Chapter 3
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He frowned and pressed the intercom: "Vivian, lunch."
Soon, Vivian nervously entered carrying a delivery bag from a five-star hotel. "Your lunch, Mr. Grayson."
She opened the container to reveal a standard hotel meal: seafood bisque, pan-seared cod, and vegetable salad.
Famished, Garrett took a spoonful of bisque. It tasted fine, but something was missing.
That was it—it lacked Sylvia's touch. She always knew exactly how he liked his food: light, low-oil, yet bursting with flavor.
He picked up his knife and fork and started on the cod. Barely a third into it, he felt his neck begin to itch, followed by a tightening in his chest.
Realization struck. He dropped his utensils and yanked open his collar—an angry red rash was rapidly spreading across his chest!
He was severely allergic to certain seafood! Especially shellfish and some fish species!
"Vivian!" he rasped, his voice already growing hoarse.
Vivian rushed in, her face draining of color at the sight of him: "Mr. Grayson! What's happening?"
"Allergic… seafood…" Garrett gasped, growing dizzy. "Medicine… Sylvia…"
He called her name instinctively.
Vivian panicked completely: "Medicine? What medicine? Where? Secretary Sterling never mentioned anything!"
Garrett's heart plummeted. Only now did he realize that only Sylvia knew the full details of his allergies and where his emergency medication was kept.
She'd always kept allergy medication in his office, home, and even his travel bags, never once slipping up in seven years. He'd almost forgotten about his condition entirely.
"Call… ambulance…" he managed with his remaining strength, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
After a chaotic scramble, Garrett was rushed to the hospital.
In the emergency room, doctors administered anti-allergy treatment. Garrett lay watching the IV drip, his emotions a tangled mess.
Shame. Fear. And an absurdity he couldn't quite articulate.
He, Garrett Grayson—CEO of a multi-billion-dollar empire—was lying pathetically in a hospital bed because of lunch. The reason was laughably absurd: the person who remembered his allergies was no longer by his side.
A nurse entered to check his vitals, her tone slightly scolding: "Sir, with your severe seafood allergy history, you really must be more careful. You're lucky you got here quickly—it could have been much worse."
Garrett closed his eyes, too drained to explain.
The hospital room door opened quietly, and Sylvia appeared in the doorway. She must have rushed over after Vivian's call, her face showing carefully measured professional concern.
"Mr. Grayson, how are you feeling?" She remained at the foot of the bed, maintaining her distance.
Garrett looked at her, feeling something indescribable rise within him. Annoyance? Hurt? Or perhaps a dependency he refused to acknowledge?
"You knew this would happen," he stated hoarsely, accusation edging his voice.
Sylvia answered calmly: "Yes, Mr. Grayson. I informed Vivian about your dietary restrictions and emergency medication location—it's in section three of the handover manual. Perhaps she hasn't had time to review it thoroughly yet."
Her answer was flawless, neatly attributing everything to "incomplete handover procedures."
Garrett was left speechless. She had done her part—his staff had failed. How could he blame her? She remained impeccably professional, her handover process beyond reproach.
Yet this very perfection felt like a silent slap across his face.
He studied Sylvia in her light blue blouse that highlighted her fair skin. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating her as she stood quietly—a cool, elegant orchid.
Yet for the first time, he felt she stood worlds away from him.
"Don't you have anything to say to me?" he couldn't help asking, his tone carrying a vulnerability he didn't recognize.
Perhaps she'd gently scold him with a "how could you be so careless," or at least show some concern?
Sylvia tilted her head slightly, appearing to consider before answering with perfect professionalism: "Mr. Grayson, given this incident, I'll prepare a separate urgent document detailing all your health precautions, mark it highest priority, and deliver it to Vivian before end of day. Would you like me to schedule a comprehensive check-up with your physician?"
Garrett's heart plummeted.
Her words were perfectly reasonable and showed appropriate concern, yet contained not a hint of warmth.
She wasn't caring for him—she was completing a handover task.
He suddenly realized Sylvia was deadly serious. This wasn't a tantrum or manipulation. She truly intended to leave him.
An unprecedented panic washed over him like an icy tide.
He waved dismissively and closed his eyes in exhaustion: "Don't bother. You can go."
"Very well, Mr. Grayson. Rest well." Sylvia nodded slightly and turned to leave without hesitation, thoughtfully closing the door behind her.
Silence reclaimed the hospital room, broken only by the steady drip of the IV.
Garrett opened his eyes, staring at the stark white ceiling, and for the first time truly contemplated: What would life be like without Sylvia Sterling?
The answer seemed far worse than he'd imagined.
