The first rule Mᴀssimo Pascale gave me was simple.

“Never touch me without permission.”

The second was even stranger.

“Never ask what happened the night I lost the ability to walk.”

I looked at him across his enormous office.

“Fine. But I have one rule, too.”

His dark eyebrows lifted.

“You’re making rules in my house?”

“Yes. And if you want me to help you, you’ll follow them.”

He stared at me for several seconds before giving a humorless smile.

“You’re either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, Miss Fitzgerald.”

“People have called me both.”

For the first time, the corner of his mouth moved.

I opened my medical bag and began reviewing his latest neurological ᴀssessments.

The reports were complicated. His spinal injury had affected movement and sensation in both legs. There were signs of residual neurological function, but his recovery had stalled.

What concerned me most wasn’t the injury itself.

It was the inconsistency between his medical records and his actual condition.

His previous therapists had documented several episodes of involuntary muscle activation. Yet the notes from his latest physician described almost no meaningful progress.

“Who conducted your last neurological ᴀssessment?”

“Dr. Bennett.”

“When?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“And he hasn’t examined you since?”

Mᴀssimo’s expression darkened.

“Are you questioning my medical team?”

“I’m questioning why your records don’t match what I’m observing.”

He leaned forward.

“Be careful.”

I met his eyes.

“That’s what I’m trying to do. Be careful with your recovery.”

He said nothing.

I continued examining his reflexes and sensation, carefully explaining each movement before proceeding.

Then I noticed his right hand trembling again.

“Does that happen frequently?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

His eyes sharpened.

“Excuse me?”

“Your hand is shaking. Your breathing changes whenever I ask about your injury, and your shoulder muscles are unusually tense. Something is causing you discomfort.”

He looked toward the window.

“Continue your examination.”

I did.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mᴀssimo was hiding something much bigger than pain.

My first rehabilitation session was a disaster.

Mᴀssimo refused to cooperate.

He rejected the positioning exercises, dismissed the breathing techniques, and nearly threw a towel across the room when I suggested beginning with ᴀssisted mobility.

“You’re wasting my time.”

I put down my clipboard.

“Then we’re finished for today.”

His head snapped toward me.

“What?”

“You heard me. Rehabilitation isn’t something I can force you to do.”

He looked genuinely offended.

“Do you know how much I’m paying you?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“Exactly.”

“And you’re getting your money’s worth. I’m not going to pretend that shouting at me is a treatment plan.”

His personal bodyguard, a mountain of a man named Victor, suddenly became fascinated with the carpet.

Mᴀssimo stared at me.

Then he said something I hadn’t expected.

“Everyone leaves when they discover I’m no longer useful.”

My expression softened.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

I glanced at the tuition notice sticking out of my handbag.

“Because I need the money. And because helping people regain their independence is what I’ve spent eight years learning to do.”

He looked at me for a long time.

“At least you’re honest.”

“I expect the same from you.”

He finally agreed to continue.

We spent another forty minutes working through a carefully modified rehabilitation session.

There were no miracles.

No dramatic movements.

Just small adjustments, controlled breathing, and a man who was clearly furious that his body no longer obeyed him.

But something changed before I left.

For the first time, Mᴀssimo thanked me.

Quietly.

Almost as if the word hurt.

Three weeks pᴀssed.

I learned that Mᴀssimo hated cold coffee, disliked visitors, and refused to sleep unless every security camera around his bedroom had been checked.

I also discovered that he was far more intelligent than his reputation suggested.

He read medical journals between sessions and remembered almost every detail I explained.

His temper, however, remained legendary.

One afternoon, I entered his private gym and found him arguing with Victor.

“Get out!”

“Boss, the doctor said—”

“I don’t care what the doctor said!”

Victor noticed me.

“Miss Fitzgerald.”

Mᴀssimo turned.

“You’re late.”

I checked my watch.

“I’m three minutes early.”

“You’re late.”

“Then perhaps you should buy a better clock.”

Victor looked down, hiding a smile.

Mᴀssimo pointed toward the rehabilitation table.

“Start.”

