Page 25 of Not Because You Loved Me

"I know you do," Trent said softly, his voice dropping into that low, gentle tone that used to make my heart melt. "You're the strongest woman I know. But you shouldn't always have to do it alone."

I stayed silent, resting my forehead against my palm, too tired to argue.

"Go home, Kat," he pleaded gently. "Leave Lars's paperwork on the desk. Go home, take some medicine, and get into bed. Promise me."

"Okay," I whispered, the exhaustion finally winning. "I will."

"Text me when you get inside your apartment so I know you made it back safe," Trent said. "I love you, Kat. Goodnight."

He'd been saying those three words regularly, out in the open for anyone to hear.

"Goodnight, Trent," I murmured, and hung up.

I dragged myself out of the arena, took the train back to my apartment, and collapsed into bed without changing. My skin was hot, my throat felt like broken glass, and as I drifted off into a restless, feverish sleep, the reality sank in: I was thousands of miles from home, sick, isolated, and completely alone.

CHAPTER 15

Trent

48 Hours Later

I worked around the clock to pull it off. Between managing three active residential build sites, co-ordinating crew schedules for the next two weeks, and ensuring Gideon had everything locked down, I didn't sleep a wink. But the moment Kat’s raspy, feverish voice faded over the phone two nights ago, I knew I wasn't staying in Canada.

I booked the first direct flight out to her, packed a single duffel for myself, and filled my checked luggage with her favourite things from home; including three boxes of NeoCitran, her specific brand of dark roast coffee, and two boxes of smarties she always craved when she was stressed, a cozy throw blanket she had left at my place and one of her favourite hoodies of mine.

Nine hours later, I was standing in the cold, damp morning air outside her Zurich apartment building, clutching the spare key Mark had helped me coordinate with her landlord.

I unlocked the front door, walked up the narrow stairs, and let myself into her apartment. The place was freezing, dark, and eerily quiet.

I set my duffel down by the door, took off my boots, and walked down the hall toward the bedroom. Kat was curled into a tight ball under a thin duvet, shivering violently despite her thick flannel shirt, my flannel shirt. Her forehead was slick with sweat, her breathing shallow and laboured. My heart twisted into a tight, painful knot. I stepped into the room, crouching beside the bed, and gently laid my palm against her cheek. She was burning up.

"Kat," I whispered softly.

Her eyelids fluttered open, heavy and glassy with fever. She blinked at me once, twice, as if convinced her brain was playing tricks on her. "Trent...?" she rasped, her voice barely a whisper. "I'm... am I hallucinating..."

"You're not hallucinating," I murmured, smoothing a damp strand of dark hair away from her forehead. "I'm right here."

"What are you... how are you..." She struggled to sit up, but I gently pressed my hand against her shoulder, guiding her back down onto the pillows.

"Shh, lie down," I said softly. "I took a flight. I'm here for a few days to take care of you. You don't have to worry about anything."

Tears welled in the corners of her glassy hazel eyes, and for the first time ‌since everything blew up, she didn't push me away. She just let out a long, shuddering sigh, buried her face into the side of my hand resting on her pillow, and fell back asleep.

For the next thirty-six hours, I didn't leave her side.

I stripped her bed and washed the sheets. I went to a local market down the street, bought fresh produce and chicken, and made a massive pot of homemade soup from scratch, a family recipe my mom shared with me. I boiled water, mixed up a mug of warm, lemony NeoCitran, and sat on the edge of her bed, holding the mug to her lips until she finished every drop.

While she slept off the fever, I cleaned her kitchen, sanitized every surface, and batch-cooked meals to freeze in individual containers, the chicken soup, pasta, baked chicken breasts, and roasted vegetables, a few casseroles my mom was famous for and Kat always mentioned how much she loved; labeling each one with a sharpie so she’d have real food for weeks after I left.

By Friday afternoon, the fever had broken.

Kat sat wrapped in a blanket on her couch, sipping on broth from the chicken soup, her skin finally regaining its healthy, warm colour. She watched me quietly as I wiped down her kitchen counter, her expression soft, curious, and completely unguarded.

"You didn't have to fly across the Atlantic, Trent," she breathed, her voice still a little raspy. "You're supposed to be running the company."

"Gideon and Dad have it covered for a few days," I said, leaning back against the counter, folding my arms. "And yeah, I did have to. You were sick, exhausted, and running yourself into the ground. I couldn't just sit thousands of miles away knowing you were hurting."

Kat stared into her mug, tracing the rim with her thumb. "Lars was furious when I didn't show up yesterday," she admitted with a faint, tired laugh. "He sent me three emails demanding my doctor's note or that I make up the time."