My V World

Twist my arm on this! Haha

TW: emeto, sickness.

By popular demand, Anthony and Francesca are back. (Images below!) -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The cabin of the Gulfstream G650 was a study in pressurized silence, humming at forty thousand feet above the Atlantic. Across the mahogany aisle, Anthony Moretti was reviewing a dossier, his suit jacket discarded but his tie still perfectly knotted, his jaw set in that familiar, uncompromising line.

Francesca stared at the dark glass of the window, ignoring the spread of documents in front of her. She was furious, though she had spent the last three hours burying it under layers of professional frost.

Geneva. A hostile acquisition of a Swiss wealth management firm. That much made sense. What didn't make sense was why the CEO had dragged his executive assistant across the ocean instead of the VP of Mergers and Acquisitions.

"You're staring a hole through the fuselage, Miss Harrison," Anthony said without looking up from his tablet.

Fran turned her head slowly. "I'm just trying to calculate the company’s fuel expenditure for flying a secretary to Switzerland when Peterson from M&A has been preparing for this merger for six months."

Anthony swiped a page on his screen, unbothered. "Peterson is an idiot. He barely knows the difference between a proxy vote and a lunch menu. You, on the other hand, have the entire chaotic timeline of their 2021 shareholder communications memorized. You found the loophole."

"I'm just your assistant."

"You're whatever I need you to be to close this deal," he countered, finally looking at her. His eyes were dark, calculating. "Would you rather be back in Boston answering my phones?"

She held his gaze, her jaw tightening. She’d much rather be in Boston so she wouldn’t have to look at his face and remember the sight of Eleanor from Legal stepping out of his office at eight in the morning last Tuesday, smoothing her skirt with an unbearable, self-satisfied smile. Fran would die before admitting that out loud. Jealousy was a pathetic emotion, and Francesca was not jealous. Let alone jealous of Anthony.

"I’d just hate to pull you away from your... internal team building," she said smoothly, her tone lethal.

A muscle feathered in Anthony's jaw. He caught the implication instantly. He always did. They stared at each other, the unspoken accusation vibrating in the space between them, thick and electric. But before the air could fully ignite, the soft chime of the cabin intercom interrupted.

A flight attendant appeared silently from the galley, setting down two plates of seared sea bass and pouring a glass of imported Bordeaux for each of them.

"Oh, no, thank you" she said, nicely, to the flight attendant. "I'm working, I'll not… drink”

"Drink the wine, Francesca, it's fine." Anthony commanded softly, picking up his own glass. "I won't tell your boss.”

The fight drained out of her, just a fraction, leaving behind a sudden, exhausting weight. She looked at the dark red wine, then back at him. The hostility in his eyes had completely receded, leaving only that quiet, piercing intensity he reserved strictly for her.

Stepping off the plane, the biting Swiss air hit them like a physical wall, crisp and unforgiving.

Anthony didn’t even flinch. He navigated the private terminal with the terrifying, effortless stride of a man who owned the ground he walked on. For him, the world possessed no friction. There was no waiting at baggage claim, no hailing cabs, no navigating the mundane chaos that regular humans endured.

As they exited the glass doors, a sleek, midnight-blue Mercedes was already idling at the curb, perfectly positioned so Anthony wouldn't have to take an extra step. The driver, impeccably dressed, stood at attention, opening the door before Anthony even raised a hand. The interior was pre-heated to the exact temperature he preferred, the tinted windows shielding them from the harsh alpine glare. It was always like this: reality bending itself into a neat, tailored shape the moment Anthony Moretti arrived.

The Maybach delivered them directly to the pristine steps of the Mandarin Oriental. While Anthony stood near the lobby’s grand fireplace, radiating an air of untouchable authority that demanded a wide berth from the other guests, Fran approached the concierge to handle the check-in. Her head throbbed as she signed the folios, the elegant, looping script on the paper blurring slightly at the edges.

The concierge handed her two heavy, matte-black key cards. "The Penthouse Suite for Mr. Moretti, and the Executive Suite for you, Miss Harrison. Rooms 601 and 602. Right next to each other at the end of the corridor."

Anthony, having drifted silently to her side with that unnerving stealth of his, caught the numbers. A faint, arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at her. "Do you really need to be so close to me all the time, Francesca?"

Fran didn’t miss a beat, though it took a monumental effort not to let her sudden exhaustion bleed into her voice. She snatched the keys from the marble counter and shoved his card against his chest. "When you book these corporate blocks, Mr. Moretti, they don't provide the floor plan. Trust me, if I had known, I would have put myself as far away from you as architecturally possible."

His smirk only deepened as he smoothly caught the key card, entirely unfazed by her venom. "A tragedy for us both, I'm sure."

The next morning, the negotiation took place in the hotel's own events salon, situated on the pillar-supported ground floor overlooking the misty gardens. The sprawling conference room was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the icy, slate-gray waters of Lake Geneva.

Usually, this was Fran’s favorite part. She loved the adrenaline of corporate warfare. She took pride in being the most prepared person at the table, moving with lethal precision, handing Anthony exactly what he needed before he even asked for it.

But today, gravity felt heavier.

She had woken up feeling off. Her skin felt uncomfortably tight, and a cold sweat had begun to gather at the nape of her neck, which she stubbornly blamed on the hotel suite's aggressive heating system for. She had swallowed an aspirin before heading down, meticulously applying her makeup and pouring herself into her sharpest tailored suit, armoring herself as best as she could for the day ahead.

The bright glare of the snow reflecting off the lake pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stabbing directly behind her eyes like a physical threat. As the Swiss executives filed in, projecting an air of haughty European superiority, Fran reached for the stack of heavy, leather-bound financial dossiers she needed to distribute.

Her fingers, normally steady, felt strangely numb and uncoordinated.

The Schuler files slipped.

They hit the polished mahogany table with a jarring smack, sliding aggressively across the wood. One of them tipped over the edge, spilling a cascade of confidential spreadsheets onto the plush carpet.

The room went dead silent.

Seven Swiss bankers stared at her. But worse; much worse; was the weight of Anthony’s gaze. He was sitting at the head of the table, an apex predator momentarily distracted by a disruption in his environment. His dark eyes locked onto her, narrowing infinitesimally.

"Apologies," Francesca said, her voice sounding hollow and detached in her own ears.

She crouched quickly to gather the papers, but as her head dipped below her waist, the room violently tilted. The carpet seemed to pitch like the deck of a ship. She braced one hand against the heavy carved leg of the table, swallowing down a sudden, sharp surge of bile, forcing her breathing to remain steady as she stood back up and set the folders straight.

Anthony didn't say a word to her. He smoothly directed the attention back to himself, launching into his opening remarks with his usual ruthless charisma.

But fifteen minutes later, when he gestured for the Q3 projections, Fran pressed the clicker in her hand, and brought up the wrong slide.

It was a fraction of a second of error. She corrected it almost instantly. For anyone else, it would be a minor hiccup. For Francesca, it was a glaring, flashing neon sign of failure.

Anthony paused mid-sentence. He looked at the screen, then looked directly at her. She was clutching the edge of her ergonomic chair, her knuckles bone-white, her face the color of wet ash.

"Actually, gentlemen," Anthony said smoothly, his tone brokering no argument. "Let’s take a five-minute recess before we dive into these numbers. The espresso outside looked excellent."

The executives murmured in agreement, shuffling out of the room. Fran didn't move. She couldn't. She just stared at the grain of the mahogany table, trying to convince her stomach to stay where it belonged.

Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate.

"Are you hungover, or just incompetent today?" Anthony’s voice was low, laced with that familiar, stinging bite, as he stopped beside her chair.

Fran looked up, her vision momentarily blurring before his sharp features swam into focus. She straightened her spine, pulling every ounce of stubbornness she possessed to the surface. "Neither. Just trying to keep up with your ego. It takes a toll."

