Chapter 1 - 1
“You’re too small.”
Massimo Pascale said it as soon as I stepped into his mansion. Behind me, an armed guard lowered his eyes, as if he expected me to apologize—or run.
I did neither.
“And you’re too rude.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch across the marble foyer. Somewhere beyond the windows, water trickled through a garden fountain. Inside, no one moved.
Massimo sat in a wheelchair beside a wall of glass, the afternoon light cutting across his sharp features. He looked every bit as imposing as the rumors: broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and accustomed to people doing exactly what he wanted. His eyes traveled over me, taking in my height, my plain black work clothes, and the medical bag in my hand.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “You’re the patient I’m here to help.”
The guard behind me shifted his weight. I could feel his warning without looking back: Be careful.
Massimo’s mouth tightened. “Three nurses have already walked out.”
“Then perhaps you should consider why.”
For a moment, I wondered if I’d just ended my interview—and my chance to pay my overdue tuition. His stare was cold enough to make the room feel smaller.
Then he laughed.
It was brief and rough around the edges, as if the sound had surprised him too. The guard looked startled. I kept my expression steady.
“You’re not afraid of me?” Massimo asked.
“I’m more concerned about whether you’ll cooperate with your treatment.”
The humor disappeared from his face. “Everyone in this house follows my orders.”
I set my medical bag on the table between us. “Your employees can obey you. Your guards can protect you. But neither can force your nervous system to recover.”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.
That was the first thing I noticed about Massimo Pascale that didn’t fit the rumors. For all his power, he seemed to be waiting—not for permission to speak, but for someone to tell him the truth.
“Rehabilitation takes patience, consistency, and trust,” I said. “I can’t promise you’ll walk again. Nobody honest can. I can promise I’ll do everything medically appropriate to help you reach your potential.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you’re paying fifty thousand dollars for someone to watch you waste an opportunity.”
The guard looked genuinely horrified. I wondered if he expected Massimo to have me thrown out—or worse.
Instead, Massimo turned his head toward him.
“Close the door.”
The heavy wooden door shut with a muted thud.
My stomach tightened. I reminded myself that I was a rehabilitation specialist, not a guest at a family dinner. Still, the cameras, the guards, and the rumors about the Pascales made it difficult to forget whose house I was standing in.
Massimo glanced at the contract on his desk. “Miss Fitzgerald, I think we need to establish some rules.”
“Good,” I said. “I have a few of my own.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite anger. Not amusement, either. Something harder to name.
I’d taken the job because I was running out of choices. Three overdue tuition payments. Fourteen days to settle them, or I’d lose my place in the doctoral program I’d spent eight years working toward. Fifty thousand dollars for three months of care could keep that from happening.
But money wasn’t the only reason I’d said yes. The contract guaranteed my payment whether Massimo walked again or not. His doctors believed further recovery might be possible, but no one could say how much. I wanted to believe that a careful, consistent program could give him a chance.
I also knew why the position had opened so quickly. Camila had warned me: three nurses had already quit. Massimo didn’t tolerate being challenged. Nobody told him no.
I was beginning to understand that the job wasn’t simply about his legs.
He leaned toward the contract. As he reached for it, his right hand trembled.
The movement was small—so quick he might have hoped I wouldn’t notice. He tucked the hand beneath the armrest.
But I’d seen it.
“Does that happen often?” I asked.
His gaze snapped to mine. “Does what?”
“Your hand.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
The guard near the door went perfectly still. Massimo’s expression hardened, and the room seemed to wait for his response.
I kept my eyes on his face. A tremor could mean many things. I wasn’t going to guess at a cause without an assessment, and I wasn’t going to pretend I hadn’t noticed.
“Miss Fitzgerald,” he said quietly, “you’ve been here five minutes.”
“And you’ve already hidden a symptom from the person you hired to help you.”
His jaw tightened. For a second, I thought he might tell me to leave.
Instead, he studied me as though he were trying to decide what I wanted from him—and whether I could be trusted with the answer.
That was when I understood the real question behind his rules.
Massimo Pascale might not be testing whether I feared him. He might be testing whether I would abandon him like everyone else.
I looked at the contract, then back at the man who could make an entire room fall silent with a word.
“If we’re setting rules,” I said, “mine come first: no threats, no hiding symptoms, and no pretending the work will be easy.”
His eyes held mine.
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Then you can find a fourth nurse.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us spoke. Then his trembling hand emerged from beneath the armrest and moved toward the contract.
May you like
I couldn’t tell whether he was about to sign it—or tear it in half.
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