Chapter 2
Days passed, turning into a routine she hadn't expected.
He didn't need help—or so he claimed—but he didn't stop her when she did the things he couldn't. Like her massages.
It started with her offering, fully expecting rejection. His response had been nothing but silence, but he hadn't wheeled away when she knelt before him.
So, she took that as permission.
Now, every evening, she sat at his feet, her hands working over muscles that had been neglected for years.
His legs didn't respond, but his body did.
At first, he ignored her, acting as if she wasn't there while he read through business reports or scrolled on his phone. But she could feel the tension in him.
The slight twitch in his jaw. The way his breath changed when her hands worked their way up to his calves, fingers pressing into the muscles that still held form but had lost their function.
She wasn't sure why he allowed it—why this was the one thing he didn't push her away for.
Maybe because it wasn't pity.
Maybe because it wasn't help.
It was just touch.
"Your circulation is better," she murmured one night, her thumbs pressing into the arch of his foot. "You should let me do this more often."
He made a low sound—not quite agreement, but not disagreement either.
Her gaze lifted to him, and for the first time, she caught something in those green eyes.
A flicker of something darker.
Something hungry.
And then, just as quickly, it was gone.
"Do whatever you want," he said, voice rough. "It doesn't matter."
Because the next night, when she reached for his feet, he was already waiting for her.
The job was easy—too easy.
Most days, he didn't even acknowledge her presence. She'd clean up the space he barely used, check his vitals, prepare his supplements, and—when he allowed it—massage his legs.
And that was it.
It should have been boring but then she'd look at him.
His face alone could make time feel less dull. It was unfair how good he looked—how effortlessly hot he was, even when scowling, which was most of the time.
She tried not to stare, but when a man looked like that, it was impossible not to.
And worse, her mind began to wander.
Did everything still work?
The thought hit her out of nowhere one afternoon while she watched him move from his wheelchair to the couch, his arms bearing the weight of his entire body with such ease.
He was strong. He was built like a man who had once had full control of his body.
And yet—three years in a wheelchair.
Did that mean everything had stopped working?
She shouldn't care.
She wasn't supposed to care.
But the longer she was here, the more she wondered.
Why did a man like him have no girlfriend? No visitors?
He was young—just twenty-nine. Powerful. A man with the kind of face and body that should have made women fall at his feet.
And yet, he was alone.
Not just physically, but emotionally.
Aloof. Untouchable.
Like he had built an entire fortress around himself, and she was nothing more than a hired presence he tolerated.
"Do you ever get bored?" she asked one evening, her hands working on his calves, watching for any reaction.
He barely glanced at her. "No."
"Liar," she muttered, pressing her thumbs deeper into the muscles.
This time, he looked at her—really looked at her.
And for a brief moment, she saw something lurking behind those cold green eyes.
Something unreadable.
Something dangerous.
But instead of answering, he simply closed his eyes, dismissing her completely.
And she hated that it only made her curiosity grow.