Victor’s return is announced by the roar of his car in the driveway. When he strides into the living room, his presence is like a storm cloud blotting out the sun.
I’m there, clutching a stack of books I’d just borrowed from the library, hoping to retreat to my room unnoticed. But Victor’s voice stops me in my tracks.
“Eliza!” he says, his tone sharp and impatient. “Come here.”
I approach slowly. "Hello, Mr. Cain."
“How’s the mission going?”
I bit my lip before saying, "Look, Alexander is brilliant. He’s not the man you described to me. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of our sick plan."
Victor’s expression hardens in an instant. “Not the man I described?” His voice drops to a dangerous low. “And what exactly are you trying to say?”
I swallow hard. “I’m saying he’s a good person, Victor. You don’t need to manipulate him like this. I can’t be part of this.”
The slap comes so fast, I barely see it. My head snaps to the side, and a sharp sting spreads across my cheek. The books in my arms fall to the floor with a dull thud.
“You don’t get to decide,” Victor growls, towering over me. “Do your job, or you’ll regret it.”
I stand frozen, too stunned to respond. My cheek throbs, and my heart pumps in my chest like a jackhammer.
Before I can muster the courage to speak, I hear the unmistakable sound of wheels on hardwood.
Alexander.
He’s in the doorway, his hands gripping the armrests of his wheelchair so tightly that his knuckles are white. His face is a mask of fury, his icy blue eyes burning as they lock onto Victor.
"Alex, my favorite nephew!" Victor flashes a fake smile. He walks toward him while his arms spread wide. "How have you been, my son?"
But Alexander didn't buy it. He glares at Victor, his jaw clenching in anger as he moves his hands so fast. I am able to read the message he's intending to say to Victor.
You touch her again, and you'll regret it!
Victor takes a step back, startled. He glares at me in disbelief and turns back to Alexander. "Do you mean this maid? I'm just trying to instruct her on her duties, nothing more."
Alexander's eyes narrow as he wheels closer to Victor and signs again with fast movements.
Don't make me a fool, Uncle. I saw how you hurt my caretaker.
Then Alexander’s hand shoots up in a sharp, deliberate motion, pointing toward the door. The message is clear: Leave. Now.
Victor’s lips curl into a sneer, but he doesn’t argue. He turns and stalks out, his footsteps echoing through the hall.
I glance at Alexander, my hand still pressed against my cheek. His gaze softens as it meets mine, and he signs quickly: Are you okay?
“Yes,” I whisper. Tears are pricking at my eyes. For the first time in my life, someone has actually defended me. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to defend me. He's right, I’m just a maid in this house.”
He looks at me, then picks up his notepad, scribbles something, and hesitates. For a moment, it seems like he might share what he’s written, but then he crumples the page and tosses it aside.
“Why did you stop?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he wheels himself back toward the mansion.
***
That night, I’m startled by a knock at my door. I open it to find Mario standing there, a sheepish smile on his face.
“I’m taking two weeks off,” he announces, rubbing the back of his neck. “Family thing. But someone needs to take care of Alexander while I’m gone.”
I blink. “Take care of him how?”
“You know,” he says, shrugging. “Help him dress, get in and out of bed, take a bath.”
“A bath?” I blurt out, and I swear, the heat in my face rises as I imagine the task ahead of me. “I don’t know if I can handle him. Can we send his therapist, and I will just assist as needed?"
“Relax,” Mario says with a chuckle. “He’s independent most of the time. He’ll let you know if he needs help. Just be patient with him, okay? He’s a proud man.”
I nod slowly, my mind racing. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”
“Good.” He pats my shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”
The next morning, I stand outside Alexander’s bedroom door. The thought of stepping into his personal space, much less helping him with something as intimate as bathing, makes my nerves twist in knots.
Gathering my courage, I knock gently. But the door is unlocked, so I push it open slowly.
Alexander is already awake, sitting by the window in his wheelchair, dressed in a loose-fitting shirt and pajama pants. He glances up when I enter and raises an eyebrow, his hands poised to speak.
Good morning, I sign, forcing a smile.
He responds with a simple nod before signing back. Dresser. Clothes. Bring.
“Okay,” I murmur, moving to the dresser. I pull out a neatly folded shirt and trousers, hesitating briefly before turning back to him. “Here you go.”
He takes the clothes from me, placing them on his lap, then wheels toward the adjoining bathroom. I stay rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do next. He pauses at the door and turns, his hands moving swiftly.
Follow.
I freeze. “Follow?” I repeat out loud before switching to signs. Do you want me to go inside?
He nods once, slowly, then gestures again, more firmly. Yes.
My face burns, and I clutch the hem of my sweater, trying to suppress the surge of panic. “I’m not sure I should…” I trail off, realizing how ridiculous I must look.
I shuffle awkwardly to the bathroom doorway, peeking inside. It’s spotless, with a wide shower, a large mirror, and a set of grab bars along the walls. Alexander wheels himself inside and begins maneuvering to the shower seat with practiced ease.
“Um… Do you need help?” I ask, stepping tentatively into the tiled room.
He glances over his shoulder, signs something too quick for me to catch, then points toward the door, his meaning unmistakable. Wait outside.
Relief washes over me, and I back out of the room with a quick nod. “Got it!” I call out, closing the door halfway, hovering just outside.
Inside, I can hear faint sounds of water running and the soft scrape of the wheelchair wheels against the tiles.
And then, just as I start to relax, I hear a loud crash followed by a sharp intake of breath.
"Alexander!"
The sound of the crash sends my heart into overdrive. Without thinking, I burst into the bathroom, all worry and instinct. What if he slips and falls in the shower? What if he hits his head and gets seriously injured?
No, no, no!
"Alexander, are you okay?" I blurt out, freezing the moment I take in the scene.
Steam billows from the shower, swirling around the room. Alexander stands tall, his back to me, gripping a grab bar for support. The wheelchair lies on its side, a casualty of some misstep. His shirt is gone, only boxers covering his lower half.
The water cascades over his muscular shoulders, tracing every curve of his toned back.
My face burns hotter than the steam. I shouldn’t be here.
"I’m so sorry!" I stammer, rushing to the wheelchair without looking directly at him. My hands tremble as I grip its handles, and I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears.
Alexander doesn’t move, but I know he detected me. He’s frozen, too, his knuckles white as they grip the bar.
