Victor's POV
The nightmare always ended the same way.
Metal twisting. Glass shattering. Her scream cutting off mid-breath.
Then, silence.
I jolted awake, my heart slamming against my ribs, sheets soaked with sweat. For a moment I couldn't remember where I was…the room was unfamiliar in the predawn darkness. Then the pain in my back reminded me. The wheelchair beside the bed reminded me.
Everything reminded me.
I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars, trying to erase images that had been burned into my brain five years ago. It never worked. The accident lived in my mind like a parasite, feeding on whatever was left of me.
I dropped my hands and stared at the ceiling, waiting for my breathing to slow.
This room…the one I'd had Jenkins prepare downstairs…was nothing like the master bedroom. That room upstairs still held her clothes in the closet, her perfume on the dresser, the indent of her head still visible on her pillow because I couldn't bring myself to change the sheets.
I'd moved down here since after the accident. Told myself it was practical...closer to my study, everything accessible. The truth was simpler, I was running from ghosts.
My arms trembled as I hauled myself upright. The wheelchair waited beside the bed, polished to a mirror shine by Jenkins. As if making it gleam could make it less of an insult.
I gripped the armrests and pulled myself in, biting down against the lance of pain through my spine. My palm pressed into the leather. Five years and I still wasn't used to it. Five years and I still woke up reaching for legs that no longer worked.
It should have been me.
The thought came automatically, like breathing. If I'd been paying attention. If I hadn't confronted her. If I'd just let it go…
The accident had ripped the world into before and after. Before was feeling alive, feeling dominant. After was this hollow ache, this constant, punishing guilt for Sharon, and the secret of what I'd found out that night. Her betrayal hadn't softened the guilt, it had just twisted it into a colder knot.
I should have been mourning the woman I loved, but I was instead mourning the control I'd lost and the obsession I could no longer satisfy.
I slammed my fist against the armrest, the sound echoing in the empty room.
She was gone because of me. And I was left here, half a man in every sense that mattered, rattling around in a house too large and too full of her memories.
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Hawthorne? Are you awake, sir?"
Jenkins. Always punctual. Always proper. The last person who hadn't abandoned me.
"Yes, Jenkins," I said, my voice rough. "I'll be out shortly."
Getting ready was an exercise in humiliation that I'd learned to perform with smoothly.
I wheeled myself into the bathroom. Splashed cold water on my face. Reached for a towel and wiped myself down, the closest thing to a shower I could manage these days without help, and I'd be damned before I asked Jenkins for that.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror and looked away immediately.
Where was Victor Hawthorne, the man who'd graced magazine covers? The man who'd built an empire from nothing? The man who could make or break fortunes with a single phone call?
Gone. That man died the night of the accident.
I dressed in a black suit...freshly pressed, perfectly tailored. Even in despair, old habits die hard. If I couldn't control my body, I could at least control my appearance.
The hallways stretched endlessly as I wheeled toward the dining room. Polished floors reflected nothing but emptiness. This mansion had twenty rooms. I used maybe five of them now.
Jenkins was already waiting, dressed in his usual butler's attire...crisp white shirt, tailored black jacket, bow tie perfectly tied. A silver tray of breakfast sat on the massive golden table.
"Good morning, Mr. Hawthorne. I trust you slept well?"
We both knew I hadn't.
"Any messages?"
"Mr. Bennett called." Jenkins poured coffee with steady hands. "He said it was urgent."
"I'll take the call in my study."
"Of course, sir." Jenkins paused. "If I may... you should eat something."
Staring at the food…eggs, toast, fruit arranged artfully on bone china. My stomach turned.
"Later," I said. "Bring lunch to the study."
"Of course, sir."
—---
The study was my sanctuary. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with first editions I'd never read. A massive mahogany desk that had cost more than most people's cars. Behind it, a wall of screens displaying stock tickers, news feeds, security cameras.
The room smelled of leather and old paper and the faint medicinal tang of the ointment I rubbed into my useless legs each night.
This was the one room where I still felt like myself. Like Victor Hawthorne, not the broken thing I'd become.
I wheeled to the corner where sunlight pooled through the southern window. On a small table sat a ceramic pot of white gardenias…Sharon's favorite.
I'd ordered them delivered every week for five years. Jenkins thought I didn't know he was the one who changed the water, trimmed the stems, kept them alive. But I knew. I let him think he was doing it in secret because the alternative, admitting I couldn't even care for flowers anymore, was too much.
I reached out and touched one of the blooms, soft as silk against my fingertips.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. The words I said every morning. The words that never brought her back.
The intercom buzzed.
"Mr. Hawthorne? Mr. Bennett is on line one."
I pulled my hand back and wheeled to the desk.
"Bennett. What news?"
Charles Bennett didn't waste time with pleasantries. "It's not good, Victor. The board is getting restless. There's talk of a vote of no confidence."
My hand clenched around the receiver. "They can't do that. I built this company from nothing. It's mine."