Anthony stared at her, scanning her pale face and the slight tremor in her hands. He looked like he wanted to argue, to rip the truth out of her, but the door clicked open as the first Swiss executive returned.

"Fine," Anthony murmured, straightening up, the corporate mask sliding back into place. "Keep it together, Harrison. We have a lunch meeting after this."

Fran’s stomach performed a terrifying flip at the word lunch.

It was pure, unadulterated torture. They were forced to dine in a private room at a nearby restaurant, where the table was immediately filled with rich, heavy local cuisine. The smell of Zurich-style veal swimming in a thick mushroom cream sauce hit Fran's senses like a physical blow. The clinking of silverware and the smell of melted Gruyère made her skin crawl. She sat rigidly, taking tiny, agonizing sips of sparkling water, counting the seconds until they could leave.

By the time they returned to the boardroom for the second half of the negotiations, Fran was running entirely on fumes.

A droning Swiss co-owner was in the middle of a tedious speech about offshore compliance when the final, undeniable warning shot fired through Fran's system. A cold sweat spiked across her collarbone, and her mouth watered in that specific, metallic way that preceded total disaster.

She couldn't stay in this room.

Without a word, Fran stood up. She grabbed her notebook, pushed her chair in, and walked out of the boardroom with terrifying, rigid posture; trying not to be seen.

But Anthony saw it. 

He knew that walk. It was the exact same sheer, blind willpower he had used to make it to his executive bathroom weeks ago. He watched the heavy glass door swing shut behind her, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He hated weakness. But looking at her empty chair, he realized he hated seeing her weak even more.

He didn't hesitate. He cut the Swiss executive off mid-sentence:

"Gentlemen, I've seen enough. We’re done for the day," Anthony announced, his authoritative CEO voice cutting through the room like a scythe. He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. "Have the updated valuations sent to my suite. We'll reconvene tomorrow."

He didn't wait for a response, stalking out of the room before the bewildered bankers could even process the dismissal.

He found her down the hall, just stepping out of the women's restroom. She was splashing cold water on her wrists, looking marginally better but still terrifyingly pale. he froze when she saw him waiting in the corridor, her corporate instincts immediately kicking in to cover her physical failure:

"The audio recorder on my tablet is still running," she said immediately, her voice a little too tight, a little too raspy. She straightened her posture, refusing to lean against the wall. “I just needed a minute, but I'll be right back”

"There's nothing to go back to," Anthony said smoothly, his hands in his pockets as he watched her.

Fran blinked, her exhausted brain sluggishly trying to process the information. "What do you mean? The agenda was set for another hour."

"I ended it," he replied, his eyes dark, sweeping over her. "I told them to send the updated valuations to my suite."

Her stomach dropped for an entirely different reason. "Anthony, you can't just walk out of a ninety-million-dollar acquisition because your assistant stepped out of the room."

"I didn't walk out because you stepped out of the room, Francesca. I walked out because you look like a corpse," he fired back, his annoyance barely masking something much more intense. He took a step closer, crowding her space. "Do you need me to call the hotel physician?"

"No!" she snapped, moving aggressively past him toward the elevators. "I don't need a doctor, and I certainly don't need you jeopardizing this deal."

"I'll manage the deal. You manage to stay upright," he shot back, following her.

The ride up to the sixth floor was suffocatingly quiet. Anthony stood entirely too close to her, his sheer size and intensity taking up all the oxygen in the confined space. He was watching her in the mirrored reflection of the doors, his brow furrowed in genuine concern that he was actively trying to disguise as irritation. Anthony followed her all the way to her door.

“Is there anything I could do for you?”

Fran swiped her key card against the lock of Room 602. She turned to face him, her eyes flashing with a desperate, feverish kind of pride. "If I was dying on fire, you are the absolute last person I’d ask for help, Mr. Moretti. Enjoy your business dinner, I am going to take a pill, organize those valuations, and I see you at eight A.M."

Before he could argue, she stepped inside and let the heavy door click firmly in his face.

Inside Room 601, the silence was deafening.

Anthony threw his room key onto the entryway table and loosened his tie, the silk slipping through his fingers with a familiar, aggressive tug. He walked over to the minibar, poured himself a glass of sparkling water, and opened his laptop on the desk.

He stared at the screen. The numbers on the Schuler valuation blurred together.

He couldn't settle. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Francesca’s bone-white knuckles gripping the edge of the boardroom chair. He saw the cold sweat on her pale skin. More than that, he felt the heavy, suffocating weight of the elephant in the room: the memory of a plastic bowl, a wet washcloth, and the quiet, steady sound of her voice telling him to breathe while he lost every ounce of his pride on his own bathroom floor.

He had been worse than miserable that night, and she hadn't let him do it alone.

Anthony slammed the laptop shut.

He walked out of his suite, crossed the few feet of thick carpet, and knocked firmly on the door of Room 602.

It took a long time for her to answer. When the door finally clicked open, Fran was still wearing her tailored suit pants and silk blouse, but she looked actively worse. 

Her eyes narrowed the second she saw him. "What do you want now?"

"I want to know why you're not in bed," Anthony said, bracing a hand against the doorframe so she couldn't slam it again. He pushed past her, stepping into her suite.

"Excuse me, you can't just…"

He ignored her, walking straight into the bedroom. The sight made his jaw clench. Files were spread across the duvet, her laptop was open. She was actually trying to organize the counter-arguments for tomorrow morning.

Fran marched in right behind him, her arms crossed: "Get out of my room, Mr. Moretti. I am working."

"You are barely standing," he shot back, turning to face her. "Look at yourself”

“So what?” she yelled, pacing away from him, her hands gesturing sharply to the mess on the bed. “Really, I don't know why you brought me on this stupid business trip if you're not willing to let me…"

She stopped.

The words cut off abruptly. Fran froze mid-step, her eyes going impossibly wide. Her hand flew to her mouth.

Anthony stepped forward instinctively. "What?"

Her body lurched. She didn't even have time to turn away. A sudden, violent gag tore through her, and she spit up a mouthful of sour bile directly onto the edge of the pristine, five-star hotel carpet.

For one agonizing second, they both just stared at the floor. The horror in Fran's eyes was absolute.

“It's ok. It's fine, we'll have a maid to come here and”

"Oh, fuck," she whimpered, stopping him midsentence, the absolute mortification shattering her voice. Her hands flew to her stomach as a sharp, paralyzing cramp ripped through her lower abdomen. Whatever the situation there was, it wasn't just hitting her from the top.

She spun around and bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her with a loud bang.

Anthony stood frozen for exactly two seconds. His brain, usually capable of processing millions of data points a minute, blanked entirely. Then, the panic spiked. He didn't know what to do, but he knew he couldn't leave her in there alone.

He crossed the room in three long strides and pushed the bathroom door open.

"Anthony, what the fuck?" Fran shrieked. She was already sitting on the toilet, her arms wrapped tight around her waist, completely stripped of her meticulously crafted dignity. With a frantic, desperate movement, she snatched a clean white hand towel from the marble vanity counter and dragged it across her lap, covering her bare legs as best as she could to shield herself from his gaze. “Get out, that's inappropriate.”

Anthony didn’t retreat. He stepped inside and shut the door firmly behind him, trapping them both in the marble enclosure. The corporate titan disappeared, leaving only the man.

He turned around, facing the frosted glass of the shower, crossing his arms over his chest. "I just want to make sure you're okay. I won't even look. My back is turned."

"Anthony, please," she sobbed, the fight completely draining out of her, replaced by sheer physical misery. The silence in the bathroom stretched, heavy and taut, broken only by her ragged, uneven breathing as she fought a losing battle against her own body.

Then, her voice came again, so small and fragile it made his chest ache.

"Can you... gag... can you pass me the trash can?"

Anthony spun around, grabbing the sleek metal wastebasket near the sink, but he wasn't fast enough.

