My Coldhearted Husband’s Regret

The chicken soup Poppy prepared with such care turned out to be Veronica's undoing. What started as warmth spreading through her chest soon became a heavy drowsiness that pulled her under like quicksand. Sleep claimed her before she could even make it to the couch.

Hours later, Veronica surfaced from unconsciousness with fire coursing through her veins. Her fever burned so high that the room seemed to tilt and sway around her. Every breath felt like swallowing glass.

Sabrina's small face appeared above her, creased with worry. "Mom, are you sick?"

The words came out as barely more than a croak when Veronica tried to respond. Her daughter's concern cut through the haze of illness, but she couldn't summon the strength to offer proper reassurance.

Cook took one look at Veronica's flushed cheeks and glassy eyes before making her decision. "We're taking you to Dennis Estate immediately. Antonio can treat you properly there, get you back on your feet."

Mary nodded vigorously from across the room. "This came on too fast, too severe. You need professional medical attention, not home remedies."

The journey to Dennis Estate passed in a blur of car seats and concerned voices. Antonio arrived within minutes of their call, his weathered hands gentle as he examined Veronica's symptoms. The medication he prescribed was bitter on her tongue, but she swallowed it without complaint before stumbling upstairs to collapse into bed.

When consciousness returned, the world felt less like it was spinning off its axis. The small bedside lamp cast warm circles of light across familiar walls, and it took Veronica several moments to realize where she was. Cullen's childhood bedroom. She recognized the vintage baseball posters and the bookshelf lined with classics from his teenage years.

The soft rustle of turning pages drew her attention to the reading chair beside the window. Cullen sat there, completely absorbed in whatever book held his focus, his profile sharp in the lamplight.

She must have made some sound because he looked up immediately. "You're awake?"

Her throat felt raw and scraped, her emotions too fragile for conversation. Silence seemed safer than words that might betray how vulnerable she felt in this moment, in this room that held so many memories.

Veronica reached for her jacket, intending to get up, when Cullen appeared beside the bed with a glass of water. She hesitated, pride warring with thirst, before accepting it without acknowledgment. No thanks passed her lips.

He didn't seem to expect any. His hand moved toward her forehead, probably to check for fever, but even in her weakened state, Veronica's reflexes were sharp enough to avoid his touch.

Cullen's hand hung in the air for a moment before he drew it back. "Antonio's still downstairs. Let me get him to check on you."

He left without waiting for her response, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.

Minutes later, a small procession entered the room. Antonio led the way, followed by Cook, Cullen, and Sabrina, all wearing expressions of concern that made Veronica feel both cared for and exposed.

Antonio's examination was thorough but gentle. "You're improving, but the medication needs to continue. Your immune system is compromised from stress and poor nutrition. Your body simply couldn't fight off this infection when the cold weather hit. We need to build your strength back up with proper food and rest."

Veronica managed a nod, though even that small movement made her head pound.

Cook's maternal instincts kicked in immediately. "When did you last eat properly, Ver? You barely touched lunch before going to bed."

The mention of food made Veronica aware of the hollow ache in her stomach, though the thought of eating held little appeal. Her appetite seemed to have vanished along with her energy.

But Cook was persistent in the way only mothers could be. "You need nutrition to heal. Cullen, go down to the kitchen and bring up the dinner we prepared."

Cullen disappeared again, returning with a tray that smelled better than Veronica felt capable of appreciating. Cook and Antonio took their leave, but Cullen settled back into his reading chair as if he belonged there.

The book in his hands caught Veronica's attention immediately. She recognized the cover, the worn edges where her own fingers had turned the pages during their time at the hot springs retreat.

Her voice came out rougher than intended. "You..."

Cullen glanced up with something that might have been amusement. "I only meant to read for thirty minutes that day, but your notes in the margins were fascinating. They made me see the text in completely different ways. I've been working through it slowly ever since."

The knowledge that he'd been reading her private thoughts, her written reactions to the author's ideas, made something twist uncomfortably in Veronica's chest. Her appetite, already minimal, disappeared entirely.

Cullen studied her with those observant eyes that missed nothing. "After all this time, you still haven't learned how to stand up for yourself, have you?"

The words stung because they held too much truth. Veronica turned away, unable to meet his gaze.

He sighed, a sound that carried years of frustration and something that might have been regret. "Fine. I'll give you space. But eat the food, Veronica. You need to get better."

The room felt both too large and too small after his words settled between them. Outside, night pressed against the windows of the manor, and Veronica was left alone with her fever, her thoughts, and the lingering scent of the dinner she couldn't bring herself to touch.