The next morning, a black Bentley purred at the curb in front of the Hayes house.
Faye walked out carrying a single, worn canvas duffel bag. It held everything she owned.
From a second‑story window, she felt Susan and Chloe watching her, their contempt a palpable weight. She didn't look up.
A man in a crisp tuxedo, his hair a distinguished silver, stepped out of the car and opened the rear door. "Miss Hayes. I am Claude Hale, the Sinclair family's butler."
His gaze flickered over her simple dress and the shabby bag—a fraction of a second, nothing more—then he looked away.
"Thank you," she said, sliding onto the plush leather seat. The car smelled of wealth and polish, a stark contrast to her faded bag.
The car pulled away. Claude said nothing, and the silence stretched.
Faye stared out the window. Julian Sinclair III. A prodigy in business. A car accident three years ago left him paralyzed from the waist down. His personality had reportedly become volatile, reclusive, cruel.
The Bentley passed through massive iron gates, and the Sinclair estate unfolded. The main house was a Victorian Gothic mansion, a sprawling beast of stone and slate that seemed to absorb the morning light.
Claude led her inside. The foyer was vast and cold, dominated by a grand staircase and shadowed portraits.
He didn't take her to a drawing‑room. He led her straight up the stairs. "Mr. Sinclair is waiting in his room."
The staff they passed paused, their eyes following with open curiosity. Their whispers died the moment Claude's gaze fell on them.
He stopped before a pair of large, dark wood doors and knocked once. "Sir, Miss Hayes has arrived."
Faye stepped inside. The room was dark, heavy velvet curtains drawn tight. The air was a sterile mix of antiseptic and old wood.
A man sat in a wheelchair by the window, his back to them. Even seated, his frame was imposing, with broad shoulders and a straight spine.
"Leave us, Claude," Julian said. His voice was like ice cracking.
Claude nodded and retreated, closing the door softly.
Now they were alone. Faye's eyes moved past him to the bed—a hospital bed with rails and a pressure mattress. To the side table, where pill bottles stood in neat rows. To the far wall, where therapy bars were bolted into the plaster. She took it all in without staring.
"How much did they pay you?" Julian asked, turning to face her. "To marry a broken man."
His face was a masterpiece of sharp angles and shadows, but it was pale, and his gray eyes held a flat, distant coldness that hadn't come from the chair alone.
Faye didn't answer. She looked at him—really looked. His shoulders were broad, his frame still imposing, but his legs lay too still, their position too perfect. A man who couldn't move them wouldn't keep them arranged with that much precision. That was the work of habit, of someone else's hands positioning them every day.
She weighed her options. She could play the meek bride, stay silent, observe—but silence bought her nothing in this house. She needed leverage. A foothold. And this man, trapped in his own body, surrounded by enemies he couldn't see, was the one person in this family who might need her more than she needed him. If she gave him something real—something no one else could give—he would owe her. And a man like Julian Sinclair, she suspected, paid his debts.
She crossed the room and knelt before his wheelchair. He raised a hand to wave her away, but her movements were quicker, more precise. Her fingers pressed firmly against the nerve cluster on his thigh, just above the knee. Clinical, impersonal.
"Don't touch me," he snarled, a low growl of fury and violation.
She ignored him, testing nerve clusters, watching his face for any flicker of response.
The entire examination took less than thirty seconds. She stood up, her face giving nothing away.
Julian stared at her, shock warring with rage. She had completely disregarded his authority.
"Your legs," Faye said calmly. "The damage wasn't from the car crash."
Julian went very still. The air between them seemed to thicken.
Faye pushed her glasses up. "The crash was a cover. What's keeping you in this chair is your nervous system."
She met his furious gaze without flinching.
"Someone," she said, each word placed with care, "poisoned you."
