Chapter 2
Nico hated that word.
Again.
He hated it because I did not soften it.
He hated it because I did not wrap it in sympathy.
He hated it because, most mornings, he obeyed.
The first week, he cursed me under his breath.
The second week, he told Edna I was “medically useful and personally irritating.”
By the third week, he stopped asking for another nurse.
That was the closest Nico Alfieri came to praise.
Camille noticed before anyone else.
She noticed that he listened when I corrected his posture.
She noticed that I entered the library without fear.
She noticed that I spoke to him like a man instead of a throne with wheels.
That was when she started smiling at me.
The dangerous kind of smile.
“Adeline,” she said one afternoon while I prepared his medication. “You must be grateful for this position.”
“I am.”
“Good. Grateful people know where the walls are.”
I looked up.
“Walls?”
“In houses like this, every person has a place. Nurses near medicine. Servants near floors. Family near power.”
I said nothing.
She leaned closer.
“You are near medicine.”
I should have reported that moment.
But to who?
The first nurse left after a panic attack.
The second broke her contract and vanished.
The third was rumored to have stolen jewelry.
Edna told me the truth over coffee one night.
“Camille pushed them out.”
“Why?”
Edna looked toward the hall.
“Because the person controlling his care controls his future.”
I understood after that.
Nico’s accident had left him physically vulnerable, but not powerless.
His shares.
His businesses.
His family loyalty.
His name.
All of it still moved around him.
If he recovered too much, Camille became only his fiancée.
If he stayed weak, dependent, and ashamed, she could become his gatekeeper.
So I watched.
I checked labels twice.
I counted pills.
I photographed the cabinet when the quantities changed.
At first, I thought it was a mistake.
Then I found the first white tablet.
It was mixed into his evening medication bottle, hidden among pills that looked close enough to fool tired eyes.
Close.
Not exact.
I took one.
Then another two days later.
I sealed them in a specimen bag and hid them in the toe of my old shoe.
I sent photos to myself through an encrypted app my nursing friend once insisted I install.
Then I waited.
I hated waiting.
Especially after Nico’s bad days grew worse.
He would wake foggy.
Angry.
Humiliated by weakness he could not explain.
Camille would stand nearby and stroke his shoulder.
“You’re pushing too hard,” she would say. “Maybe we should cancel therapy.”
He would glare at her.
Then at me.
I never said what I suspected.
Not yet.
Because suspicion without proof is a match in a room full of gas.
The night before the engagement party, I found the medication cabinet open at 2:13 a.m.
Camille stood in front of it.
She wore silk pajamas and no guilt.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Can I help you?”
She turned slowly.
“Nico had pain.”
“He’s asleep.”
“He might wake.”
“I manage his dosage.”
She smiled.
“I manage his life.”
My phone was in my pocket.
Recording.
She did not know that.
Her hand closed around a bottle.
Not his prescribed medication.
A private compound.
No pharmacy label.
No prescribing physician.
She placed it back when she saw I was looking.
“You should get some sleep,” she said.
“So should you.”
Her smile vanished.
By morning, I knew two things.
Camille was drugging him.
And I was not the only one who knew.
Because when I entered the kitchen, Edna slipped a folded napkin into my hand.
Inside was a note.
Ask about the crash.
Before I could ask her anything, Camille swept in with flowers, instructions, and threats disguised as party planning.
By evening, the house glittered.
Thirty guests.
Champagne.
A pianist.
Nico trapped in formal clothes, jaw tight, eyes tired.
Camille performed devotion beside him.
She adjusted his collar.
Touched his wheelchair.
Kissed his cheek for cameras.
Every time she did, his hands clenched.
Then the champagne toast began.
Camille thanked everyone for supporting “our new chapter.”
Our.
As if Nico had become a property deed.
Then one of his old associates, Luca Ferraro, raised a glass.
“To Nico,” he said. “Still the strongest man in any room.”
For a moment, something warm moved through Nico’s face.
Then Camille leaned down and whispered something in his ear.
I was close enough to hear.
“Don’t embarrass me by trying to stand.”
His face went blank.
I saw it.
The injury was not the words.
It was that she knew exactly where to place them.
After the toast, Nico reached for his wheelchair rim to turn away.
Camille grabbed the chair handles.
Hard.
“I’ll help.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You need help.”
“I said no.”
Her smile stayed fixed for the room.
Then she pushed.
The chair struck the edge of a rug.
One wheel caught.
Nico lost balance.
The chair tipped sideways.
He hit the floor.
Guests gasped.
I moved.
But Camille moved faster.
Not to help him.
To hiss down at him.
“You embarrassed me.”
Then she slapped him.
That was where Chapter 1 began.
With marble.
Silence.
My tray falling.
My hand around her wrist.
And Nico looking at me like he had just remembered he was still allowed to be defended.
Now, in the foyer, with everyone staring, Camille’s mask began to crack.
She looked past me at the guards.
“Remove her.”
No one moved.
Not because they were brave.
Because Nico had lifted his head.
His voice was quiet.
“Touch her and you answer to me.”
Camille laughed.
“You can barely lift yourself.”
Nico’s eyes darkened.
I crouched beside him.
“Can I help you up?”
He stared at me.
The entire room waited for him to reject me.
Finally, he nodded once.
May you like
“Yes.”
That single word shook Camille harder than my hand had.
