The only sound in the room was the soft, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. Julian stared at Faye, his gray eyes cold and hard, searching for any crack in her composure.
A full minute passed. He said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy with intent—he was testing her, waiting for her to flinch.
Faye held his gaze without moving. Her stillness seemed to unsettle him more than any protest would have.
"What makes you say that?" Julian's voice dropped low. "The best doctors in the world examined me. The diagnosis was severe spinal nerve trauma. Irreversible."
Faye walked to his desk. She picked up a pen and a sheet of paper and began to sketch—a rapid, precise diagram of the human nervous system, annotated with complex medical terms. She worked without hesitation, the lines clean and certain.
"They saw the result," she said, sliding the paper toward him. "I see the cause. The spinal injury exists, but it's not severe enough to cause total paralysis. Think of it as a lock. Someone turned it with a specific neurotoxin."
Julian's gaze dropped to the diagram. His jaw tightened. He reached out and pressed a button on the armrest of his wheelchair. A series of faint clicks sounded from different corners of the room as hidden microphones powered down.
"We're secure now," Julian said. "What's your angle? Did the Hayes family send you here to spin fantasies?"
Faye shook her head. "The Hayes family wanted me married to you. I, on the other hand, want to make a deal."
His laugh was short and harsh. "A deal? What could you possibly have to offer me?"
She looked him in the eye, her voice steady. "I can cure you."
Julian's breath caught. The word hung in the air—cure. He hadn't heard it in three years. The hope that flickered in his chest was immediately crushed by suspicion.
"Why should I believe you? A girl from the countryside, a pawn in a family merger."
"Because I'm the only one who's told you the truth," Faye said. "And because you have no other options. You can sit in this chair until your muscles waste away, or you can take a chance on me."
She leaned in slightly. "My terms are simple. While I treat you, you guarantee my safety and give me complete autonomy. In return, I'll get you back on your feet—and I'll help you find the person who did this to you."
Julian's fingers began to tap a restless rhythm on the armrest. A risk. A wild, insane risk. But walking again. Finding his betrayer. The temptation was too sharp to dismiss.
"I need proof," he said finally. "Proof that you're not just selling snake oil."
"Of course." Faye seemed to have expected this. "I'll need a set of acupuncture needles and some herbs. Tonight, I can give you the first sign that this is real."
Julian studied her for a long moment. "Give the list to Claude."
It wasn't an agreement. But it was a start.
Faye nodded and turned back to the desk. She wrote quickly, the names of the herbs flowing from her pen—obscure, specific, no hesitation.
As Julian watched her, one thing became certain: this woman was no simple country girl.
She finished and turned to hand him the list.
The bedroom door burst open with a bang.
"Julian, how dare you be alone with this woman of unknown origin!"
A young woman in designer clothes stormed in, radiating hostility. Julian's adopted sister, Catherine Sinclair. Behind her, two large bodyguards stood menacingly.
She snatched the list from Faye's hand, glanced at it, and tore it to shreds with a contemptuous sneer. "Herbs? Needles? What is this witchcraft? What are you trying to do to my brother, you backwoods fraud!"
The pieces of paper fluttered to the floor.
