The servants reluctantly carried Annette's luggage to the West Wing. They whispered nervously as they crossed the threshold, eyeing the shadows as if monsters lived there.
"It's so creepy," one maid whispered. "I heard he talks to himself."
Annette snapped. "He is your master now. Show respect."
Dereck, sitting in his room with the door ajar, heard her defense. He paused, surprised.
Annette entered the Master Bedroom. It was masculine, painted in shades of grey and charcoal. It was cold.
There was only one large bed.
Annette stopped. She looked at the bed, then at the wheelchair.
"I can sleep on the couch," she offered quickly.
"No need," Dereck said, maneuvering his chair toward the bathroom. "I don't bite."
Annette unpacked her silk pajamas, feeling incredibly out of place. She dismissed the maids, Chloe and Sarah, wanting privacy.
Dinner was served on a tray. They ate in silence. The only sound was the clinking of silverware.
Annette watched Dereck eat. His hands were elegant, strong.
"So," she said, trying to break the tension. "Do you have... needs?"
Dereck choked on his water. He coughed, looking at her with disbelief.
"I'm paralyzed, Annette. Not dead," he lied smoothly. "But... everything down there is offline."
"Good to know," she nodded, marking "impotence" off her mental list. It made things simpler. Safer.
Dereck went to the bathroom to "prepare for bed." In reality, he checked his secure comms device hidden behind the mirror. A message from The President: "Status?" Dereck replied: "Asset secured. Marriage cover active."
He came out wearing simple sleep pants. He wasn't wearing a shirt.
Annette stared.
His torso was covered in scars. Not surgical scars. Ragged, ugly scars. Burn marks. Slash marks. Bullet wounds.
"The aftermath of the accident was... extensive," Dereck explained quickly, seeing her gaze. "Multiple procedures." He let his voice take on a weary, pained edge, and she immediately pictured a dozen botched surgeries, of scalpels slipping and infections setting in. The image was more horrifying than the truth.
He wheeled to the side of the bed. He grabbed the overhead bar-installed for the "invalid"-and lifted himself onto the mattress. His arms bulged with effort, veins popping. He let out a sharp, controlled breath as he landed on the mattress, and a thin sheen of sweat appeared on his brow, as if the effort had cost him dearly.
He settled in. Before reaching for the light, he leaned over to his discarded tuxedo jacket, retrieved a heavy, metallic object she couldn't quite see in the dimness, and placed it in the drawer of his nightstand. She heard the distinct click of a lock.
"Lights out," he said.
He turned off the lamp. Darkness enveloped them.
Annette lay on the far edge of the bed, stiff as a board. She listened to his breathing. It was slow, controlled.
She relaxed. He's harmless, she told herself. He's just a broken man.
She drifted off to sleep, exhausted by the time travel and the trauma of the day.
In the dark, Dereck opened his eyes. They were alert, predatory. He turned his head to look at her sleeping form.
"You have no idea what you walked into, Mrs. Bolton," he thought.
