CHAPTER 4: STAGED.

MAXWELL POV

I had to admit, Dr. Ashley was dramatic.

"You want to fake an injury," he stated flatly, holding a foam neck brace in one hand and a roll of gauze in the other.

"No," I started, "I want to speed up the inevitable. If Nora believes I'm no longer 'public-worthy,' she'll sign the divorce without turning it into a Broadway spectacle."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "You're playing on her vanity."

I shrugged indifferently. "It's not manipulation if it's the truth."

He tossed the brace on the couch and let out a sigh. "Most people break up over one-night stands and texts. You stage a car accident and bribe a doctor."

“Well, something has to work," I muttered.

He laughed sharply. "You need help."

"Guess, you’re my help."

Ashley adjusted his stethoscope around his neck. “Lucky me.”

He examined the fake reports he had drawn up—dislocated shoulder, minor back strain, nerve compression. All believable. All temporary.

I slipped on the sling. “Convincing?”

Ashley studied me, then nodded. “Convincing enough. But I’d still wince a little more.”

I exaggerated a groan and stiffened my posture. “Like this?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Two hours later, I was propped on the couch, arm in the sling, wearing grey sweats and a T-shirt—"casual invalid," in Ashley’s words. Nora was on her way.

Ashley stood in the doorway, going over the medical forms one last time. "You sure about this?"

"I've never been more sure."

The doorbell rang.

"Showtime," he muttered.

Ashley let her in.

Nora stormed into the room in heels and a cream-colored blazer, smelling of expensive guilt. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her face set into the perfect mask of neutrality, until she saw me.

"Oh," she sucked in a breath. "You weren't kidding."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I whispered.

She glanced at the sling, the brace, the walker leaned against the wall. "The reports indicated—"

"Nerve damage," Ashley cut in smoothly. "It'll be months before he's fully mobile. Possibly longer."

Nora blinked once and stepped forward. "And business?"

"On hold," I lied. "I've handed most of it over."

A flash appeared in her eyes. Not worry. Something more like... calculation.

"I'm sorry this happened," she said, her voice dripping with fake affection. "I really am."

"Mhmm," I hummed, not in the mood for her bullshit.

"And the accident?" she said. "Who was at fault?"

"Undetermined," I said. "Probably just a mistaken turn. It's being investigated."

She nodded, slowly. Then a smile spread across her face.

It was a narrow, tight-lipped smile. The kind that said: I win.

"I brought the papers," she stated, unzipping her bag.

Ashley walked over the room and took them from her, quickly scanning them.

"She's signed everything," he stated, looking at me.

I signed my name on the last page with the pen Ashley offered me.

And with that, I was free. At least I thought…

Nora approached me, moved forward, and touched a gentle kiss to my cheek. "Even so, I loved you. In my own way."

I didn't move. "In your way," I told her.

She pulled back. "Be good to yourself, Maxwell. And thank you for making this simple."

"Of course," I answered brusquely. "Always a pleasure."

She turned on her heel and left, the click of her heels a huge relief to me.

Ashley waited until the door was shut. Then: "Well… That was colder than I expected."

"I'm not surprised," I said, collapsing into the couch. "That was her goodbye. Neat. Cleanand without a shred of humanity."

"You did what you had to," Ashley said, heaping the phony files onto the table. "Now you rest, and I'll get you a nurse."

I shook my hand. "Someone discreet. Someone who doesn't talk too much."

He grinned. "Discreet, but observant. Okay."

___________________________________

Two days later, I moved into my East Side townhouse. Less opulent than the penthouse in another city, quieter, more private. No press, no Nora, no family obligations.

Just me.

And quiet.

I settled in more easily than I expected. Ryan kept calling. The staff appeared only when they were needed. I felt nearly normal for the first time in years.

Nearly.

By the third day, the quietness was starting to become overbearing.

Maybe that's why I said yes when Ashley called.

"Hired somebody," he said. "One of our best nurses. She’s professional, reliable and keeps her head down."

"Good enough."

"She'll arrive tomorrow morning. Don't scare her off."

"Please."

"She's good, Max. You'll do all right."

***

The next morning, I sat in the sitting room, half-listening to a podcast and zoning out on most of it. My arm still hurt in the sling—habit, truthfully. The fake limp had become second nature.

I was scrolling aimlessly through my phone when the doorbell sounded.

I stood up, squared my shoulders, and opened the door.

And froze.

A face I hadn't seen in a decade stood before me, in navy scrubs and a similar shocked expression.

Her lips opened then closed. "You—"

I blinked. "Wait."

Her hair was longer. Her figure, fuller. But those eyes—those rich brown eyes—were still the same.

Quincy.

"Whoa—" I started.

"You're the patient?" she gasped.

"Apparently."

She regarded me, probably considering whether she should laugh or shut the door in my face. "Maxwell Russo."

I leaned my head to the side, stunned. "You knew?"

She emitted a quick, crisp laugh. "We went to high school together, Max."

My heart tightened. "Quincy?"

She nodded slowly.

I stepped back involuntarily. "I didn't—God, I didn't even recognize you."

A lie. I could never forget that face.

"I did," she grunted, disappearing inside the house.

I followed her slowly inside, attempting to take in the moment.

Of all the nurses Ashley could have sent. Of all the houses in New York.

She took a step to confront me.

"Guess we both clean up differently," she said softly.

I snorted silently. "That's one way to say it."

We looked at each other.

And for an instant, the years between us were paper-thin.