"They can, and they will, unless we act." He paused. "They're questioning your ability to lead. They want stability, Victor. A sign that you're... in control."
"In control?" The laugh that escaped me was bitter. "What do they expect? Should I waltz into the next board meeting? I'm in a wheelchair, Charles, not brain dead."
"I know that. But perception is everything. You've been out of the public eye for too long. They need to see you as the Victor Hawthorne they remember...strong, capable, commanding. They need to see you as stable."
I turned my chair to face the window overlooking the grounds. Manicured lawns. Marble fountains. A prison dressed up as paradise.
"What are you suggesting?"
"They want you settled," Charles said carefully. "Married. A strong partnership that signals stability to the board and shareholders."
The word hung in the air like a curse.
Married.
"Have you lost your mind? Who in their right mind would marry me?"
"It doesn't have to be real, Victor. Just convincing enough to satisfy the board. A contract. A business arrangement."
"No." The word came out sharp. "I won't dishonor Sharon's memory by parading some stranger around as my wife."
There was silence on the other end. Then: "Sharon's been gone five years, Victor. And she wouldn't want you to lose everything You've worked so hard to build."
The words hit like a punch. Because they have no idea….no one knew what I had carried in my heart for Five years.
I turned away from the window, my mind racing. A contract marriage. It was insane. Desperate.
"Find someone," I said finally. "Someone desperate enough to agree to this madness."
"I may already have a candidate." Relief crept into Charles's voice. "I'll send you the details shortly. I've scheduled a meeting for 2 PM today."
"Today?"
"We don't have time to waste, Victor."
He hung up before I could protest.
----
I spent the next few hours reviewing financial reports, trying to distract myself from what I'd agreed to. Some desperate woman willing to sell herself for money. The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth, even though I was the one buying.
A file arrived in my email. I opened it without enthusiasm.
Emily Greene. Age 32. Widowed. One dependent child. Currently employed as a caregiver at Riverside Nursing Home. Annual income: $22,000.
I studied the attached photo. Honey-blonde hair pulled back from a face that looked younger than thirty-two. Pretty with brown eyes that held something I couldn't quite name. Not hope, hope was too simple. Something harder. More determined.
Something about her eyes stopped me.
Brown, not blue, but the shape... the way the light caught them in the photograph. There's something about her i can't quite place.
The thought came and went like a ghost. I shook it off. Grief playing tricks again, making me see shadows where there were none.
But the unease lingered, crawling up my spine like ice as I stared at her face.
Perfect, I thought cynically. Desperate enough to agree to this madness.
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.
"Come in," I called, expecting Jenkins with lunch.
The door opened.
But it wasn't Jenkins.
A young woman stood in the doorway, her eyes wide as she took in the study. She was dressed in scrubs, her honey-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that was coming loose on one side. She looked completely out of place in the luxurious surroundings.
Like a sparrow that had accidentally flown into a peacock's cage.
Her gaze landed on me, and I braced myself for the usual reaction. The shock. The pity. The hasty apology and retreat.
But this woman surprised me.
As she stepped fully into the room, the vague unease from the photograph intensified, hitting me with the force of a physical blow. The air around her seemed charged. It was like I was standing on ground that should have been solid but was crumbling underfoot… like nature was trying to tell me to stop.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice uncertain but not weak. "I think I'm lost. I'm Emily Greene. The caregiver?"
Emily Greene.
The name from the file. The woman I was supposed to meet at 2 PM.
"Miss Greene," I said, my voice cold and commanding. "You're late."
She blinked, glancing at her watch. Confusion crossed her face. "I don't..."
"I expect punctuality from my staff," I interrupted. "If you're going to work here, you need to understand that."
Her brows furrowed. Instead of backing down or retreating like most people did when confronted with my temper, she took a step closer. Her voice, when she spoke, was firm.
"With respect, Mr. Hawthorne, I can't be punctual if I'm kept waiting at the gate for twenty minutes while your security confirms my appointment."
I felt something shift in my chest. Surprise, maybe. Or was it respect?
Before I could respond, Jenkins appeared in the doorway, slightly flustered.
"My apologies, sir. Miss Greene arrived on time, but there was confusion about which entrance to use. I didn't realize she'd... wandered."
"I'll take it from here, Jenkins."
Jenkins retreated, closing the door behind him.
I studied the woman standing before me. She held her ground, chin lifted, hands clasped in front of her. Nervous but not cowering.
Most people couldn't meet my eyes anymore. This woman wouldn't look away.
I gestured toward the laptop on the desk, its screen displaying her information.
"Your details," I said. "It says here that you've worked in elder care and nursing homes, yes?"
"Yes, sir," she replied. "Three years at Riverside."
"And yet," I said, folding my arms, "you couldn't manage to find the proper entrance. Curious."
She said nothing, her confusion evident, I couldn't help but wonder... Was this the beginning of my salvation, or the final nail in my coffin?
Only time would tell. But one thing was certain, life in my fancy prison was about to get a lot more interesting