Her stomach violently contracted, expelling the remnants of the agonizing lunch she had forced down just hours ago right at her own feet, just a second before Anthony managed to slide the bin in front of her. The rich, Zurich-style mushroom cream sauce she had barely managed a few bites of was now curdled and sour, splashing heavily against the bottom of the metal bin. Mixed within the pale, milky liquid were half-digested pieces of veal and the bitter, yellow stringiness of pure stomach acid. It smelled acrid and sharp, a sickening combination of heavy dairy and violently churned gastric juices that instantly overpowered the expensive lavender scent of the hotel bathroom.

The harsh, wet sound of it made Anthony’s own stomach twist in sympathetic panic, but he ignored it entirely, shoving the bin directly under her chin as she retched again, harder this time.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, tears of sheer humiliation springing to her eyes. She gripped the edges of the metal bin with shaking fingers. "I'm so sorry, oh my God. This is a nightmare, I can't even…”

"Stop," Anthony commanded softly, reaching out to push a damp strand of red hair away from her face. His hand lingered at the back of her neck, his thumb finding the pulse fluttering erratically beneath her skin. "They’ll have someone clean that. It’s okay, Fran. It's just a floor. Let's just make sure you're okay. Let it out."

She heaved again, the sound raw and echoing. Anthony didn't flinch in his three-thousand-dollar suit, his large hand warm and grounding on the back of her neck, anchoring her the exact same way she had anchored him. A choking sound, brought up a sudden rush of the sparkling water she had been desperately sipping all afternoon. It came up fast and aggressively, splashing back against the sides of the bin and hitting her chin, trailing down her throat in a humiliating mess.

“Fuck! Your suit. I'm so sorry””

He didn't even look down at his trousers, though a spray of acidic water had definitely hit his knee. “It doesn't matter, really” he said, his voice a low, steady rumble meant to drown out her panic. He shifted closer, pulling his jacket off with his free hand and tossing it carelessly into the dry bathtub.

He took the weight of the metal bin with one hand so she wouldn't have to hold it, while his other hand remained firmly planted on the back of her neck. His thumb stroked the damp skin at her hairline, a rhythmic, grounding motion. "Really, just let it out. You'll feel better"

The sheer, overwhelming vulnerability of it was enough to make her want to die right there on the tiles. Francesca Harrison, the unflappable right hand of the Moretti empire, was having gastrointestinal distress while simultaneously vomiting curdled cream and veal into a trash can held by her billionaire boss.

"Anthony, please." she whimpered, her forehead dropping forward until it rested against the cool metal rim of the bin. She was panting, a string of thick, acidic saliva hanging from her lips. "Please don't look at me."

"I'm not looking at anything but the wall, Fran" 

The single syllable slipped from him so quietly she almost missed it over the sound of her own ragged breathing, but her exhausted mind caught it anyway. Fran. Not Miss Harrison. Not Francesca. He only ever used that name when the heavy, armored walls between them had completely collapsed. The last time being on his own bathroom floor, and the time before that with both wrapped in the sheets of the fancy king size bed in his bedroom.

Moretti kept his gaze fixed stubbornly on the frosted glass shower door, giving her the only shred of privacy he could offer without leaving her entirely unsupported. "You're doing fine. Breathe through your nose"

The violent spasms slowly began to subside, leaving behind a hollow, aching emptiness in her core. She was trembling so hard her teeth chattered, a cold sweat slicking her entire body, making her silk blouse stick uncomfortably to her spine.

"Is the worst of it over?" he asked softly, after a long minute of nothing but her ragged, exhausted breathing filling the small room.

"I... I think so," she whispered, her voice completely shredded, her eyes still squeezed tight in humiliation. “Can you please leave so I can get myself cleaned?”

"I’ll step out," he agreed, his voice low and remarkably steady. He stood up slowly, keeping his hands visible, non-threatening. "But I'm leaving the door cracked. If you hit the floor, Harrison, I am coming right back in. Understood?"

Fran couldn't even muster the energy to glare at him. She just offered a jerky, humiliated nod, squeezing her eyes shut as she reached blindly for the toilet paper.

Anthony slipped out, pulling the heavy door almost shut, leaving an inch of space. He didn't pace. He stood perfectly still on the other side of the marble wall, listening intensely to the rustle of fabric, the quiet, pained hitched breaths she took, and the eventual flush of the toilet.

He needed to get her something to wear. Her pants and pantyhose were ruined, and the silk blouse was soaked in cold sweat.

Moving away from the door, Anthony approached her suitcase resting on the luggage rack. It was, of course, packed with military precision. Shirts folded into identical squares, shoes in individual dust bags, everything compartmentalized. It was a physical manifestation of Francesca’s need for control.

Anthony tore through it. He completely destroyed her meticulous system, tossing aside tailored slacks and cashmere sweaters until he found a pair of soft, worn-in gray sweatpants at the bottom. He grabbed them, along with one of the oversized, heavy plush robes hanging in the hotel wardrobe.

From the bathroom, he heard the faucet click on. The sound of running water was followed by the sharp, minty smell of mouthwash drifting through the crack in the door.

"Fran?" he called out, his voice cutting through the running water. "Are you decent?"

"Give me... give me a second," she rasped.

Inside, Fran was gripping the edges of the marble vanity. She had managed to strip off her soiled pants and the ruined pantyhose, kicking them into a pathetic pile next to her splashed leather pump. She had rinsed her mouth three times, but the burning acidity in her throat lingered. Standing there in nothing but her damp silk blouse and her underwear, she looked up at the mirror.

The woman staring back at her was a ghost. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes, her skin was the color of chalk, and her red hair clung in wet, chaotic strands to her face and neck. The room was spinning. The sheer exertion of cleaning herself up had drained whatever microscopic reserves she had left.

"Okay," she croaked, her knees buckling slightly.

Anthony pushed the door open. He took one look at her and crossed the space before she could even process his movement.

He didn't look at her bare legs. He didn't look at the pile of ruined clothes on the floor. He just stepped directly into her space, unfolding the thick hotel robe.

"Arms," he commanded softly.

Fran was too exhausted to argue. She let go of the sink with one hand, slipping it through the heavy terrycloth sleeve, then the other. Anthony pulled the lapels together, wrapping her in the warm, dry fabric.

"I need... I need to call the front desk," she mumbled, her head lolling slightly as she leaned into his solid chest. Delirium and corporate duty were still fighting a losing battle in her brain. "The carpet in the bedroom. They’re going to charge the corporate card."

"I've already texted the concierge," Anthony said smoothly, wrapping a firm arm around her waist. He practically absorbed her weight against his side. "The corporate card will survive, Francesca. Now, you are getting into bed."

"My laptop is on it," she protested weakly as he guided her out of the bathroom, away from the smell and the humiliation.

"Not anymore."

He practically carried her to the massive king-sized bed. True to his word, he had already cleared away the spreadsheets and the laptop, dumping the multi-million-dollar acquisition files carelessly onto the floor. He pulled back the heavy duvet and guided her down.

The mattress was cool, the pillows impossibly soft. Fran sank into them with a pathetic, involuntary whimper of relief. She pulled her knees up to her chest, curling into a tight ball as another wave of shivers racked her frame.

Anthony didn't leave. He walked over to the minibar, cracked open a fresh bottle of Evian, and returned to the nightstand.

"Drink," he instructed, holding out the pill and the water.

Fran looked at the glass cup, her eyes widening in sheer panic. The memory of the imported apple juice and the violent rejection that followed, flashed between them.

Instead of forcing it like she had done to him, his expression softened. He lowered the water slightly.

"Just touch it to your lips, Fran," he murmured, his voice a low, steady anchor in the spinning room. "I’m not making the apple juice mistake. If you can't swallow it, you don't swallow it. But you're burning up, and we need to try."

She looked at him, searching his face for the demanding, impatient CEO she battled with every day. He wasn't there. There was only Anthony.