I approached him, but something felt wrong.

His face was unusually pale. Sweat had gathered near his temples, and his right hand was trembling more violently than before.

“Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“Mᴀssimo.”

“Just start the session.”

I placed my clipboard down.

“I’m not touching you until you tell me what’s happening.”

His expression hardened.

“You’re forgetting who you work for.”

“No. I’m remembering who I’m treating.”

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

Then he looked away.

“Last night, I couldn’t feel my right hand properly.”

I pulled a chair closer.

“When did it start?”

“At midnight.”

“And you didn’t tell your doctor?”

“I don’t need another doctor telling me my body is broken.”

I studied his expression.

“New or worsening neurological symptoms need prompt medical ᴀssessment. I’m calling your physician.”

He caught my wrist.

“Don’t.”

His grip was surprisingly strong.

Then he released me immediately.

“Please.”

It was the first time I’d heard him use that word.

I called his medical team anyway.

And while we waited, I noticed something unusual.

A faint surgical scar extended beneath his shirt collar, along the upper part of his back.

It wasn’t mentioned in the records I’d reviewed.

“Mᴀssimo, what surgery was this from?”

He went completely still.

“Nothing.”

“That scar isn’t nothing.”

His eyes met mine.

“Forget you saw it.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I was beginning to suspect that the accident which had supposedly destroyed his ability to walk wasn’t the entire story.

That evening, I stayed late to organize his updated treatment records.

The mansion was unusually quiet.

Most of the guards had moved outside, and the housekeeper had already retired.

I was pᴀssing the library when I heard voices.

One belonged to Mᴀssimo.

The other was unfamiliar.

“You’ve delayed this long enough,” the stranger said.

Mᴀssimo’s response was cold.

“I told you I would handle it.”

“You have six weeks. After that, the agreement becomes enforceable.”

“And if I refuse?”

A short laugh followed.

“Then the entire Pascale organization will know what happened that night.”

I stopped walking.

A chair scraped against the floor.

The stranger continued.

“Your father trusted you with everything. Yet you couldn’t even protect yourself.”

There was silence.

Then Mᴀssimo spoke.

“Get out of my house.”

I quickly stepped away before anyone noticed me.

But I had heard enough to know that someone was threatening him.

The following morning, Mᴀssimo was waiting for me in his office.

On the desk sat a thick envelope.

“Miss Fitzgerald, your contract is changing.”

I looked at it.

“Why?”

“Your payment will be doubled.”

I frowned.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Three months. One hundred thousand dollars. You work exclusively with me, including evenings.”

I didn’t touch the envelope.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Mᴀssimo, I’m not stupid.”

His expression hardened.

“You’re being offered more money. Take it.”

I pushed the envelope back.

“I accepted fifty thousand to provide rehabilitation services. I didn’t agree to become part of whatever business you’re conducting behind closed doors.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You hear too much.”

“Then perhaps you should stop having important conversations in your library.”

For a moment, he looked almost amused.

Then his expression changed.

“Tessa, someone is going to try to hurt you.”

My heart skipped.

“What?”

He looked toward Victor, who was standing near the door.

“From today onward, nobody enters this house without my authorization.”

I felt a chill run down my spine.

“Why would anyone hurt me?”

Mᴀssimo looked directly into my eyes.

“Because you’re the first person in six months who has gotten close enough to notice something is wrong.”

At 10:40 that night, I was preparing to leave when the mansion’s security alarm sounded.

Victor rushed into the hallway.

“Boss!”

Mᴀssimo appeared at the entrance to his office.

“What happened?”

“Someone accessed the east wing.”

“Who?”

“We’re checking the cameras.”

Then Victor noticed me.

“Miss Fitzgerald, go inside the office. Now.”

I froze.

Mᴀssimo looked at me.

“Do what he says.”

Before I could move, the lights flickered.

A loud crash came from downstairs.

Then someone shouted.

Victor immediately moved toward the staircase, leaving two guards beside Mᴀssimo.

I stood near the office door, my heart pounding.

“What’s happening?” I whispered.

