Although Elara didn't like the man across from her, she had to admit—he looked effortlessly elegant no matter what he was doing, even eating.
The assistant beside him handed her a towel. Elara took it with a polite nod, wiped her hands, and passed it back. The man, trained to mirror Damien's preferences, offered her three more fresh towels in succession before pulling out a chair for her to sit.
Left with no choice, Elara took the seat opposite Damien. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, "You didn't need to come."
Damien dabbed the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin, his tone as poised as ever. "From the moment I decided to marry you, this became my obligation. Nothing more—just a responsibility."
She understood what he meant. There was no need to pretend. Wordlessly, she picked up her chopsticks and began to eat what the chef had prepared.
Damien glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his voice cool. "You've already had three slices of salmon."
The chef, hearing this, immediately removed the plate of salmon without question.
Elara stared in disbelief, somewhere between laughter and frustration. "You're monitoring what I eat now?"
"I don't care what you eat," he said, his eyes locking on hers. "But I do care about the child you're carrying."
He turned to the chef. "Bring her a bowl of the cooked ginseng soup."
Elara opened her mouth to refuse, but her phone rang before she could speak. Her eyes flicked toward the screen. The name flashing there brought a faint sadness into her gaze.
She turned the phone over, face-down on the table. The ringing stopped.
"Why didn't you answer?" Damien asked, one eyebrow slightly raised.
Elara resumed eating, her voice quiet. "Just a call from someone irrelevant."
Irrelevant? Then why had her face fallen like that?
Damien studied her in silence, but didn't press further. The rest of the meal passed quietly.
Once they finished eating, Damien left the ward without a word. After the staff cleared the table, Elara picked up her phone again. Several missed calls blinked back at her.
The name on the screen made her heart twist. Bittersweet.
Ever since that night—ever since she'd accidentally ended up with the wrong man—she hadn't answered a single call from Archer. Not one reply to any of his texts.
Her silence should have been enough. It screamed of rejection. So why hadn't he stopped? Why did he keep pretending everything was normal? Why did he call her again and again, sharing stories from abroad as if nothing had changed?
Didn't he suspect something? Didn't he feel the shift?
Why couldn't he just disappear from her life too? Maybe then… maybe she could finally breathe.
But for two months, he'd called every day. Texted every day. And when she saw his words—so cheerful, so casual—it pierced her like a blade.
That night, Damien came again, as usual. A group of chefs trailed behind, delivering another lavish spread of food.
Elara had no appetite. Her mind was far from dinner.
Damien studied her. "The food doesn't appeal to you?"
She shook her head. "I'm just not hungry."
His brow creased slightly. He raised a hand, and someone immediately stepped forward, handing him a porcelain bowl adorned in intricate cloisonné.
He scooped a spoonful of warm bird's nest soup and held it out to her.
Elara blinked, caught off guard. He was… feeding her?
His voice came cold and commanding. "This child must be protected at all costs. Eat."
The illusion shattered instantly.
She wanted to refuse, but she had no right to now. So, suppressing her pride, she opened her mouth and swallowed the spoonful.
The chefs standing nearby almost dropped their utensils in shock.
The president—feeding someone? He'd never shown affection to any woman before. This was history in the making.
Was the young madam really that different?
After two bites, Elara suddenly turned pale. She covered her mouth, pushed her chair back, and bolted for the bathroom.
Moments later, the sound of the toilet flushing echoed out.
When she reappeared, looking pale and shaken, Damien's brows were drawn tight.
"You're not allowed to skip meals just because you don't feel like eating," he said. "I'm not worried about you, but I am worried the next heir of the Rourke family might starve."
Elara met his gaze, seeing no trace of sarcasm. He meant every word.
Without protest, she took the bowl in her hands and, forcing down her nausea, began to eat.
It tasted awful.
She didn't understand how the rich could enjoy something so bland, so strange. Yet they ate it with such enthusiasm.
Still, she endured it spoonful by spoonful.
Watching her eat obediently, Damien's lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile.
The chefs exchanged glances behind him, quietly wiping the corners of their eyes in disbelief.
The president… was smiling. Smiling.
In the days that followed, Damien came to the hospital every day to eat with Elara.
It was only later that she learned—it was the chairman who had ordered him to do so.
Elara laughed bitterly to herself. Of course. Their marriage was a matter of convenience. An arrangement. There was no emotion between them.
Why would he come of his own free will?
He probably didn't even flinch at the sound of her vomiting.
But she still flinched. Still felt the sting of everything she'd lost.