With a trembling hand, she reached out from beneath the blankets, her fingers brushing against his as she took the cup. Her hand was shaking so badly that the water rippled, threatening to spill over the edge. Anthony’s larger, infinitely steadier hand came up, wrapping gently over hers to guide the cup.

She took a tiny, agonizing sip. The cold water hit the back of her raw throat. She swallowed.

They both went entirely still. The silence in the room stretched thin, brittle as glass, as they waited for her body’s verdict. Fran squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable cramp, the rush of saliva, the terrifying lurch of her stomach.

Ten seconds passed. Then twenty.

The water stayed down.

A shaky, exhausted exhale punched out of Fran’s lungs. She opened her eyes, finding Anthony watching her with an intensity that practically burned through the dim lighting of the suite. He took the cup from her trembling fingers and set it on the nightstand.

“Ok, you can go now,” she whispered, her voice a fragile rasp, desperately trying to salvage whatever was left of her professional boundaries. “I have nausea medication in my toiletry bag. I’ll take it in a minute.”

Anthony paused, looking down at her pale, determined face. Of course she does, he thought, a faint, almost imperceptible smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Always prepared. Always a step ahead. So relentlessly Francesca.

"Where exactly is it?" he asked, his tone leaving no room for debate.

"Front pocket of the black leather pouch," she mumbled, her heavy eyelids fluttering shut.

Anthony walked back into the bathroom, entirely unfazed by the lingering scent and the ruined clothes on the floor, and found the meticulously organized pouch exactly where she said it would be. He retrieved the anti-nausea blister pack and a bottle of Advil he found there too.

When he returned to the edge of the mattress, he held both out to her. "Open."

Fran cracked one eye open, eyeing his palm suspiciously. "I just need the Zofran."

“Open.”

He said again, giving no space for another protest, but the edge of his voice was wrapped in something distinctly protective.

She simply lacked the energy to fight him. He slipped the small pills between her lips, guiding the cup of water back to her mouth for one more careful sip. When she finally swallowed them, she sank completely back into the pillows, the heavy hotel duvet feeling like a lead weight over her shivering frame.

"Now go," she mumbled again, her voice thick and sluggish as the exhaustion pulled at her. "The Schuler executive dinner is at seven... and now you need to change your suit."

Anthony sat back down in the heavy velvet armchair, pulling his tie completely from his collar and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. "Uhum"

He didn't move.

Fran forced her eyes open a sliver, the fever blurring his sharp, imposing silhouette in the dim room. "Anthony. Really. You can go!"

"Yeah. I can. I just won't" 

She turned her head slightly, peering at him through half-open, fever-bright eyes. He wasn't moving toward the door. Instead, he reached over to the desk, grabbed his laptop, and set it on his knees, deliberately turning the screen’s brightness all the way down so the harsh light wouldn't hurt her eyes.

The room fell quiet again, save for the faint, rapid clicking of his keyboard. It was a familiar, rhythmic sound; one she usually heard from the other side of a glass desk, signaling stress, deadlines, and corporate warfare. Now, in the dim, quiet intimacy of the bedroom, it sounded remarkably like safety. 

"I threw up on your suit," she whispered into the quiet room. A tear she was too tired to stop slipped sideways across her temple, dampening the pillowcase. "The three-thousand-dollar Tom Fords. You can fire me tomorrow."

Anthony didn't laugh. He leaned back in the velvet armchair, unbuttoning the cuffs of his pristine white shirt and rolling them up to his forearms.

"I'll just deduct the dry cleaning from your Christmas bonus," he replied smoothly.

Fran let out a weak, raspy sound that might have been a scoff.

"Go to sleep, Francesca."

Seconds later, she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the suite's heating system:

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" 

Anthony’s hands stopped typing.

He looked at her. Really looked at her. Without the tailored suits, the sharp red lipstick, and the impenetrable walls of sarcasm, she looked heartbreakingly fragile.

"Enjoying it?" he repeated quietly, echoing her exact words from weeks ago.

"Seeing me like this. Embarrassed and begging for forgiveness", she breathed, her eyelids fluttering shut as the medication finally began to pull her under. "Knowing that now I don't have the ‘I saw you at your worst’ card to use on you"

Anthony closed the laptop. He set it on the floor, leaning forward until his chest brushed the edge of the mattress. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out. His large hand covered her forehead, feeling the alarming heat radiating from her skin. But he didn't pull away.

Instead, he let his fingers slide down, mimicking the exact, rhythmic caress she had given him when he was broken and humiliated. He brushed the damp, tangled strands of red hair away from her face, his thumb lingering against her temple.

Fran didn't flinch. She leaned into the touch, a soft, shuddering sigh leaving her parted lips.

"Fran," Anthony murmured, his voice thick with something he refused to name in the daylight, something that had been building since the first time she had ever argued back with him. "I have never enjoyed anything less."

She didn't argue. She didn't have the energy, and more importantly, she knew he was telling the truth.

The heavy, suffocating armor they had both worn for three years lay shattered on the floor, somewhere between the ruined silk blouse and the Schuler dossiers. The city of Geneva hummed coldly outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, irrelevant and far away. Inside, Anthony Moretti kept his hand gently tangled in her hair, watching her breathing finally even out into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Would you ever consider continuing that one fic with the roles reversed, so her catching his bug and he goes to repay the favor?

TW: emeto, sickness.

It's been a while since I last dropped an emeto fic here, right? Hope you like it. This one is now one of my favorites. (Images below!) -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was six in the evening, and the assistants on the lower floors had already begun the quiet ritual of leaving: heels clicking toward the elevators, keyboards going dark, lights dimmed in orderly rows. Francesca hated that hour. Not only because she wouldn’t be free to go home until seven, but because it was when Anthony Moretti acted more like himself, and when any deviation from that carefully constructed self became impossible to ignore.

The glass walls, the marble floors, the city spread below like a private kingdom. Everything about Moretti’s empire was designed to make people feel small. Including her. Especially her. 

Francesca had noticed the first break in his meticulously curated composure at 2:47 p.m, when she entered his office to take water and saw him pausing mid-sentence during a board call, loosening his tie. Anthony did not loosen his tie. Ever. The silk was usually a noose he wore willingly, a symbol of control cinched perfectly at his throat. This afternoon, though, his fingers fumbled with it, tugging once, twice, as if the fabric itself had turned against him.

Fran clocked it instantly. Filed it away. She didn’t comment. Not because she hadn’t noticed, but because she knew exactly when to strike and when to let silence do the damage. She had perfected that balance over time: She would choose silence when he snapped at her for breathing too loudly, and when he pretended the nights they’d tangled themselves together in bed sheets and bad decisions had never happened. Also, when his eyes burned with something dark and hungry every time she walked into his office in heels that she knew he hated because he couldn’t stop looking.

Hours later, there she was, silent on her desk, twirling strands of her red hair around her fingers, bored. The blue light of the monitor washing over her face as she waited for the clock to strike seven, as usual.

“Francesca,” his voice sounded from behind the closed door.

Her name in his mouth always landed wrong. Too deliberate, too weighted. She stepped forward anyway, pushing open the heavy door. “Yes?”

“You’re free to go.”

The words hung there, alien. As she stepped closer to his executive desk, she saw him: standing, facing the big window in the back of the room. His fingers hooked under the silk, tugging at the knot even more as if he were suffocating.

Her brows drew together before she could stop herself. “Excuse me?”

“I said you’re free to go,” he repeated, looking down, voice clipped, brittle at the edges. “I don’t need you anymore today, go home.”

That was a lie.

She could hear it. Feel it. He never sent her away early. Not once in the three years she’d been his assistant. He kept her late out of principle, out of control, out of whatever unspoken war they’d been waging since the first time they’d crossed a line neither of them acknowledged in daylight.

Fran didn’t move.

“Are you… okay?”

