"Everyone expected Nico to defend himself after Camille struck him, but instead, his quiet nurse stopped the next slap—and exposed a secret that could destroy him.

"Again," Adeline repeated, standing beside the padded rehabilitation mat in the east wing's sunroom.

Nico’s breathing was heavy, his brow glistening with sweat as he dragged his right leg three inches across the leather mat. His arm muscles trembled violently with the exertion, the strain visible in the white-knuckled grip he maintained on the wooden balance bars.

"It's not moving today, Nurse Marsh," Nico grunted through clenched teeth, his voice laced with frustration. He slammed his fist against his numb thigh. "It's a dead piece of meat."

"It shifted three inches," Adeline said calmly, adjusting the clipboard in her hands without looking up. "Yesterday it was two. Stop insulting your nervous system and give me ten more seconds of sustained tension."

Nico glared up at her from the mat. His dark eyes, usually cold and unreadable, held a spark of genuine anger. Most people flinched when he looked at them like that—especially since his family's reputation preceded him in every hallway of this estate. But Adeline merely stepped closer, checking the pulse in his wrist with cool, professional precision.

"You're bossy for someone whose paycheck depends on my satisfaction," he muttered, though he re-engaged the effort, his jaw locking as he pushed through the nerve pain burning in his lower back.

"My paycheck depends on your recovery," Adeline corrected him softly. "And right now, your heart rate is eighty-two. That means you have plenty of energy left to complain."

Nico let out a harsh, bitter laugh—a rare sound in a house where people walked on eggshells. He relaxed his grip, collapsing back against the mat with an exhausted sigh. He stared up at the high decorative ceiling, his chest heaving.

"Why did you really take this job, Adeline?" he asked quietly, the professional distance between them momentarily slipping. "The last three nurses lasted two weeks each. One left crying, one tried to sell photos of my medical records to a local tabloid, and the third was terrified I’d have my men throw her in the river."

"I have a younger brother," Adeline replied truthfully, stepping away to pour a glass of water from the bedside carafe. "He needs a cardiac procedure. This position pays enough to cover his medical debt and guarantees health coverage."

Nico turned his head, watching her as she handed him the glass. His fingers brushed hers briefly—a touch that sent a strange, static charge through the quiet room. "So you're here for money."

"I'm here for a life," she corrected gently. "Yours and his."

Nico drank the water in silence. For a second, the harsh lines around his mouth softened. He handed the glass back to her, but before he could speak, the double doors of the sunroom clicked open.

Camille Ashcroft glided into the room. She wore a tailored cream-colored silk suit, her blonde hair arranged in flawless waves, smelling of expensive white lilies and heavy gold perfume. Her high heels clicked sharp and fast against the parquet floor.

"Nico, darling," Camille drawled, hardly glancing at Adeline as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. Nico didn't lean into the kiss, nor did he pull away; he simply endured it like a routine procedure. "You're spending far too much time in this dreary room. The caterers for our engagement party are downstairs, and your cousin Marcus is demanding to see the signed consent forms for the shipping expansion."

"Marcus can wait," Nico said calmly, rolling himself up into a seated position. "And the party is seventeen days away. Edna is handling the caterers."

"Marcus is acting on behalf of the board, Nico," Camille said, her voice dropping into a tone of sweet, patronizing patience that made Adeline's skin crawl. "You know how delicate things are right now. People are nervous. They see you tucked away in this wing, reliant on..." She cast a dismissive side-glance at Adeline. "...hired help, and they wonder if you're capable of managing the family's assets."

"I am the head of the Alfieri estate, Camille," Nico stated, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying register that reminded everyone in the house who he was before the crash. "My legs may not work, but my brain functions fine."

Camille smiled, though her eyes remained icy cold. "Of course it does, sweetheart. That's why I'm here—to lighten the burden." She turned to Adeline, her expression shifting instantly into one of haughty authority. "Nurse Marsh, bring his afternoon injection now. He looks exhausted, and I want him rested before Marcus arrives."

Adeline paused near the medical cart. "Mr. Alfieri's afternoon regimen isn't scheduled for another hour, Miss Ashcroft. And his nerve-stimulation medication shouldn't be administered right after physical exertion."

Camille’s smile vanished. "I didn't ask for a lecture on schedule management, Nurse. I asked for his medication. I am his fiancée, and very soon, I will be directing this household."

Nico looked between them, his eyebrows pulling together. "Adeline is in charge of my medical schedule, Camille. Let it be."

"Fine," Camille spat, looking annoyed. "I'll be in the study with Marcus. Don't be late for the meeting, Nico."

She turned on her heel and swept out of the sunroom, leaving behind the heavy scent of her perfume and a tense, suffocating silence.

Adeline stood by the cart, her heart hammering against her ribs. She glanced down at the locked steel box containing Nico's prescription vials. For the past four days, she had noticed subtle discrepancies in his charts. His muscle tremors were supposed to be improving with the new nerve-regeneration therapy prescribed by his family's private physician, Dr. Sterling. Instead, every time he received the afternoon injection, his lethargy spiked, his blood pressure plunged, and his lower extremities went completely cold.

When Nico left the sunroom fifteen minutes later to meet his cousin in the library, Adeline locked the door behind her.

Her hands trembled as she pulled a key from her pocket, unlocked the medication cabinet, and extracted the glass vial labeled Neuro-Plex 500mg.

She pulled a sterile syringe from its paper wrapping, drew half a milliliter of the clear liquid from the vial, and carefully squirted it into a small plastic specimen cup.

Adeline was not just a nurse; before her brother’s illness forced her to drop out, she had completed three years of a pharmacology degree at Northwestern. She knew what nerve-stimulants looked like under basic field tests.

She opened her personal medical kit, pulling out a small chemical testing reagent she had brought from home. She dropped two drops of the solution into the clear liquid.

If it was Neuro-Plex, the liquid would turn a faint, translucent blue.

Adeline waited, holding her breath as the clock on the wall ticked loudly.

One second. Three seconds. Five seconds.

The liquid didn't turn blue. It turned a dark, murky brown—the clear chemical signature of a heavy sedative blended with a muscle-paralyzing agent designed to suppress spinal nerve recovery.