26. Ella

26

ELLA

I barely make it to the bathroom in time. My stomach churns violently, and I vomit, clutching the sides of the porcelain sink as my body convulses. The adrenaline from earlier has long since worn off, leaving me weak and nauseous. The taste of bile burns in my throat, and I splash cold water on my face, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

"Ella?" Marcus's voice comes from the doorway, filled with concern. He steps inside, his face etched with worry. "What's wrong?"

I straighten up, forcing a weak smile. "I'm fine, Marcus. Probably just something I ate."

He's not convinced. "What did you eat?"

I lean against the sink, trying to steady my breathing. "An almond bar from a nondescript takeaway place. Must've been bad."

His eyes narrow, scrutinizing me. "Are you sure that's all it is?"

I nod, my legs feeling like jelly. "Yeah, I just need to sleep it off. Really."

Marcus hesitates, clearly wanting to push further, but he knows better. "Okay. But if you need anything, anything at all, you come to me, alright?"

"I will," I assure him, trying to infuse my voice with more strength than I feel.

He walks me to my room, staying close but giving me the space I need. My phone is clutched tightly in my hand. Come what may, I can't let my troubles best me—even though they are clearly dressed as threats. It would be nice if my feet tried to cooperate because right about now, every step is a monumental effort. My legs wobble like jelly as I focus on reaching my room, each footfall echoing in the long, silent corridors of the manor.

When I finally reach my room, I give Marcus a brief smile. He lingers, clearly hoping for more. He's not used to my being this distant, but the situation calls for it. "I'll see you in a bit, Marcus," I tell him softly before closing the door.

My heart lurches at his crestfallen expression being the last thing I see before the door stands between us. I turn around anyway and let my settings ground me momentarily. Inside what has to be the prettiest room ever, sheer curtains billow softly in the breeze.

The windows overlook a distant ocean, the moonlight reflecting off its surface in a shimmering dance of light. The sight is soothing, especially in my current state.

I open the door to the terrace, stepping out to breathe in the cool night air. The terrace stretches along the length of the upper floor, one of many rooms that open to this serene walkway. I lean against the balustrade, letting the fresh air wash over me, hoping it will settle my churning stomach and racing mind.

It helps, but then a fresh wave of nausea overtakes all semblance of sane, measured thinking. I stumble back inside, collapsing onto my bed. The softness of the mattress is a welcome relief, and I close my eyes for a moment, willing the world to stop spinning. When I finally open them, I reach for my phone, my heart pounding with a new kind of dread.

My index finger lingers over the message from before. I open it, my breath catching in my throat as I read.

Leave Marcus. Vacate the manor. Or I expose everything .

Panic seizes me. I sit up, the room spinning slightly, my mind racing through the possibilities. The chase tonight, the near misses—could it all be connected to this threat?

Only one name ties it with all of this. Only one person stands to gain from my leaving the men and stepping back from what is the best thing to ever happen to me.

I swallow hard. I've also only just exposed Theo's ex. God. If he found out it was me, would he think I did it on purpose so I could… get with him?

A groan escapes my lips. My secret life, the one I've kept hidden from the boys, is now teetering on the brink of exposure.

I can't let this happen. I need to protect my found family, to keep them safe from the fallout of my vigilante activities. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the rising tide of fear. I need to think, to plan my next move carefully.

Another message pings. You have 24 hours.

My fingers tremble as I type a reply, trying to keep my tone neutral. Who is this?

No response. Of course not.

Of course, I have a good idea of who this is. But the question isn't regarding their identity any longer. It's about how they found out about mine.

I lie back, staring at the ornate ceiling, the delicate molding casting soft shadows in the dim light. The grandeur of my surroundings feels like a mockery of the chaos within. The beautiful room, the comforting bed, the soothing view—none of it lulls me.

I have to find a way out of this, to protect the life I've built here. But as exhaustion pulls me under, one thought remains clear. I can't let the men find out. It's stupid, really, but this is one thing that is just mine, safe from the judgment of all other living things.

If others find out, there is also the risk that they will try to dissuade me. I'm not saying they will, but I don't want to risk it. That part of my life is mine, just mine.

"Is that wrong?" I ask the walls. "Am I supposed to reveal every part of myself?"

They don't answer.

Sleep eludes me. I can't shake the sense of impending doom. I know what I must do.

With a deep breath, I grab my phone and dial Vanessa's number. As the phone rings, I brace myself for her to refuse my call or hang up. Instead, a cool, clipped voice answers.

"Ella, what a surprise," Vanessa says, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

"I need to talk to you. In person," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

There's a pause, and I half expect her to refuse. But then she says, "Fine. Meet me at La Belle époque, downtown, Thursday, for breakfast."

"Thank you," I reply, but she's already hung up. I stare at the phone, my heart pounding. Thursday. That's the day after tomorrow.

Very early the next morning, I quickly arrange for a doctor's appointment, needing to figure out what's wrong with me. The receptionist slots me in for that day, and I'm grateful for the quick turnaround.

