Work came to an end that day, and Rowan arrived at his penthouse. As usual, his pretty face was masked by a very cold expression.
His eyes were narrowed as if that was their factory setting and blazing fire, one that would force any normal person to lower their gaze. And his chin was lifted higher than normal this evening.
When Rowan entered the living room, his personal chef was already setting the table for dinner. The dining area was as clean as the living room, with luxurious furniture and large windows.
However, everything was expensive but cold. Just like Rowan Donovan himself. The curtains adorning the windows were as dull as the color of the furniture.
Rowan went inside to take his bath first, peeling off the tailored suit that had felt like armor all day. The warm water did nothing to ease the tension in his body. If anything, it made the exhaustion worse.
He changed into comfortable clothes- soft gray sweatpants and a loose black shirt- and came back to the dining room.
Larry, the twenty-eight-year-old chef, was standing near the table, his head bowed deeply as he awaited his boss's comment.
He was nervous. His whole body was nearly trembling with fear, though he tried to hide it.
"God, please... Just this once... Just this one time." He mumbled words of prayers under his breath that the cold boss would finish and enjoy his meal today.
The meal was sophisticated, perfect for someone of Rowan's status: Grilled salmon with herb butter. Roasted vegetables seasoned to perfection. A light salad on the side, all accompanied by a wine that had probably aged for years.
Rowan sat down with his usual cold expression. His face was blank, his expression unreadable. He picked up his fork slowly, deliberately, and dug into the food.
He took just two spoonfuls of the main dish.
Then his eyes blinked.
It was a small reaction- barely noticeable to anyone who didn't know him. But Larry caught it from the corner of his eye as he had been very attentive, and his heart sank immediately.
That meant trouble.
Rowan's jaw tightened. He set the fork down carefully, like he was controlling himself from throwing it. Then he muttered one word, his voice flat and final;
"Bland."
After that, he stood up and walked away, leaving the barely touched meal on the table.
Larry gritted his teeth in disappointment. His hands clenched at his sides. He had spent hours on that meal and it had been dismissed with one word.
Just then, one of the housekeepers, Clara- a twenty-year-old woman with short hair came from the kitchen. She saw Larry's expression first, then her eyes darted knowingly to the barely untouched food on the table.
She heaved a deep sigh and her hand raised to pat the man on his back pitifully.
"You should start getting ready to look for another job," she said gently.
Larry hung his head low. His voice came out bitter, frustrated;
"I've been trying my very best to make meals that would suit his palate for two weeks. Two weeks. What more does he want?"
Clara heaved another sigh. Her voice was soft, sympathetic. "It's not your fault, Larry. Really, it's not."
She paused, then added, "No chef has ever worked in this house for more than a month. You're already halfway there."
Larry looked up at her, his face twisted in disbelief. "A month? That's the record?"
Clara nodded.
"The boss is insatiable. Just one spoonful will have him pointing out everything in the food. So don't feel bad. Just... start looking for another job. Before he fires you himself." She said firmly.
"What kind of a person is he, really?" Larry muttered, sounding upset. Not just at Rowan but at the whole situation and at the impossibility of it all.
~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, Rowan had entered his bedroom and walked straight to the bathroom.
He bent over the sink and vomited.
The food came up immediately, barely digested. His body rejected it like poison. This had been happening for months now- before the diagnosis, really. He couldn't stomach solid food anymore. His body didn't want it, couldn't process it anymore.
After he finished vomiting, Rowan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and felt the pain.
Sharp, stabbing... right in his ribs.
Then the fever came. It always came after vomiting. His body temperature spiked, and his skin felt clammy and hot at the same time.
He walked to where he kept bottles of water in his bedroom. There were several cases stacked neatly in a corner and he grabbed one. He gulped down the entire large bottle in seconds.
Liquids were the one thing he could keep down. Water, juice, broth, sometimes. But never solid food.
He sank tiredly onto the edge of his bed, his body shaking slightly from the fever. Then he opened his wardrobe and pulled out a container of very strong painkillers, the kind that required prescriptions, the kind that came with warnings.
As he shook out two tablets into his palm, he remembered the doctor's warning from two days ago.
"Those painkillers will only damage your weak organs further, Mr. Donovan. They're not a solution. They're actually going to make things worse. You need to stop using them." The doctor had said with concern.
Rowan had said nothing.
The doctor had continued, his voice gentle but firm;
"Instead of relying on them, you should disclose the state of your health to your family and the people around you. So you can have peace and support in your final moments."
Rowan had rolled his eyes at that, without responding.
The doctor wouldn't understand his dilemma.
Now, sitting on the edge of his bed with the tablets in his hand, Rowan shook his head slowly.
He swallowed the painkillers, gulping down more water to chase them.
Then he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible in the empty room;
"I can't disclose this because..."
He paused. It was a lot and nobody would understand just why he couldn't disclose it.
Rowan lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling as the painkillers began to work.
He blinked, telling himself inwardly that the fever would pass. That the pain would dull. And tomorrow, he would put on his armor again and pretend nothing was wrong.
Just like he always did.