Nicholas said nothing.
Claire moved closer.
“Nicholas, look at me.”
He did.
She lowered her voice.
“You know what recovery has been like.”
“Memory problems.”
“Pain.”
“Confusion.”
“Doctors warned us.”
Hannah interrupted.
“They warned about possible neurological complications.”
Claire snapped:
“Stay out of this.”
Hannah answered:
“No.”
Nicholas almost smiled.
Not because the situation was funny.
Because Hannah’s refusal sounded exactly like it had the first day she arrived.
Direct.
No performance.
Three months earlier, she had walked into his library carrying a nursing bag that cost less than one of Claire’s shoes.
Nicholas remembered the meeting clearly.
At the time, he had already driven away three private nurses.
Not intentionally.
That was what everyone told him.
The first quit after Nicholas shouted at her for moving his chair without asking.
The second lasted nineteen days before informing Walter that she would not tolerate “the emotional environment.”
The third left after Claire accused her of flirting with Nicholas because she adjusted his shirt during a transfer.
Nicholas assumed the fourth would last a week.
Then Hannah appeared.
Walter Bell brought her into the library.
Nicholas sat near the windows overlooking Lake Michigan.
Snow pressed against the glass.
His left leg spasmed intermittently beneath the blanket.
He hated the blanket.
He hated the wheelchair.
He hated the ramps installed through the mansion.
He hated people lowering their voices when speaking to him.
Most of all, he hated pity.
Walter said:
“Nicholas, this is Hannah Reed.”
Nicholas barely looked up.
“How long did the agency say you'll tolerate me?”
Hannah blinked.
“They didn't.”
“Then they lied.”
Walter sighed.
“Nicholas.”
He raised one hand.
“I’m asking.”
Hannah looked directly at him.
“They said the household had difficulty retaining nurses.”
Nicholas smiled faintly.
“Diplomatic.”
“Yes.”
“What did you think that meant?”
“That either you're difficult or everyone around you is.”
Walter actually laughed.
Nicholas finally looked at her properly.
Twenty-eight.
Maybe five-foot-four.
Clear brown eyes.
No fear.
Interesting.
He asked:
“Which do you think it is?”
“I’ve been here four minutes.”
“Guess.”
Hannah looked toward Walter.
Then Claire, who stood near the fireplace scrolling through her phone.
Then back at Nicholas.
“Both.”
Claire lifted her head.
Walter coughed to hide another laugh.
Nicholas stared for three seconds.
Then smiled for the first time that week.
“You may last.”
Hannah did.
At first, Nicholas treated her exactly like the others.
He refused help when he needed it.
Rejected physical therapy recommendations.
Insisted he could transfer alone.
Twice she found him on the floor.
The first time, she rushed toward him.
Nicholas snapped:
“Don't.”
Hannah stopped immediately.
He was sitting beside the bed, furious, one hand gripping the mattress.
She asked:
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Head?”
“No.”
“Shoulder?”
“No.”
“Hip?”
“I said no.”
Hannah nodded.
“Okay.”
Then she sat on the floor six feet away.
Nicholas glared.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to decide whether you'd rather stay on the floor all night or let me help.”
He stared.
“You're irritating.”
“I’ve been told.”
“I could fire you.”
“Yes.”
“You don't care?”
“I need the job.”
That answer surprised him.
Most people around Nicholas pretended money meant nothing.
Hannah did not.
She continued:
“But needing the job doesn't make the floor magically comfortable.”
Nicholas looked away.
Five minutes later, he said:
“Fine.”