The limousine pulled up in front of the most extravagant hotel she had ever seen. Its towering glass walls shimmered under the city lights, a palace built for the elite. The entrance alone was intimidating—gold-trimmed doors, marble floors polished to a mirror's sheen, and doormen in pristine suits standing at attention.
She took a deep breath, clutching the strap of her worn leather bag. This was it. The moment she had been called upon to repay a lifetime of debts.
Her employers—no, her benefactors—had made the call this morning. "We need you to take care of our nephew," they had said. "You just got your RN license, didn't you? It's the perfect opportunity."
Perfect for them.
She knew what this was. Disguised as a favor. A demand. A quiet reminder that everything she had—the clothes on her back, the food on her plate, the education she received—had come from them. And now, it was time to pay her dues.
"Take care of him for as long as necessary. We'll continue taking care of your siblings."
The message had been clear. If she wanted her younger siblings to stay safe, to keep the comfortable life she had fought so hard to give them, she would do this. No questions. No hesitation.
Now, standing at the entrance of The Aureum, a hotel dripping with wealth and secrets, she swallowed hard.
A private nurse. That was her role.
To a man she had never met.
She stepped forward, heels clicking against marble, head held high. If this was a game, she would play it well.
After all, she had no other choice.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a hallway far too quiet for such a grand place. The air smelled of expensive cologne and freshly polished wood, a suffocating kind of luxury. She followed the housekeeper, her heartbeat a steady drum in her chest.
The penthouse was at the very top, isolated from the rest of the world. A place where time seemed to stand still.
"This way," the housekeeper murmured, pushing open the double doors.
The space inside was breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city skyline, modern furniture bathed in golden hues from the setting sun, and silence so thick it pressed against her skin.
And then, she saw him.
A man sat near the glass wall, his figure sharp against the light. He was motionless, his broad shoulders tense beneath a crisp button-down. The wheelchair beneath him was sleek, custom-built, an extension of his body.
Three years. That's how long he had been like this.
Whispers followed his name wherever it was spoken. She knows him cause who wouldn't? That day of his accident, when his car lost control, became a media sensation. The heir of . Rumors flying around said that the accident had been his fault, reckless and wild, as all powerful men believed they were invincible. Others hinted at something darker.
All she knew was that she was here to care for him.
He turned his head slightly, acknowledging her presence but saying nothing. His eyes, cold and unreadable, flickered over her. Assessing. Judging.
"Welcome to your new prison," he murmured, voice low and edged with something she couldn't quite place. Something dangerous.
If she had expected a frail, broken man, she had been wrong.
He was not frail. Cause even sitting in his wheelchair, he was a force.
Dark hair, thick and slightly tousled, framed a face carved from something unfairly perfect—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips that looked like they could command and ruin in equal measure. And his eyes—a piercing green that reminded her of emerald fire. Cold. Unforgiving.
His shirt stretched across a broad, sculpted chest, the kind only a man who had once lived in a gym could possess. His arms were powerful, his shoulders wide. If he stood—if—he would be tall. Intimidatingly so. But the wheelchair was a brutal reminder that he hadn't stood in three years.
And yet, despite that, he radiated control.
"You don't need to do much," the housekeeper had whispered before leaving her alone with him. "He won't let you."
She was starting to understand what that meant.
The job itself was easy—on paper. He had no intention of being helped.
Not when transferring to bed. Not when shifting into a different chair. Not even when reaching for something just out of his grasp.
She had barely introduced herself when he rolled past her, moving through his space with an effortless kind of dominance. His every movement, every breath, was laced with restrained power, as if he refused to acknowledge that his legs no longer answered to him.
She had been trained for this. She had worked in hospitals, cared for patients who needed help to do even the most basic tasks. But he wasn't like them.
He refused weakness.
Refused her.
"Let me know if you need anything," she finally said, trying to keep her voice steady.
He scoffed, low and bitter. "I won't."
And with that, he wheeled himself away, disappearing into his room.