Fay had spent the first two days believing Dominic Corso wanted her gone.

On the third morning, she began to wonder whether he wanted something much more frightening.

Trust.

“You want me to transfer you?”

Dominic said nothing.

Morning sunlight spread across his bed, illuminating his white shirt, dark hair, and the tattoos disappearing beneath one sleeve.

Fay glanced toward the hallway.

“Carmine is downstairs.”

“I know.”

“He normally helps.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why me?”

Dominic's jaw tightened.

“Because I asked you.”

“That isn't an explanation.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Does everybody who works for me argue this much?”

“I wouldn't know. They keep quitting.”

For a second, Dominic almost smiled.

Almost.

Then his expression closed again.

“If you’re afraid, get Carmine.”

There it was.

The test.

Fay recognized it immediately.

He wanted either obedience or fear.

She gave him neither.

“I’m not afraid. I’m trying not to drop you.”

“Comforting.”

She moved beside the bed.

“Tell me how Carmine does it.”

Dominic explained the transfer in clipped sentences. Position the wheelchair. Lock the brakes. Let him use his upper-body strength. Support his torso, not his legs. Don't jerk. Don't treat him like glass.

Especially the last part.

Fay moved the chair into place.

When Dominic pushed himself upright, the effort tightened every muscle in his arms.

For the first time, she understood how much strength he used merely to perform tasks others completed without thinking.

She placed an arm beneath his.

“Ready?”

“No.”

She waited.

Dominic looked up.

“Why aren't you moving?”

“You said no.”

His mouth twitched.

“Fine. Ready.”

Fay helped him shift.

His arm came around her shoulder.

For one second their bodies were close in the warm morning light, exactly as they had been during yesterday's spasm, except this time Dominic wasn't distracted by pain.

Neither was Fay.

She became suddenly aware of everything.

The warmth of him.

The scent of clean soap.

The strength in his shoulders.

His breath near her temple.

Dominic seemed equally aware.

His gaze dropped toward her.

Fay nearly lost concentration.

“Chair,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

Together they completed the transfer.

Dominic settled into the wheelchair.

Fay stepped back too quickly.

“You're blushing.”

“I’m warm.”

“The room is sixty-eight degrees.”

“You're annoying.”

“That hasn't changed.”

For the first time, Dominic Corso smiled.

It was brief.

But it transformed his face.

Fay stared before catching herself.

His smile disappeared.

“Breakfast.”

She turned away.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Then stop issuing royal decrees.”

Something shifted between them.

Not affection.

Not yet.

But the room felt less like a battlefield.

Downstairs, Carmine looked surprised when Fay returned.

“You survived.”

“He made me transfer him.”

Carmine stopped drinking coffee.

“He what?”

“You heard me.”

Mrs. Gable looked over from the pantry.

“Mr. Corso hasn't allowed anyone except Carmine and his physical therapist to do that.”

Fay shrugged.

“He survived too.”

Carmine studied her.

“You don't understand.”

“Apparently not.”

“He doesn't trust people touching him.”

Fay remembered Dominic's face during the transfer.

For one strange moment, there had been something in his eyes that looked less like anger and more like shame.

“I don't think he trusted me,” she said quietly.

Carmine answered just as quietly.

“Dominic doesn't test people he considers irrelevant.”

That sentence followed Fay for the rest of the morning.

At noon, she cleaned the library.

At one, she polished a sideboard worth enough to solve every financial problem she had ever experienced.

At two, her landlord called.

She stepped into a service corridor.

“Mr. Benson.”

“Friday means Friday.”

“I know.”

“I’ve given you six weeks.”

“I know.”

“No more stories, Fay.”

Her fingers tightened around the phone.

“I’ll have it.”

“You better.”

The call ended.

“Trouble?”

She turned.

Dominic sat at the end of the corridor.

Fay hadn't heard the wheelchair.

“No.”

“You're a terrible liar.”

“And you're listening to private conversations.”

“My house.”

“My phone.”

He rolled closer.

“How much?”

Fay's embarrassment turned to anger.

“Excuse me?”

“Your rent.”

“No.”

Dominic's brows drew together.

“No?”

“You don't get to solve everything by writing checks.”

“I wasn't offering.”

“Good.”

“I was asking.”

“Still no.”

He studied her.

“You told me yesterday.”

“I told you enough.”

She walked around him.

Dominic caught her wrist.

Not hard.

Just enough to stop her.

The contact shocked both of them.

His hand released immediately.

“Fay.”

She turned.

He looked uncomfortable.

That alone was remarkable.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Yesterday.”

She knew what he meant.

The spasm.

“You don't have to thank me.”

“I wasn't finished.”

“Oh.”

“And this morning.”

Fay's expression softened.

“You're welcome.”

She started walking away again.