The air shifted. Something heavy slid into place between them, thick and electric and dangerous. He finally looked at her, straightening instinctively, shoulders back, spine rigid, as if posture alone could hold him together.

It didn’t.

His nostrils flared: “Go home, I’m fine.”

She almost smiled. Almost.

They stared at each other, the familiar rivalry snapping between them like a live wire. The assistant who never backed down. The boss who never yielded. God, they’d hated each other so beautifully once. Still did, in quieter ways.

The color drained further from his face. His hands now tightened on the desk, knuckles whitening, tendons standing out stark against his skin. His other hand flew back to his throat, fingers tugging at his loosened tie as if it was possible to loosen it even more.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, offended by the audacity of his own malaise for bothering him and, even more, by Francesca’s audacity for not doing as she was told: leaving.

Fran took a step forward. “Mr. Moretti?”

He swallowed hard. Too hard. His Adam's apple bobbed violently, and his eyes unfocused, gaze drifting past her shoulder like he was trying not to see something rising fast inside him.

Then she heard it.

A sharp, involuntary gag. Dry, rough, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

Her stomach dropped.

“Fuck!” he said, hoarsely, already moving.

He didn’t walk so much as stagger, long strides suddenly uncoordinated, one shoulder clipping the doorframe as he bolted past her. His jacket slipped half off one shoulder, forgotten. Another gag tore out of him, louder this time, raw and ugly.

Francesca didn’t think straight, just followed.

His private executive bathroom was pristine: marble floors, brushed steel fixtures, spotless to the point of sterility, cleaned twice a day. The kind of room designed for power, not weakness. Anthony didn't close the door, since he barely made it in time to the toilet.

He dropped to his knees, one hand slamming the lid up as his body folded over itself. The sound that came out of him was violent, wrenching, his whole frame contracting as he retched, dry at first, then painfully wet.

She reached for him instinctively, then stopped, hesitation flaring. This was Anthony. 

Untouchable. Cruel. Magnetic. The man who had pinned her against walls and then ignored her existence the next morning.

His suit jacket slid off completely now, puddling uselessly on the floor. His tie hung loose, crooked, the knot undone. He braced one hand on the cold porcelain, the other pressed hard to his stomach as another wave hit him, harsher than the last.

“Do you need anything?” she whispered, not sure what she was asking for.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His shoulders shook beneath the expensive fabric of his dress shirt, now darkening at the spine with sweat.

He gagged again.

This time nothing came up, just a dry, violent heave that bent him double, one shoulder knocking the toilet with a dull thud. His jaw clenched hard enough that she could see the muscle jump.

She stepped closer, cautious, like approaching a wounded animal that still had teeth. She didn’t touch him, but crouched so they were level.

“I'm going home.” he said hoarsely. “You should go too.”

“What are you saying? You can’t even stand”

“Is the driver available?”

“The driver left already, Anthony” she said, sharper than she intended. Then, gentler: “It's no big deal I can take you there.”

That did it.

“No,” he said immediately, automatic. “You're not driving my car.”

She folded her arms slowly, deliberately, looking down at him where he knelt: pale, sweating, very far from untouchable. “And you are?”

His mouth twitched, irritated. “Don’t start.”

His jaw tightened.

“If you honestly think you can make it home on your own...” she went on lightly, too lightly, “say the word. I’ll grab my bag and leave you to it. No harm done.”

For a heartbeat, he looked like he might take her up on it out of sheer spite.

He swallowed, eyes squeezing shut, pride visibly wrestling with reality.

“Fine,” he bit out at last, the word rough, torn from him. “Drive.”

Francesca didn’t smile, but something warm and deeply satisfied unfurled in her chest all the same.

As he pushed himself up from the floor, stubborn pride outrunning his balance, he faltered. Tilted. His shoulder bumped into her. Solid. Real. For a second, they were touching, barely, but it was enough. She felt the heat of him through fabric.

Francesca grabbed a towel from the rack and held it out. He took it with clumsy fingers, wiping his mouth, his jaw tight with humiliation. Then she fetched his jacket, slung it over her arm and handed him his phone from the intern pocket, reaching for the car keys.

The elevator ride down was quiet, brutal.

Anthony leaned back against the mirrored wall, eyes closed, head tipped slightly forward. He’d undone another button of his shirt; sweat had soaked through the cotton, clinging to him in a way that looked almost obscene against the immaculate tailoring. 

The underground garage was cool and dim, concrete echoing under their footsteps. His car waited where it always did: low, black, expensive in a way that didn’t need to announce itself.

When she slid into the driver’s seat; his seat; something shifted irrevocably. The engine purred to life under her hands.

Anthony Moretti, untouchable king of glass towers and cold decisions, sat beside her, helpless and sick, trusting her to get him home.

“Do you have any idea of what might have caused this?” she asked, as he leaned his head back against the leather, eyes closed, face drawn and pale beneath the city lights.

Anthony swallowed. The movement looked painful. “Bad shellfish,” he said after a moment. “Lunch meeting. Private club. The irony is… I chose it.”

She glanced at him, fingers tightening briefly on the wheel. “Never saw you sick before.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, humorless. “Doesn't happen often.”

The city slid past them in streaks of light and shadow. Traffic was mercifully light; the car seemed to glide, insulated from the world by leather and quiet. Anthony kept his eyes closed most of the way, hands braced on his thighs like an anchor.

His building rose out of the dark like a private monument: glass, stone, discretion. The doorman straightened when the car pulled up, recognition instant, but Fran waved him off with a practiced calm before he could ask questions. Anthony didn’t open his eyes.

“I’m just going up with you to make sure you’re settled, and then I’m leaving,” she said, parking the vehicle. “Is there anyone you want me to call?"

“Suddenly concerned for my health, Miss Harrison?” 

Even with his skin pasty and his body failing him, the vitriol remained intact. It seemed that being caustic wasn't a choice for Anthony Moretti; it was a reflex, as vital to his survival as breathing.

Francesca didn't blink. She just watched him, her expression unreadable. “If you die, I lose my job, Mr. Moretti. Pure profit.”

Inside, the elevator climbed in smooth silence. Fran watched the numbers rise, aware of the faint sway in Anthony’s stance as he leaned against the wall, jacket still draped over her arm like something borrowed.

The doors opened directly into the apartment.

Everything inside was exactly as she remembered: exactly as him. 

The same scent of expensive cedar and cold ambition, the same dim, amber lighting that had blurred the edges of the last night she’d spent here. A night that officially didn't exist, where the marble counters had been cold against her skin and his hands had been anything but professional. It was the kind of memory they had both silently agreed to bury under a mountain of spreadsheets and icy silence.

Anthony took two steps in, then he stopped short, one hand flying to the wall.

“Not again, fuck,” he breathed, rushing to the closest sink: the kitchen's.

He braced both hands against the marble, shoulders hunched, breathing hard through his nose like he was trying to will his body into obedience. The kitchen lights were too bright, reflecting off stainless steel and stone, making the pallor of his skin impossible to ignore. Fran hovered a step behind him, acutely aware that she was standing in his space now: his real space, not the polished, public one.

He bent forward, unrestrained, but nothing came out. His spine curving, the expensive shirt pulling tight across his back. Sweat slicked the fabric, darkening it further, clinging to him like a second skin, but still, only dry heaves and spit. Frustrating, as the nausea kept rising but he couldn't let anything out.

Francesca flinched, then steadied herself.

She’d seen people sick before. That wasn’t it.

This was Anthony Moretti, brought low in the center of his immaculate kingdom, and the dissonance rattled her. The man who dictated meetings down to the minute, who dismantled people with a look, was gripping the edge of his kitchen's counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Fran placed a steadying hand just at his elbow, barely there:

“Do you need help to get somewhere?"

“Yeah. My bathroom upstairs I need to shower.” 

He answered, drying the sweat on his forehead.

The suite's bathroom was dimmer, cooler. Marble again, pristine, echoing. 