I dress quickly, my movements hurried and anxious. Marcus is still asleep, his breathing steady and calm, oblivious to the turmoil inside me. I leave a note on the kitchen counter, scribbling a quick Out Running Errands and hoping it will suffice. The drive to the doctor's office is a blur, my mind occupied with thoughts of what could be wrong. The cityscape rushes past in a smear of gray and muted colors, the morning sun just beginning to pierce through the overcast sky.

Dr. Foster's office rests within a small brick structure with a simple sign above the door. The waiting room is a functional little space decorated with potted plants and soft pastel colors. I inhale the scent of lavender, probably from one of the numerous diffusers scattered around.

I check in at the reception desk. The receptionist, a woman with a kind face who could be anywhere between forty and fifty years old, offers me a warm, almost motherly smile.

Particulars finished, I sit down, my fingers tapping nervously on the armrest of the chair. Around me, other patients sit quietly, flipping through outdated magazines or staring blankly at the muted television mounted on the wall.

My eyes flit around the room, trying to find something, anything, to focus on.

A large fern sits in the corner, its fronds gently swaying under the breeze of a nearby vent. Next to it, a row of cheerful daisies in ceramic pots adds a splash of color to the room. The ambiance is designed to be calming, so ten points for effort. I pick up a magazine, pretending to read, but the words blur together meaninglessly.

Finally, the nurse calls my name, and I follow her down a narrow hallway to an examination room. The walls are lined with medical charts and anatomical posters, each one a reminder of the countless ailments that could be plaguing me. I sit on the examination table, the paper cover crinkling beneath me, and wait for Dr. Foster.

He enters a few minutes later, a kind-eyed man with a gentle demeanor. "Good morning, Ella," he says, taking a seat on the stool beside the table. "What seems to be the problem today?"

I take a deep breath, recounting my symptoms—the nausea, the dizziness, the general sense of malaise. He listens patiently, nodding thoughtfully as I speak.

"Have you been under any unusual stress lately?" he asks, his brow furrowed with concern.

I hesitate, wondering what he'd say if he knew about my life. "You could say that," I reply carefully. "But this feels different, more physical."

Dr. Foster nods again, making notes on his clipboard. "We'll need to do a blood test to get to the bottom of this," he says finally, looking up at me with reassuring eyes. "It could be something as simple as a vitamin deficiency, or it could be something that requires more attention. Either way, we'll find out."

I nod, my anxiety spiking as the nurse enters the room with a tray of vials and needles. She's efficient and gentle, her practiced hands finding a vein with ease. The prick of the needle barely registers through my swirling thoughts. I watch as the vial fills with my blood, the dark red liquid a stark contrast to the sterile white surroundings.

"There we go," the nurse says, placing a small bandage over the puncture site. "We should have the results in a few days. In the meantime, try to rest and take care of yourself."

I thank them both and leave the clinic, my mind a thousand miles away. The drive back to the manor is just as blurry as the drive there, my thoughts consumed with worry. What if it's something serious? What if I'm not around to protect my family? The questions swirl in my mind, relentless and unforgiving.

Back at the manor, I try to focus on my duties. Lily is a bright spot in my day, her laughter and endless energy a welcome distraction. We play in the garden, her little hands grasping mine as we run through the flowers.

"Ella, look!" she squeals, pointing to a butterfly that flits nearby. Her excitement is contagious, and I smile, trying to push aside my worries.

But as the afternoon wears on, the nausea returns. I swallow hard, trying to keep it at bay. Lily tugs on my hand, her eyes wide with concern. "Ella, okay?"

"I'm fine, sweetheart," I say, forcing a smile. "Just a little tired."

We sit down on a bench, and she cuddles up next to me, her small body warm against mine. "I love you, Ella," she whispers, and my heart aches with affection.

"I love you too, Lily," I whisper back, kissing the top of her head.

Marcus finds us like that, his eyes widening when he sees me pale and shaky. "Ella, what's wrong?" he demands, his voice laced with panic.

"I'm fine," I insist, standing up too quickly. The world tilts, and I grip the back of the bench to steady myself. "I just need a timeout."

Marcus's worry is palpable, but once again, he knows the beginning and end of his boundaries. God, I love him for it.

"Go rest," he says, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'll take care of Lily."

I nod, giving Lily one last hug before heading inside. I need to get out of here, to clear my head and focus on my next move. Once in my room, I pull out my phone and text Theo.

Where are you? I type, my fingers trembling.

Station 23 , he replies almost immediately. Come quick .

I grab my keys and head out, telling Marcus I'm running an errand. He nods worriedly but doesn't stop me.

The drive to the fire station is quick, the streets blessedly clear. I park outside Station 23 and make my way in, the familiar scents of smoke and machinery filling the air.

Theo meets me in the garage, his face serious. "Ella, what's going on? You look like hell."

I don't say much, just cross over to where he is standing and hug him. His arms wrap around me as he buries a hand in my hair. "Sweetheart, what is it?" he asks gently.

Of course, I can't tell him. So, I stand there with his arms cradling me and let his warm, honeyed scent wash over my worries.