“Fay.”

She looked back.

Dominic's eyes held hers.

“Today is day three.”

“I noticed.”

“You're still here.”

“So are you.”

For some reason, neither of them laughed.

That afternoon, Dominic requested lunch downstairs.

Mrs. Gable nearly dropped a serving spoon.

“He hasn't eaten in the dining room since the accident.”

Fay carried his meal anyway.

Dominic sat at the long mahogany table facing windows overlooking the garden.

Fay placed soup beside him.

“You opened these curtains too?”

“No.”

“Then somebody's becoming rebellious.”

Dominic looked toward the sunlight.

“The darkness was getting boring.”

Fay hid a smile.

That evening she prepared to leave at six.

Mrs. Gable approached.

“Your envelope.”

Fay opened it.

There was far too much money inside.

She counted again.

“This is wrong.”

“No.”

“This is more than my hours.”

“Mr. Corso authorized a week's advance.”

Fay froze.

“Why?”

Mrs. Gable gave her a look suggesting the answer was obvious.

Fay climbed three flights of stairs with the envelope in her fist.

Dominic was at his desk.

He didn't look up.

“No.”

He continued reading.

“No what?”

Fay dropped the envelope onto the desk.

“I didn't ask for this.”

“You earned it.”

“I worked three days.”

“You survived three days. Apparently that's a premium position.”

“I don't want charity.”

His gaze lifted.

“Neither do I.”

“Then take it back.”

“No.”

“Dominic.”

It was the first time she had used his first name.

Silence filled the room.

His expression changed.

Fay noticed.

So did he.

He leaned backward.

“You need money.”

“That doesn't mean I want yours.”

“You work for me.”

“I want exactly what I earned.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't want to owe you anything.”

Something cold crossed his face.

“Everyone owes someone.”

“I don't.”

“You owe your landlord.”

Fay flinched.

Dominic immediately regretted the sentence.

She picked up the envelope.

“I’ll take my actual wages.”

“Fay—”

She pulled out the correct amount and placed everything else on his desk.

“I’ll be here tomorrow at six.”

“You could be homeless by Friday.”

She reached the door.

“Yes.”

“Then take the money.”

“No.”

His temper rose.

“Why are you being ridiculous?”

She turned.

“Because being poor doesn't mean I’m for sale.”

Dominic became completely still.

Fay's eyes glistened, but her voice remained steady.

“I know people like you probably think money can remove every uncomfortable thing from a room. But I need a job. Not a savior.”

Then she left.

Dominic stared at the envelope.

Nobody rejected his money.

Nobody rejected his help.

Nobody rejected him.

Yet instead of anger, he felt something dangerously close to respect.

The next morning, Fay arrived at 5:59.

Carmine stood beside the kitchen door.

“Congratulations.”

“For?”

“You officially broke the record.”

Fay tied her apron.

“Do I win something?”

Carmine pointed upstairs.

“The boss asked for breakfast at seven.”

“So?”

“In the dining room.”

Fay smiled despite herself.

When she carried coffee into the dining room, Dominic was already waiting.

The curtains were open.

All of them.

Morning poured through the windows.

Fay placed his cup down.

Dominic looked at her.

“I cancelled the advance.”

“Thank you.”

“I also changed your pay structure.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing unreasonable.”

“That sentence has never comforted anyone.”

“You’re now officially my personal household aide. Higher hourly rate. Same duties.”

“Why?”

“Because you do more.”

She considered the answer.

It was fair.

“Fine.”

Dominic nodded toward the chair across from him.

“Sit.”

“I’m working.”

“Five minutes.”

“Why?”

His face returned to its unreadable stillness.

“Because I want to ask you something.”

Fay slowly sat.

Dominic folded his hands.

“Why aren't you afraid of me?”

It was the same question he had nearly asked since the moment she arrived.

Fay looked toward the sunlight.

Then back at him.

“I have bigger things to fear.”

“Such as?”

“Being hungry.”

His expression softened.

“Losing my home.”

He said nothing.

“Becoming somebody who thinks pain gives them permission to hurt everyone around them.”

That one landed.

Dominic looked away.

Fay stood.

“I’ll bring lunch at noon.”

She walked toward the door.

Behind her, Dominic said, “Fay.”

She stopped.

“When you look at me, what do you see?”

The question surprised her.

She considered lying.

Instead she said, “A man who wants everyone to believe he's already dead.”

Dominic's jaw tightened.

“And?”

Fay glanced back.

“I don't believe you.”

Then she left.

Dominic remained beside the sunlit window long after breakfast went cold.

For six months, everyone had adjusted to his darkness.

The doctors.

His employees.

His enemies.

Even his friends.

Only Fay Willis had walked into the room and opened the curtains.

And somehow, without intending to, she had begun opening something else.

---