“Sit,” she said, steering him toward the toilet's closed lid. He obeyed: that alone telling her how bad it was. 

He took a shallow breath, eyes unfocused, looking dizzy. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt, clumsy and shaking, frustration tightening his mouth.

“Ok, I’ve got it” she said quietly.

He stiffened, but didn’t stop her.

“You didn't answer if there is someone you want me to call"

Se said, as her fingers worked efficiently, unfastening the buttons one by one, peeling the damp fabric away from his skin. The shirt clung stubbornly at his shoulders, sweat-soaked and heavy. When she slid it free, she became sharply aware of the heat radiating off him, the fine tremor running through his frame. He didn't answer right away, so she said:

“I'm gonna leave, so you can shower, ok? It will make you feel better.”

“No, stay.”

Fran’s breath caught before she could stop it. She straightened slowly, acutely aware of the space between them shrinking into something intimate and dangerous. This was his apartment. His bathroom. His vulnerability. Every instinct told her she was trespassing somewhere sacred.

“I feel miserable,” he added, quieter now, almost detached. “And no, there is... no one to call".

She studied him for a second longer than necessary. His shoulders were slumped, the sharp lines of him softened by exhaustion and nausea. Without the armor of his suit jacket and pristine shirt, he looked… human. Too human. And that did something to her: something warm and unsettling that slid low in her chest and stayed there.

“Ok! Lucky for you,” she said lightly, already reaching for the shower controls “I’m very hard to get rid of.”

A faint huff of breath left him. It might have been a laugh.

She let the water warm while keeping one eye on him, still sat on the closed toilet lid, no shirt, elbows braced on his thighs, head bowed.

“You’re enjoying this, aren't you?” he muttered without looking up, taking off his shoes and fancy patterned executive socks.

She paused. “Enjoying?”

“Seeing me like this.”

She snorted softly. “Oh, trust me, Moretti, this is not how I imagined getting you undressed again.”

That did it. His head lifted, eyes flicking up to hers, sharp even now, though dulled around the edges by sickness. For a moment, the air thickened, heavy with memory.

Her back against his kitchen counter. His mouth at her throat. The way he’d said her name like it was a secret he hated knowing.

They both felt it. She knew they did.

“Low blow,” he said hoarsely.

The water steamed now, filling the space with warmth and fog. He shifted, standing too quickly in order to remove the rest of his clothes.

“Careful” she warned, noticing how gravity had apparently turned against him. “don't fall.”

Helping him out of his pants was… complicated. Not because of anything illicit, but because his hands wouldn’t cooperate and his balance was poor.

“This is officially the most undignified thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said weakly as she tugged the fabric down.

Fran worked with brisk efficiency, eyes deliberately unfocused, aware of every inch of space she was violating. He kept his underwear, anyway, but it was still mortifying.

“Statistically impossible,” she replied. “I’ve seen you lose a board vote.”

A ghost of a smile curved his mouth.

She guided him under the spray, keeping it warm, one hand steady at his forearm as he entered the stall. His grip tightened on her wrist, just instinctively, a man anchoring himself to the nearest solid thing.

Her chest tightened, staying in such a narrow space face to face with the devil him.

She reached for the shampoo, hands shaking just slightly now. "Excuse me" Francesca murmured, the words soft, almost formal.

He didn’t answer. Just lifted his head a fraction and gave a single, slow nod permission granted. Washing his hair felt intimate in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Her fingers slid through dark strands gone limp with sweat, massaging gently as water ran down his temples, his neck, his chest, steam already curling around them. The glass door fogged instantly as she nudged it shut behind them, the world shrinking to tiled walls, white noise, and the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

“Is this… normal? I mean, I ate some bad shellfish, but should it really feel like I’m about to die?”

He said it with complete sincerity, brows drawn together, eyes searching her face for confirmation, as if she might suddenly tell him this was, in fact, fatal. Fran blinked, caught off guard by the naked anxiety in his expression. Anthony Moretti, who negotiated hostile takeovers without blinking, who flew through turbulence like it was nothing, was genuinely afraid his body had betrayed him beyond repair.

“You just have a stomach bug, Mr. Moretti,” she said, dry but not unkind. “But you’re a man, so, of course it feels like the end of the world.”

His lips pressed together, offended and unconvinced.

“Don’t worry, though” she added, unable to resist the gentle jab. “You’ll live.”

She smiled despite herself. When everything was apparently going back to place…Then dizziness hit him again. Francesca felt it before she saw it: the way his weight shifted, his grip tightening suddenly, fingers digging into her arm.

“Fran,” he murmured, the nickname slipping out unguarded. “I think it's too hot in here, I feel… I don't…”

She tried to reach for the cold faucet to balance the temperature, seeing that the clouds of steam were turning the glass enclosure into a private sauna that was clearly overwhelming him, but their position made it nearly impossible: He was blocking the controls, curved right in front of the faucets, looking far too miserable to even understand what she was trying to do.

Water cascaded down his chest, tracing lines over muscle and bone, over a body she knew too well in flashes and shadows, remembered in heat and half-formed regrets.

Flashback hit her hard: his hands on her wrists, pinning her to silk sheets. His mouth at her ear, voice low, controlled, asking permission like it was a dare. It lasted no more than a heartbeat. A brief, dangerous distraction.

“I’m dizzy,” he said, bringing her back to real life.

“I know,” she said softly. “Breathe.”

He tried.

It wasn’t enough.

His body lurched suddenly, turning his back to her instinctively and just in time, retching hard as his stomach gave in once more.

The first wave came up violently: half-digested food, sour and heavy, unmistakably the remains of whatever shellfish had betrayed him hours earlier on that fancy lunch. The sound was raw, humiliating, echoing too loudly off tile and glass as he vomited onto the shower floor.

She gripped his waist tighter, praying that this man, standing nearly six-foot-three, wouldn't plummet from his own height and take them both down with him.

He barely had time to draw breath before another spasm followed. This one thinner, sharper. Less substance. More burn. His throat made a strangled, broken noise as another gush followed, his stomach contracting with painful determination.

Anthony reached for the tiled wall with his two hands for balance, as she angled his head away from the spray, murmuring nonsense, steady, grounding sounds until it passed. She didn't flinch as she’d seen this before: three younger brothers that she helped to raise, endless flu seasons, late-night emergencies where dignity stopped mattering. Vomit was just a symptom. Noise was just a body misfiring. What mattered was that he didn’t fall, didn’t choke, didn’t lose consciousness.

“It's so disgusting, Fran. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, humbled, eyes squeezed shut, unable to turn around and face her again. “Christ.” his abdomen pulling inward with visible effort, a strained, choking noise vibrating through him as his body emptied what little it still had left.

“Don't be. You're just… sick. It's ok”

When it finally passed, his whole frame sagged against the wall in front of him, trembling from head to toe, emptied and exhausted. Fran guided him out of the shower, carefully, wrapping a thick towel around his shoulders, another around his waist. He let her, compliant now, eyes glassy with exhaustion.

She sat him down on the closed toilet lid once more as the water kept running on the shower to push part of the mess down the drain. Toweled his hair, gentle but thorough, then his shoulders, his arms. Her hands lingering just a little longer than necessary. Seeing him so vulnerable made something in her had shift and it refused to settle.

“You should curse at me,” he said weakly when she left to turn the water off. “You’re very good at it.”

She smiled despite herself. “Save your strength.”

“Can I get you something to wear?”

She volunteered, fearing that Anthony standing up would invite a new wave of chaos into the room.

“My pajamas are in the drawer, on the lower part of my closet. Please”

Fran nodded once and turned away, giving him the space she suspected he desperately needed.

She crouched to open the lower drawer of his closet and found the pajamas folded with military neatness: soft cotton, dark gray, clearly worn enough to be real. The sight of that, of him having something so ordinary, hit her harder than it should have.

Francesca said, handing him the clothes: “I’ll… step outside.”

