Chapter 162: Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Nine – It’s just a cold
Five days passed without ceremony.
They did not announce themselves as a turning point. They arrived the way pressure always did in Zane’s life, quietly, disguised as momentum. Meetings stacked. Emails bred overnight. Deadlines slid closer not because anyone demanded it, but because he allowed them to.
The cold did not leave.
It lingered instead, settling into his chest like something that had found a reason to stay.
On the sixth morning, Zane woke with his throat raw and his head heavy, the kind of ache that made light feel intrusive. He sat up slowly, one hand braced against the mattress, waiting for the brief dizziness to pass. The penthouse windows were still dark, the city below only beginning to stir. He coughed once, sharp and dry, then again, longer this time, his chest tightening in protest.
He stood anyway.
The shower helped at first. Steam loosened the tightness in his chest just enough that he could breathe without thinking about it. He stayed under the water longer than usual, head tipped forward, hands braced against the tile, letting the heat do what it could. By the time he dressed, his nose was running and his head felt clearer, which was enough to convince him the worst had already passed.
He swallowed two painkillers with black coffee and left.
By midday, the cough had returned.
It was deeper now, less polite. The kind that interrupted him mid sentence during a call and forced him to mute his microphone while he leaned forward, elbow on the table, riding out the fit. When it passed, his chest burned, and his throat felt scraped raw from the inside.
"Everything all right," someone asked when he unmuted.
"Fine," Zane replied, voice rougher than he liked. "Just a cold."
No one questioned it.
They were used to him sounding tired. They were used to him powering through. The work moved forward, and that was what mattered.
Willow noticed the change before he mentioned it.
They were on the phone that night, her sitting on the edge of the bed with Zana asleep nearby, his image framed by the city lights behind him. He had tried to keep his voice steady, but she heard it immediately, the rasp threaded through his words, the slight pause before each breath.
"You sound awful," she said.
He smiled, dismissive. "I sound tired."
"You sound sick."
"I’m not," he replied. "It’s nothing."
She frowned. "You’ve been saying that for days. It can’t be just a cold Zane."
"Come on love... you sound like my mum. You know how colds linger... And I’ve been right for days," he said lightly. "I’m still standing."
"That’s not the standard."
He shrugged. "It’s mine."
She watched him through the screen, her expression unreadable for a moment. "Are you sleeping."
"Enough."
"Are you eating."
He hesitated, then waved a hand. "We’ve been over this."
"That wasn’t an answer."
"I’m fine, Willow," he said, gently but firmly. "I promise."
She nodded, but she did not smile. "Just take care of yourself," she said. "Please."
"I am," he replied.
He meant it in the narrow way that allowed him to keep going.
Lorrlyne called the following afternoon.
Zane was in the middle of reviewing a draft when his phone buzzed on the desk. He stared at the name for a moment before answering.
"Yes," he said.
"That’s not hello," she replied.
"It’s efficient."
"You sound like hell," she said without preamble.
He rolled his shoulders back in the chair. "You’re exaggerating."
"I’m not," she countered. "You’re congested, your voice is low, and you cleared your throat twice before you answered. How long have you been sick."
"I’m not sick," he said. "It’s just a cold."
"That’s being sick."
"It’s nothing," he said again. "I picked it up from someone in the office."
"And what have you done about it."
"Nothing," he replied honestly. "Because it doesn’t require anything."
She was quiet for a moment. He could almost hear her recalibrating.
"You’re coughing," she said finally. "I can hear it even when you don’t think you are."
He frowned. "I’m fine."
"You always say that right before you’re not," she replied.
"I don’t have time for this right now," he said, irritation creeping in despite his effort to contain it. "I’m in the middle of something."
"This is something," she said.
He exhaled slowly. "Please, Mum."
"And you’re exhausted," she continued. "And emotionally strained. And overworked. Those things don’t combine well."
"I’m managing," he insisted.
"That’s not the same as coping."
"I don’t need a lecture."
"I’m not lecturing," she said calmly. "I’m observing."
He rubbed at his temple, a dull ache blooming behind his eye. "I’ll rest when this is done."
"When is that?"
He didn’t answer.
She sighed, controlled but unmistakable. "At least see a doctor."
"I don’t have time."
"You don’t have time not to," she replied.
"I’m not doing this with you," he said, sharper than he intended.
There was a pause on the line. Not anger. Something colder.
"All right," Lorrlyne said. "Then hear this once. Illness does not care about your schedule. And neither does your body."
"I said I’m fine."
"I know," she replied. "You always do."
She ended the call without saying goodbye.
By the third day, the cough had changed.
It was wetter now, pulling something loose from deep in his chest that left him breathless afterward. He started keeping water nearby, then tea. His head felt thick, as though wrapped in cotton, and he caught himself rereading emails more than once before responding.
Still, he worked.
He stayed late. He skipped meals. He took calls standing up because sitting made his chest feel tighter. He told himself the tightness was from stress, not illness.
On the fourth night, he woke coughing so hard he had to sit up, one hand pressed against his sternum, the other braced on the mattress. The sound filled the room, harsh and uncontrolled, until his eyes watered and his chest burned.
When it passed, he sat there for several minutes, breathing carefully, counting each inhale until the tightness eased.
He did not call anyone.
He sent Willow a text message the next morning, deliberately light.
Rough busy night. Still on track. See you soon.
She replied almost immediately.
Please see someone, about your cold Zane.
He stared at the screen for a moment, then typed back.
I’m fine.
He did not mention the fever that came and went in waves, leaving him chilled one moment and overheated the next. He did not mention the way climbing a single flight of stairs left him winded. He did not mention the pressure that had settled beneath his ribs, constant now, dull and insistent.
By the fifth day, even he could no longer pretend it was improving.
He coughed through meetings. He lost his voice halfway through a call and had to pause, water in hand, apologizing with a strained smile. His assistant Jordan asked if he wanted to reschedule the afternoon sessions.
"No," he said. "Let’s push through."
He hesitated. "You don’t look well Boss."
"I’m fine," he replied automatically.
He nodded, unconvinced but compliant.
That night, Willow’s voice was tighter when she spoke.
"Zane," she said after he coughed for the third time in a row, "this isn’t nothing."
"Willow... don’t worry -
"- That’s not nothing." Willow finished the sentence sarcastically
"It’s common," he said. "It’ll pass."
"You’ve had a fever?" she said quietly.
He paused. "I didn’t say that."
"You didn’t have to," she replied.
He closed his eyes, fatigue washing over him in a wave that left him momentarily dizzy. "I don’t want to make this another thing we worry about from different coasts."
"I don’t want to lose you because you refused to take care of yourself," she said, her voice steady but edged with something sharper.
"That’s dramatic."
"No," Willow replied. "It’s honest."
They sat in silence for a moment, the distance between them suddenly heavier.
"I’ll see someone if it doesn’t get better," he said finally.
"When."
He hesitated. "Soon."
She did not push further. She knew him too well.
After the call ended, Zane sat alone in the penthouse, the city glowing beneath him, his chest aching with every breath. He told himself he just needed one more stretch of effort. One more push. One more finish line.
The illness was no longer subtle.
But he still treated it like something he could outwork.
And somewhere beneath the cough, beneath the fatigue and the strain, something deeper was forming, quiet and dangerous, waiting for the moment when his body would no longer accept being dismissed.
