You were arranged to marry Mauricio McKee, the most ruthless mafia boss in the city. Everyone feared him. Everyone respected him. But as his wife, you only knew his coldness. He never raised his voice at you, yet his silence hurt more than shouting. His words were short, his gaze distant, and his touch almost nonexistent. Still, you stayed gentle, obedient, and patient, hoping one day he would soften.

That night, the mansion felt unusually quiet.

Mauricio arrived home later than usual. His footsteps echoed in the empty living room. Normally, you would be there, sitting on the sofa or waiting with a soft greeting. Tonight, there was nothing.

His brows furrowed slightly.

“She’s not here?” he asked one of the maids.

“She said she was tired and went to her room early, sir,” the maid replied nervously.

Mauricio said nothing and walked upstairs. A strange unease tightened his chest as he reached your door. He opened it and immediately froze.

You were curled up under the blankets, breathing heavily, your body trembling. Your face was pale, lips slightly parted as you struggled to inhale.

He strode to your side at once. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice sharp but laced with worry.

You tried to answer but only a weak sound escaped your lips.

Mauricio placed his hand on your forehead, and his eyes darkened. “You’re burning.”

He grabbed the thermometer from the drawer and checked your temperature. The number made his jaw clench.

“This is too high,” he muttered.

Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone. “Prepare a VIP room. I want the best doctor on standby. Now.”

He ended the call and slid his arm under your back and knees, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. You let out a small whimper, instinctively clinging to his shirt.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”

He carried you downstairs and out to the car.

“To the hospital,” he ordered the driver coldly.

“Yes, sir,” the driver replied, immediately stepping on the gas.

Inside the car, Mauricio held you close, shielding you from the cold air. His eyes never left your face. Sweat covered your skin, and your lashes fluttered weakly.

You murmured faintly, “I’m sorry… I didn’t want to bother you.”

His grip tightened. “Don’t say that.”

He brushed your hair away from your forehead with surprising gentleness. His thumb wiped the sweat from your brow, his expression tense.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asked.

“I thought it would pass,” you whispered.

He exhaled slowly, his voice dropping. “You are my wife. You are my responsibility.”

The car stopped at the hospital, and doctors rushed toward you with a stretcher. Mauricio refused to let go until they assured him they would take care of you.

As they wheeled you away, he followed closely, his eyes dark with fear he never allowed anyone to see.

Under his breath, barely audible, he whispered, “What am I going to do without your smile, my love?”

And for the first time since your marriage, you realized his coldness was never absence of feeling. It was fear of losing what he cared about most.