He dressed himself slowly, methodically, like every movement required negotiation with his body. The pajama top went on crooked the first time; he corrected it with a faint huff of irritation, and left the bathroom, meeting Fran again at his bedroom.

“Feel any better?”

She asked, hopeful.

“Not really.”

She stepped closer and pressed the back of her fingers to his forehead without asking. He flinched at first, then stilled, letting her. His skin was hot. Too hot.

“You’re burning up,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve already done more than enough. I’ll take something and sleep it off.

“Anthony.”

He opened one eye. “Francesca.”

She crossed her arms again, but there was no heat in it now. “You look like you’re about to faint, and you’re shivering while radiating enough heat to cook pasta. I’m not leaving yet”

He studied her for a long moment, something thoughtful and unsettled behind his gaze.

“You’re… good at this, you know?” he said finally. “Taking care of people.”

She blinked. “Am I?”

“Yeah.” A beat. “And you don’t even seem impressed by the fact that I’ve been doing my best Regan MacNeil impression all day. Just thinking about it makes me feel like  throwing up again”

She snorted before she could stop herself. “Oh, please, then don't think”

He frowned faintly. “How many times was it?”

“Five.”

He looked genuinely alarmed. “You’re counting?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t know that much food could fit inside one human stomach.”

That got a laugh out of him: thin, weak, but real. It dissolved some of the tension in the room, left something lighter in its wake.

He shook his head slowly. “Humbling.”

“Good,” she said. “You need it.”

He closed his eyes again, smiling faintly, then opened them just enough to look at her. “You really don’t have to stay.”

“I know,” she said. “But I will.”

That was the quiet truth of it: simple, irrevocable.

She guided him to the bed when his legs finally gave out on the pretense of standing on their own. The sheets were cool and crisp against his overheated skin, and he sank into them with a sound that was half relief, half defeat.

She returned with a plastic bowl from the kitchen and set it on the nightstand within easy reach, along with a glass of water and the medicine she’d found after rifling through his bathroom cabinet like a trespasser in a museum. Everything in his life was labeled, sorted, controlled. Even his illness came with instructions.

“Just in case,” she said, pointing to the bowl. “I also got you Tylenol for the fever, some Zofran here, some Bentyl for the cramps and… Is this thing apple juice?”

She frowned at the small bottle in her hand, trying to decipher the label. Even the simple things in Anthony’s life were complicated. The apple juice wasn't just apple juice; it was Possmann Apple Juice, imported from Germany, the gothic script on the glass looking as elite and inaccessible as the man himself.

“It is.“ he confirmed, as she handed him the bottle.

“Drink it first. You’re dehydrated, and the pills on an empty stomach will hurt you.”

Anthony leaned his head back against the wall, his throat working as he swallowed against a fresh wave of nausea. “No,” he rasped, his eyes squeezed shut. “I won’t keep it down. Don’t… don't make me do this.”

“Small sips,” Fran commanded, her voice leaving no room for the corporate titan to negotiate. She nudged the glass bottle against his lower lip. “You’re losing too much fluid, Anthony. If you don't drink this, I’m calling a private doctor to put you on an IV, and we both know how much you’ll hate that.”

A flicker of his old defiance flared in his eyes, but it was dampened by exhaustion. He hated being handled. He hated being seen like this. But more than that, he knew she was right.

With a shaky hand, he reached up to steady the bottle.

Took one careful sip and paused, waiting, bracing for rejection that didn’t come.

Another sip followed. Then a third.

The juice hit his parched throat cool and sharp, immediate relief blooming across his face before he could stop it. His shoulders eased a fraction, tension bleeding out of him. He swallowed again, deeper this time, encouraged by the way it soothed the burning in his chest.

For a brief moment, it worked.

Fran saw it with relief too: the way his breathing evened out, the way his mouth relaxed as if his body had finally agreed to cooperate. Encouraged, he took another sip. Then one more, slightly larger than the last.... and it was too much.

She caught it instantly. Tthe hitch in his throat, the way his swallow stalled halfway. His stomach clenched, visibly beneath the thin fabric of his pajamas.

He gagged.

“Bad idea? Fuck!” Francesca said, already moving. “In the bowl. Here. Use the bowl.”

The last sip never made it down. He turned his head sharply, spitting the juice he hadn’t managed to swallow into the bowl. His body rebelled, he retched hard, the sound raw and miserable, emptying all the cool juice back out almost exactly as it had gone in, followed by thin, sour liquid that burned its way up.

She lifted the bowl it under his chin just in time, one hand firm at his back, feeling the way he shook as it passed.

When it was over, he sagged against her without thinking.

She froze for half a second, then let him.

He was still damp from the shower, fever-hot and trembling, his head falling forward until his forehead rested against her shoulder. She could smell the shampoo in his hair, clean and sharp, feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing as he tried not to be sick again.

“I can’t keep anything down,” he said hoarsely.

“You told me so, I should've listened. I'm sorry”

The words felt almost unnatural, leaving her lips. For Francesca, an apology was a rare concession, a dent in an ego that usually stood as tall as the skyscrapers outside. She didn't do 'sorry'; she did 'right.'

But looking at Anthony now, the sharp edges of her pride had softened. Seeing him this fragile, knowing her insistence on the juice had triggered that last violent bout of sickness, sparked something more visceral than mere pity. It was guilt, cold and unwelcome, settling deep in her chest. For the first time in three years, she didn't want to win the argument; she just wanted him to stop hurting. “I feel miserable" He said again. "I know."

Francesca hesitated, her hand hovering in the air. She almost resisted the urge. It was too intimate, too far over the line... but then she gave in. She reached out, running her fingers through his hair in a slow, rhythmic caress. Anthony didn't pull away; he simply let out a shuddering breath and leaned into her touch.

“You can go home.”

“I know.”

She stayed anyway, anchoring him as he rode out the nausea.

Minutes stretched. The city hummed faintly beyond the glass walls, distant and irrelevant. Anthony Moretti lay half-curled against her, still shivering, still burning, still breathing, because she was there to notice it.

“Now that's a moment” she said quietly.

A breath that might’ve been a laugh left him. “What?”

“Losing a fight with apple juice is… formative.”

His fingers twitched against her sleeve, then curled into the fabric. “You won’t tell anyone.”

She huffed softly. “Please. No one would believe me.”

He nodded faintly, eyes closed.

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Don’t worry,” she replied smoothly. “I’ll pretend this never happened.”

His fingers tightened slightly in her sleeve. “You won’t.”

She smiled, small and sharp. “No. But I’ll be kind about it.”

And for the first time since she’d known him, Anthony Moretti didn’t try to argue.

have a good day!!

TW: emeto, sickness. These two have been my roman empire for the past few months and I decided to write down a moment of vulnerability between them that I imagined. I hope you like it, but if you didn't, please just scroll and don't be mean to me, please 🥹 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- "You were just amazing last night, babe. The crowd was insane. Everyone's talking about it" Travis said, checking the news on his phone. The soft glow of the Parisian afternoon filtered through the curtains. His eyes were twinkling, always amazed by his girl's performances and the comments about it afterwards.

Taylor smiled back, but it was faint. "What? Is there something wrong?" he asked, noticing how uncommonly her hand was resting on her midsection. "I don’t know. My stomach feels off." she admitted.

His expression shifted to concern, getting closer and evolving her in a loving hug. "Uh-oh, did we go too hard on the crepes for breakfast?" he joked, kissing her face. His eyes softened when she didn’t laugh. "Do you want me to get you something? Water, maybe?" 

She nodded, grateful for his attentiveness. "Yeah, water might help. I’m hoping it’s just something small." She sat down on the bed. "I think I’m gonna lie down for a bit before we go out tonight, ok? Maybe a nap will do the trick."

"Good idea," he agreed, brushing a kiss against her forehead. "Take your time, I’ll be here."