Mᴀssimo didn’t answer.

He was staring at the security monitor.

A figure wearing a dark jacket appeared on the screen.

The person walked directly toward the private medical wing.

Then stopped outside the room where Mᴀssimo kept his original surgical records.

Mᴀssimo’s expression turned terrifyingly cold.

“That’s impossible.”

I looked at him.

“What?”

He slowly turned toward me.

“Those records were supposed to have been destroyed.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached for the phone beside his wheelchair.

But before he could make the call, the office door swung open.

A man stood in the doorway.

I recognized him immediately.

Dr. Bennett.

Mᴀssimo’s former neurologist.

He was holding a leather folder.

“Good evening, Mr. Pascale.”

Mᴀssimo’s face became unreadable.

“You’re making a serious mistake coming here.”

The doctor ignored him and looked directly at me.

“Miss Fitzgerald, I suggest you leave this house immediately.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

He placed the folder on the desk.

“Because your patient isn’t suffering from what you’ve been told.”

Mᴀssimo’s hand тιԍнтened around the armrest.

“Get out.”

But Dr. Bennett continued.

“His original spinal injury was significantly less severe than the condition described in his medical records. Someone altered the reports after the accident.”

My stomach dropped.

“What are you saying?”

The doctor opened the folder.

Inside were original scans, surgical notes, and a signed medical ᴀssessment.

Then he pointed to one particular page.

“Mr. Pascale’s chances of neurological recovery were considerably better than his family was led to believe.”

I turned toward Mᴀssimo.

He wasn’t looking at the documents.

He was looking at Dr. Bennett with an expression I had never seen before.

Fear.

Real fear.

“Tell her the rest,” Mᴀssimo said quietly.

The doctor swallowed.

“Six months ago, someone deliberately interfered with his rehabilitation. His medication was changed, his treatment records were falsified, and his recovery was repeatedly interrupted.”

I felt sick.

“Who did it?”

Dr. Bennett looked at Mᴀssimo.

Then he said four words.

“His own younger brother.”

The room went silent.

Mᴀssimo closed his eyes.

For several seconds, he didn’t move.

Then he looked at me.

“Now you understand why I didn’t want you asking questions.”

I stepped closer.

“Your brother did this to you?”

Mᴀssimo’s jaw тιԍнтened.

“He wanted my position. My father’s company. Everything I inherited.”

“And the accident?”

He looked toward the window.

“Wasn’t an accident.”

Before I could process his words, the doctor pulled one final document from the folder.

It was a pH๏τograph taken outside the hospital on the night of Mᴀssimo’s surgery.

A man stood beside his hospital bed.

A man I had seen before.

My stomach turned as I recognized him.

It was Victor.

The same bodyguard who had protected Mᴀssimo for six months.

The same man who had warned me that someone was trying to hurt him.

I slowly looked toward the doorway.

Victor was standing there.

His face had gone completely white.

Mᴀssimo stared at him.

“Tell me that’s not you.”

Victor didn’t move.

Then, with tears gathering in his eyes, he whispered:

“Boss, I can explain.”

Mᴀssimo’s voice dropped to an icy whisper.

“After everything I’ve done for you, Victor… why?”

Victor looked at me.

Then back at Mᴀssimo.

And his next words changed everything.

“Because I wasn’t protecting your brother, sir. I was protecting you from what your father ordered before he died.”

Mᴀssimo went completely still.

“What did you just say?”

Victor reached into his jacket and placed a small USB drive on the desk.

“Your father knew what happened that night. He knew who arranged the accident. And he left instructions that were supposed to be opened only if you ever regained the ability to walk.”

I stared at the USB drive.

Then at Mᴀssimo.

His fingers were trembling again.

But this time, it wasn’t because of his injury.

It was because the truth he’d spent six months trying to avoid had finally arrived.

And when Victor revealed what was stored on that drive, I would discover that the fifty thousand dollars Mᴀssimo had offered me wasn’t simply payment for helping him walk again.

It was connected to a promise his father had made seven years earlier—and I was the only person who could fulfill it.