The Hawthorne estate was a mausoleum of glass and minimalism, perched on a cliff that defied the Pacific. It was less a home than a monument — a shrine to the power of Mario Hawthorne, the forty-two-year-old financial magnate whose empire was as polished and cold as the marble that surrounded him.
Everything inside the mansion gleamed, from the chrome edges of the designer furniture to the immaculate floors that never knew the touch of bare feet. It was a place that smelled of power, money, and loneliness.
Claudia moved through that world like an intruder in a dream.
Her white nurse’s uniform clung to her figure with disciplined precision, but nothing could disguise the quiet grace in her movements or the restrained fire in her dark eyes. She wasn’t just his caretaker — she was his witness. The only one who saw the cracks in the myth of Mario Hawthorne.
Mario sat in his motorized chair by the window, overlooking the ocean. His paralysis was partial, but the loss of control had cut deeper than any wound. The Pacific crashed against the rocks below, a brutal symphony that mocked his stillness.
—How long have I been like this? —he asked, his voice low, almost detached.
Claudia hesitated before answering. —Three months since the accident, Mr. Hawthorne.
He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. —Three months of silence and pity. Three months of watching my empire run without me. Tell me, Claudia, do you think I look weak?
Her pulse quickened. —You look... human.
His eyes lifted to hers, sharp and unreadable. There it was — that dangerous mixture of arrogance and curiosity, the look of a man who was used to owning every person who crossed his path.
—You don’t believe in pity, do you? —he asked.
—No, sir.
—Good. Pity is poison. And I’ve already had my fill of poison.
She turned to adjust the medication schedule, pretending to focus on the glowing tablet in her hand. But the tension between them had a pulse of its own — something unsaid, electric, forbidden.
—Do you know why I hired you? —Mario asked suddenly.
Claudia froze. —Because of my qualifications. My experience in neurorehabilitation.
A faint smile curved his lips. —No. I hired you because you don’t look at me like a cripple. You look at me like a man.
The words struck her harder than they should have. For a moment, the sterile air of the mansion felt heavy, charged with something that neither of them dared to name. She should have corrected him, should have reminded him of professional distance — but instead, she felt her breath catch.
—You should rest, Mr. Hawthorne —she said finally, retreating toward the door.
—Mario —he corrected her. —When we’re alone, you call me Mario.
Her hand paused on the doorknob. There was no arrogance in his tone, only command — quiet, absolute, and strangely intimate. She nodded without turning around.
—Yes, Mario.
When she left, Mario’s gaze lingered on the reflection of her silhouette in the glass.
He didn’t believe in fate. But something about this woman — the precision in her movements, the calm defiance in her eyes — told him that the next chapter of his life would not be written in the language of recovery, but in the dangerous grammar of desire.
And far away, in the upper floor of the mansion, a pair of eyes watched through a hidden camera feed.
Eleanor Hawthorne smiled as she zoomed in on the nurse’s figure leaving the room.
—So that’s the new temptation —she murmured. —Let’s see how long before he sins.
TO BE CONTINUED...