She smiled softly, heading to the bed, and he watched her until she pulled the blankets over herself. Her eyes fluttered closed, exhaustion and discomfort mingling as she drifted off.

It looked like she had just closed her eyes when something woke her up. It was still bright outside, she could see it even through the fancy blackout curtains. She rolled over in bed, her eyes catching Travis standing by the balcony, talking on his phone. His voice was low, casual, he had no idea she could hear him:

"Yeah, man, it’s been incredible so far." he was saying, his eyes sweeping over the view of the Parisian rooftops. "We’re gonna take a stroll later, me and Tay, maybe grab dinner with a few friends of her. I'll let you know." 

She shifted in bed, trying to decide if she should get up and join him or try to get back to sleep, since the nap hasn't been enough time to rest. As she moved, though, a familiar wave of nausea hit. She clutched her stomach, a groan escaping her lips.

Travis must have heard the sound because his voice hesitated on the line. "Hold on a sec, man," he said, turning his head towards the bed. "Babe, you good?"

Before she could even answer, the nausea overwhelmed her, and she bolted out of bed, rushing to the bathroom. The door swung shut behind her, and the muffled sounds of her retching echoed from inside.

Travis’s face tensed with concern. He hurried off the call, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I gotta go, something’s up with Taylor." He hung up, placing his phone on the nightstand as he quickly approached the bathroom door.

"Hey, Tay, you okay in there, babe?" he asked gently, knocking softly. He could hear her, the strained noises and the faint sound of running water as she attempted to steady herself. His heart sank a little.

"I thought I was, but…" she started, but the wave hit her again.

"Is it coming from down or upper?" he teased with a grin, trying to lighten the moment.

Taylor, despite her discomfort, let out a soft laugh. "Upper, thankfully. But it feels like everything’s upside down."

He opened the door cautiously, finding her leaning over the toilet, her face pale and beads of sweat clinging to her forehead. She looked up, flushing it, embarrassed but relieved to see him. "It’s just… ugh, this stupid stomach. I knew something was off" 

Travis didn’t hesitate. "I'm sorry about that," he said, stepping closer and kneeling down, rubbing her back in soothing circles. "How about we get you back to bed, and I’ll bring some ginger tea? You barely even slept."

"I know, right? I've been down for what? Fifteen minutes?" There was concern in her face too, the fact that the nausea had woken her up right after closing her eyes.

"Yeah, twenty minutes or so. Jason called right when you fell asleep and he was still on the phone with me when you got up, so quick that it was" Travis said, getting up on his feet and pulling her up. She nodded, her expression softening. "I’m sorry, Trav… Maybe if I go to sleep again… I don't know, there's still time until the time we planned to leave, right? I can get better."

He shook his head, pulling Taylor in for a comforting hug. "Nah, none of that. We’ll take it easy tonight. We'll order room service and have a cozy night in. The city can wait."

"No, babe, really. I want to feel better. I want to go for a stroll around Paris with you. I've been dreaming about this all week."

Taylor couldn’t help but smile through the discomfort, around his loving arms. Travis always had this way of making things feel okay, even when they clearly weren’t: "It's ok. Rest for a while, when you're up again we see if we should stay or go." Said the footballer, as he helped her back to the bed.

A few hours later, Taylor stirred awake from her nap, blinking as she adjusted to the dimming Paris light. She stretched, feeling her body finally relax a bit after the rough past moments. The discomfort in her stomach had faded, and she was determined to make the most of the night. They were in Paris, after all.

“You sure you’re up for it?” he asked, watching while she showered, a protective look on his face. “Definitely. I feel so much better now” she assured him, putting on her brightest smile. Her eyes were full of determination, and Travis, always doing his best to support her, nodded.

“Alright, but only because you’re looking at me with those eyes” he grinned “And because you look this good naked in front of me.”

Both laughed. As soon as she finished the shower Taylor moved to the closet, letting the bathroom free for Trav. He entered, closed the door and busied himself in there, the buzz of his electric razor drifting out, a sound proof that he would take a while before showering, as he always did when it came to his beard. 

Outside, the singer was pulling out a stunning dress she’d picked for the night and then applying her makeup carefully, every stroke feeling like an affirmation of her renewed energy. "I'm so glad I'm feeling better. Tonight will be perfect." she thought. 

In the very end – as the sound of the shower was already on, inside the bathroom – she had just fastened her heels, and was ready to finish the look with her famous red lipstick, when a familiar twinge hit her again on this day, even stronger than before. Taylor paused, one hand on her stomach. She took a deep breath, trying to shake it off. "No, not again, please" she thought, looking at the closed bathroom door, closing her eyes and willing herself to push through.

The feeling intensified. She could hear Travis humming in the shower, and she didn’t want to bother or scare him. He’d been nothing but patient and sweet all day. She took another breath, steadying herself, but the wave of nausea surged, and this time, it wasn’t something she could ignore. She moved as quickly as she could toward the bathroom door, knocking.

“Trav? Babe, can you hurry up in there?, please” she called, her voice a little strained. There was too much noise inside with the strong jets of water from the fancy shower, he couldn't listen.

"Babe? Please!" 

She knocked, even more strongly and received a silence back, as if the shower was shut off in a sudden, right before Travis opened the door, his lower body wrapped in a white towel, and a scared look on his face, taking one look at her: “Gonna be sick again?” he asked, his brows furrowing as she ran inside and tried to reach for the toilet, but it wasn't fast enough. The nausea overwhelmed her, and she spat a little on the floor on the way to the sink, that was closer. There, her slim body shuddered with each wave, finally letting it all out.

“Whoa, easy there, Tay,” Travis said, immediately moving to her side. He rubbed her back, his other hand holding her hair out of the way. "Alright, just let it out, babe. You'll feel better. Let it out" he encouraged, rubbing her back gently.

Wiping her mouth, Taylor said, mortified, reaching for the facial towel. “I’m so sorry… I thought I was fine.”

She shuddered, another wave coming up, and this time it was more intense. The noise that came with it was harsh. A retching sound that echoed in the bathroom, mixing with the splatter of the vomit hitting the ceramic basin. Her eyes watered, and she coughed, her face flushed with embarrassment.

Travis winced slightly at the sight but kept his hands on her back, offering steady support.

"Watch your step" he guided her – deviating from the puddle on the floor – to the border wall of the bath, where she could sit for a while, after all, while he cleaned up the little mess and dressed himself in the shirt and shorts he had just taken off before the shower and were still around.

"Babe, I'm sorry – she said, watching while he did the cleaning around – It's so gross and I'm really embarrassed."

Travis could see she was feeling miserable. He shook his head, calming her down: "It’s just human stuff, Tay. We all go through it. Don't feel bad". When the floor was clean enough, he approached her with gentle eyes: "Let's take off this dress, ok? Arms up.” said, softly, helping her out of the dress. The fabric, now damp and stained, slipped off her shoulders as he carefully peeled it away. "I like it better when I'm not sick while you do it, you know…" she mumbled and they both let out a mischievous laugh.

“We'll be back to doing it in no time, don't worry.” he replied, his eyes meeting hers with a soft smile “As soon as you're feeling better". 

He reached for a bath towel and gave it to her, so she could wrap herself in it. While she was doing it, he sat behind her and grabed a washcloth, running it under the warm water of the bathtub, spreading it through Taylor's collar and shoulders. The touch was gentle and he was taking care to make her feel comfortable.

When he reached her hair, he grimaced. “Oh, babe, we’ve got a bit of a situation here.” He wiped away the remnants that had tangled in her hair. “Looks like Paris really left its mark tonight,” he joked, making her smile despite the situation. "Gross. Could you go get my pajamas while I take a shower and get this all off of me?" she asked, feeling strong enough to stand up and go to the shower again.

The night hadn't gone quite as planned, but even through the mess and the sickness, she felt better for knowing her boyfriend was, and would always be there for her, no matter what.