but her eyes darted away.

I didn’t argue. I simply lifted my hand and pressed the back of it against her forehead. The heat that radiated from her skin was a shock, a sudden, searing fever that sent a jolt of alarm through my system. Every instinct that usually screamed "control" now screamed "danger."

"You’re on fire," I stated, my voice dropping to a low, serious tone.

"I’m not—" Her protest died half-formed on her lips. Then—her body faltered.

It happened in a blink, yet every frame stretched into eternity. The slight buckle of her knees. The way her pupils dilated, unfocused. Her head tilting too far, like a marionette with its strings cut.

My heart lurched. For a split second my brain refused to register it—Isabella doesn’t fall, she never falters. But she was. She was going down.

No.

Instinct overrode thought. I moved before I could think, my arms shooting out to catch her, pulling her flush against my chest. She was limp for a second, a dead weight, her head lolling against my shoulder. The report she had just delivered lay forgotten on my desk. The proposal, the ring, the perfectly orchestrated evening—all of it evaporated into white noise.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a foreign, uncontrolled rhythm. I held her, my hand splayed across her back.

"Easy," I murmured, holding her upright. "Talk to me."

She blinked, pushing herself weakly away from me, her hands coming up to brace against my chest. "I’m okay," she whispered, the words slurring slightly. "I’m fine. I just... I just feel dizzy."

"Fine is the last thing you are," I countered, my grip on her arms tightening, supporting her. "That’s it. We’re done for the day. Round up your things. I’m driving you home."

"No, Adrien, I can—"

"That wasn’t a request," I cut her off, leaving no room for argument. She knew that tone.

She finally nodded, a flicker of her usual stubbornness giving way to exhaustion.

I walked her to the door of my office. "Five minutes."

The moment she was gone, I pulled out my phone, and opened the group chat labeled Operation: Marry Her Without Screwing It Up.

Adrien: Abort. Code Red. I repeat, abort the plan. Something’s wrong with Isabella.

I hit send, then immediately typed another message, specifically for Aria.

Adrien: Aria, I need you to go to Isabella’s place. Now. Rush. I’m driving her there from the office. I want you there when we arrive. ETA approx 30 mins. Will call you with updates.

Aria’s response was almost instantaneous, a flurry of capital letters and exclamation marks. Trust her to spring into action. Cameron, ever the calm in her storm, simply sent a single, knowing emoji: disbelieve, followed by a text: On it, Boss. Be safe.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket, my mind racing with contingency plans, my heart a tight knot of worry. When Isabella finally shuffled out from behind her desk, she looked even worse. Her face was pale, her lips almost blue.

I strode towards her, taking her bag from her shoulder before she could protest. My hand instinctively found hers, intertwining our fingers. Her skin was still burning hot, clammy. I could feel her trying to pull away subtly, trying to maintain some semblance of independence, but I held firm.

As we walked toward the private elevator, I kept glancing at her. Her smile was tight, her posture too stiff. She was performing wellness like it was a role she’d been cast in.

"Should we go to a clinic?" I asked, keeping my tone light.

"No," she said quickly. "It’s probably stress. I’ve been pushing too hard."

Guilt sliced through me. "I told you not to overwork. You never listen."

She gave me a weak smile. "You never listen when I tell you I’m fine."

Then, suddenly, she stopped. Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide.

"Wait—I need to use the bathroom real quick."

Before I could respond, she pulled her hand from mine and practically ran towards the executive washroom down the hall.

I stood there, frozen, the silence of the empty floor pressing in on me. Powerless. It was a sensation I despised. I could command markets, predict trends, and dismantle competitors, but I couldn’t stop the nausea churning in the woman I loved. I could only wait.