ONE NIGHT STAND WITH HOT DUKE-Chapter 95: Just a cold

alerie startled. "I—I ran into someone I know," she answered reflexively. She turned back to the bench where the old woman had been sitting.

And froze.

The bench was empty.

No old woman.

No cane.

No shadow.

Only a cold, silent wooden bench remained.

"Someone you know?" Demian asked, his brow furrowed, his voice low and wary.

Valerie stood motionless, her heart once again pounding unevenly. Her gaze swept through the narrow alley, the end of it, the worn doors, the unmoving shadows.

She swallowed.

"...an old woman," she finally said softly.

Yet even as the words left her lips, Valerie herself was no longer certain whether the encounter had been real, or something never meant to be seen by anyone but her.

Demian scanned the alley once more, his gaze sharp and alert. "I heard you met an old woman," he said in a low voice, almost a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the silence of the night. "Where is she?"

Valerie took a slow breath. Her heartbeat had yet to fully settle. The image of that wrinkled hand, the hoarse voice calling her a poor girl, was still painfully vivid. She swallowed before answering, "She... she’s gone."

There was no deliberate lie in those words. The old woman truly was gone by whatever means.

Demian gave a brief nod. There was no excessive suspicion, no further questions. As if there were certain things he chose not to touch. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them, then held out his hand.

"Let’s go home."

Two simple words, yet somehow they made Valerie’s chest feel even heavier.

She hesitated, staring at Demian’s outstretched hand. The same hand that often held her tightly sometimes too tightly. A hand that offered safety and confinement in equal measure.

Valerie slowly lifted her face. "Weren’t you with Lady Kosler?" she asked. Her tone wasn’t accusatory, more like a final attempt to understand where she stood.

Demian frowned slightly. "With Lady Kosler doing what?" he replied flatly. "I told you I’d come get you."

"But earlier," Valerie held her breath, "you were standing with her."

There was a brief pause. Demian exhaled, clearly unwilling to make more of it than necessary. "I only happened to run into her," he said. "That’s all."

He lowered his hand slightly, then extended it again, closer this time as if offering Valerie a choice, though it wasn’t really one. "It’s late. You’ve been out all day." His voice softened just a little, though it remained firm. "Now it’s your turn to keep me company."

Valerie remained silent.

There were so many things she wanted to say. About the ache of seeing Demian and Ivanka together. About the opera that felt like mockery. About the whispers that called her shameless. About the old woman who appeared and vanished like a secret not yet meant to be revealed.

But all those words lodged in her throat.

What was the point of speaking, when she knew the ending would be the same?

Slowly, she reached out her hand.

Their fingers met. Demian immediately closed his grip around hers steady, as if making sure Valerie wouldn’t disappear again that night. The warmth of his palm crept upward, carrying a feeling that was equal parts relief and surrender.

Valerie lowered her gaze slightly, allowing Demian to lead her out of the alley. Each step felt heavy, yet she kept walking.

She didn’t look back.

Not at the empty bench.

Not at the pink door the old woman had mentioned.

For now, Valerie chose to return not because she didn’t know where else to go, but because she wasn’t yet strong enough to walk alone.

The night passed with very few words. There were no arguments, no confessions only silence, filled by each other’s presence, long and exhausting. Until nearly dawn, Valerie remained by his side, giving Demian what he wanted without ever truly asking what she herself needed.

When the first light of morning slipped through the gaps in the curtains, Valerie’s body felt unbearably heavy. A wave of nausea rose slowly, throbbing at her temples and in her stomach. She forced herself to lie still, hoping the feeling would fade on its own.

But morning did not take it away.

When Valerie finally got up, the nausea only intensified. She covered her mouth, hurried to the edge of the bed, then to the bathroom. The sound of her retching shattered the morning’s silence.

Demian, who had just begun dressing, froze. He turned sharply and moved toward her at once. "Valerie," he said, his tone turning alert. "How long has this been going on?"

Valerie rinsed her face, her hands trembling as she gripped the sink. "Since this morning," she answered softly. "I’m fine."

"That doesn’t look like fine," Demian cut in. He reached for his coat. "I’ll send for a doctor."

"No," Valerie said quickly. She turned toward him, her face pale but forcing a small smile. "There’s no need."

Demian looked at her in disbelief. "Don’t be stubborn."

"Maybe it’s just because I ate late yesterday," Valerie went on quickly, as if afraid he wouldn’t listen. "And I caught a chill. It happens."

Demian still hesitated. He stepped closer, studying her face as if searching for something hidden. "I still will—"

"There’s no need," Valerie interrupted again, this time more gently. She lowered her gaze. "You must be busy. There are many matters waiting for you. Don’t worry about me."

Those words made Demian fall silent.

He recognized that tone the tone of quiet resignation that asked for nothing. Not because Valerie didn’t need anything, but because she had grown used to not expecting it.

Demian clenched his jaw. "I can make time."

Valerie shook her head faintly. "You don’t have to. I just need to rest."

Silence hung between them. In the end, Demian lowered his hand, though it was clear the decision didn’t fully sit well with him. He looked at Valerie for a few seconds longer, then said shortly, "Fine. But if you don’t improve, I won’t listen to your refusal."

Valerie nodded.

As Demian turned to leave, Valerie leaned back slightly and closed her eyes. The nausea was still there, pulsing quietly along with another feeling she couldn’t quite put into words.

It wasn’t only her body that was exhausted.

Demian was forcing himself to work that morning.

The stack of documents lay neatly arranged on his desk, the ink still wet on several pages, yet his focus kept slipping away. He reread the words before him again and again without truly absorbing them. Every time he lowered his pen, Valerie’s face surfaced instead pale, exhausted, her lips drained of color, the way she had refused a doctor while insisting there was no need to worry.

That was not the face of someone who was fine.

And Demian knew it.

He let out a rough breath and suddenly stood. His chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing the attention of Asher, who stood near the bookshelf.

"Your Grace?" Asher turned, puzzled. "Is something wrong?"

Demian grabbed his coat without answering at first. His movements were firm, but his jaw tightened a sign of unease he rarely showed. "I’m going out."

Asher froze. "Out... now?"

"I want to see Valerie," Demian replied shortly. "Postpone today’s work. She’s unwell, and I can’t focus."