Marcellus had barely sat down at his desk when Preston knocked and entered.

"Sir, your meeting starts in ten minutes."

"Understood."

His voice lacked its usual sharp, commanding edge. Ever since a wave of nausea hit him that afternoon, his brow had remained furrowed in a permanent knot of discomfort.

Evangeline watched him with growing concern, her small hand gently rubbing his stomach. "You don't look well at all. You should go home and rest."

"I can't. This meeting is critical."

"Then promise me you'll leave as soon as it's over."

Marcellus forced a weak smile and reached up to stroke her hair, a gesture meant to soothe his own nerves as much as hers. "Deal. Keep yourself occupied for a bit; I’ll be back soon."

On the conference room’s wall-sized monitor, a feed displayed the counterpart boardroom, where a group of foreign executives sat rigid in their seats. The lead representative was finishing a presentation, eyes darting anxiously toward the screen, waiting for a verdict.

Marcellus stared, his brows knit together—not in focus, but in irritation. He barely seemed to be listening. After a grueling minute of heavy silence, the man on the other side finally broke.

"Mr. Alexander, the report is concluded."

Marcellus’s eyes snapped toward the screen, his gaze cutting like a blade. "Is this the answer sheet you’ve been preparing for me for an entire year?"

The team on the other side of the Atlantic exchanged panicked looks. The lead man struggled to find his footing. "I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir. If there are shortcomings, please, enlighten us."

"Joelle, do not let them lead you by the nose," Marcellus spat, his voice strained. "Alexander Corp is your safety net, not your crutch."

Mid-sentence, his stomach churned violently. A cold sheen of sweat erupted across his forehead. Clasping his abdomen, he hissed at Preston, "You take over!"

He strode out of the conference room, the heavy door slamming shut behind him, and immediately doubled over, retching into the silence of the hallway.

The sound carried clearly through the open door of the boardroom. The executives inside began to whisper.

"What’s wrong with him?"

"He looked absolutely gutted."

"The way he looked at us… it was terrifying."

"That's enough!" Preston barked, cutting the room into silence. "Let's move on to the Q3 analysis."

Back in the private office, Evangeline saw Marcellus stumble in, pale and clutching his side. She scrambled to steady him, her voice trembling. "I’m calling Damian!"

Marcellus was a man of immense power, and his enemies were circling like vultures. If word got out that he was ailing, it would trigger a bloodbath of corporate sabotage.

Wylder Shaw slammed his foot on the accelerator, tearing through traffic. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the Elysian Estate, where Damian Spencer was already waiting in the private medical wing.

Seeing Marcellus twisted in obvious agony, Damian didn’t waste a second. He hooked him up for an abdominal ultrasound, his own expression darkening as he worked.

"Have you eaten today?" Damian asked.

"No," Marcellus gritted out. "Everything I tried to swallow came right back up."

Damian frowned, turned toward the workstation, and mixed a milky, opaque liquid. He handed it to Marcellus. "Drink this."

Evangeline hovered nearby, her voice thin. "What is that, Damian?"

"Barium sulfate suspension," Damian replied, his tone clinical. "We need to perform an upper GI series to see what’s going on inside."

The gravity of his tone made Evangeline’s heart hammer against her ribs. She felt like she was suffocating. "Is he… is he going to be okay?"

"Stay calm," Damian said, though his eyes remained guarded. "We'll have the results in two hours."

Marcellus reached out, gripping Evangeline’s cold, trembling hands and rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles. "Evangeline, don't be afraid."

She stood there, breathing in shallow, ragged bursts, fighting the urge to shatter.

The wait was an eternity. Evangeline kept talking, trying to fill the silence, her mind racing. Marcellus kept her hand locked in his, watching her with a look of intense, agonizing devotion. Even in his sickness, he seemed to find a strange sort of comfort in her worry.

Finally, Damian walked out, his stride suddenly light, a report in his hand.

"There’s nothing wrong with him," Damian said.

"But he’s in so much pain!" Evangeline cried, her heart dropping. "What if your equipment isn't precise enough? We need to go to the hospital!"

Damian slumped onto the sofa, crossing his legs with a relaxed smirk. "Marcellus, tell me again. How exactly does it feel?"

Marcellus took a breath, concentrating. "I can't describe it. It’s not a sharp pain. It’s... it’s like a sour, bloated feeling. Like I’m starving but full at the same time. It’s like being violently seasick."

Evangeline’s brow deepened. "That is the strangest list of symptoms I’ve ever heard."

"Hah! Hahaha... Marcellus, you’re killing me!" Damian threw his head back, laughing until his face turned red.

Marcellus snarled, "Damian, what is wrong with you?"

Damian wiped a tear from his eye, struggling to compose himself. "Marcellus... you idiot. You’ve got morning sickness!"

Evangeline blinked, completely baffled. "Morning sickness? *I’m* the one who’s pregnant. Why is *he* throwing up?"

"It’s called Couvade syndrome," Damian explained, his voice turning mocking yet impressed. "It’s extremely rare. It happens when a man loves his partner so deeply that he physically manifests her symptoms. He’s feeling everything you’re feeling."

Evangeline felt as if she’d been lifted into the clouds, wrapped in a suffocating, warm blanket of pure adoration. A single tear escaped her eye.

"Marcellus..."

Marcellus reached up, gently wiping the moisture from her cheek. "It’s alright. Don’t cry."

Watching the two of them, Damian shook his head. "I'm leaving. Being the third wheel in this medical room is giving me an ulcer."

Marcellus barely heard him. He looked down at Evangeline's stomach, then at his own, a strange, proud smile touching his lips. It wasn't just physical suffering anymore; he was locked in this journey with her.

"A different kind of sickness," he whispered, pulling her close. "And I think I can live with it."