Chapter 3

Nicole's POV

For a moment, the library feels like it's going to swallow me whole.

His eyes pin me, sharp and unreadable, and I wait for him to say something, anything, that will betray recognition. But Alex doesn’t…almost as if he doesn't remember me.

Instead, he leans back in his chair, one hand resting casually on the wheel, the other curled on the armrest. Like I’m just another stranger who walked into his home.

“Miss Williams,” he says again, tone polite but distant. “I trust you’ll find the arrangements… suitable.”

It takes me a beat too long to answer. My throat is dry. “Yes. Thank you.”

This is the same man I had a night stand with three months ago. A night I can never forget- his smell, his touch, I remember everything clearly.

He gives the smallest nod, dismissive, as if the conversation is already over. The smirk I thought I saw when I entered? Gone. His expression is unreadable.

Clara clears her throat beside me. “Nicole will be staying here for the duration of her contract. Two years, as agreed. I’ve already arranged a room for her. Shall we?”

Alex doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t ask a single question. Just waves his hand toward the door like I’m a piece of furniture being delivered.

My stomach twists, but I force my feet to move.

The room Clara shows me is on the second floor, down a long corridor lined with windows.

“It’s close to the east wing,” she explains, unlocking the door. “That way, you’ll always be nearby if Mr. Thorne needs you.”

The space is bigger than my apartment. A four-poster bed, a wardrobe, a writing desk that looks like it costs more than my monthly rent. The curtains are drawn, but when I tug them open, I see the beautiful view of the estate gardens.

This is safety, security, stability. Exactly what I asked for. Instead, unease crawls up my spine.

“Unpack and rest,” Clara says. “I’ll call you when Mr. Thorne is ready for you to begin.”

I nod, murmuring thanks. When the door clicks shut behind her, everywhere goes silent.

Alone, I set my suitcase on the bed, and I place my palm across my face.

Professionalism. Patience. Privacy. Prohibition.

The Four P’s. I repeat them like a prayer. I have to. Because this is exactly what my supervisor warned me about. I just have to remain professional- I can't afford to lose this job.

By the time Clara returns, I feel more at ease.

She leads me back to the library, where Alex waits with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He doesn’t glance at me as I enter, just sets the glass down with a dull thud.

“Vitals,” he says.

No greeting. No warmth. Just an order.

I set my bag down, fumbling with my equipment. “Of course.”

My hands know the motions, but my chest pounds anyway as I kneel beside him. He smells the same, wood smoke, leather, something darker beneath. My fingers brush his wrist as I check his pulse, and every muscle in my body goes rigid.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react at all. His face remains blank, eyes fixed on the fire like I’m invisible.

“Pulse steady,” I murmur, scribbling in my notes. “Pressure next.”

When I reach for his arm, he shifts slightly, making it harder to secure the cuff. Not enough to stop me. Just enough to remind me he can.

I grit my teeth, adjusting until I manage it. The reading is fine. More than fine, actually. He’s recovering well. But I don’t say that. I don’t give him the satisfaction.

“Blood pressure is normal,” I report.

Still, he doesn’t look at me. Just lifts his glass again, takes a slow sip, and mutters, “At least you’re competent.”

The words sting more than they should.

“I’ll check your incision site next,” I say.

His smirk flickers. The first crack in his mask. “Eager, are we?”

My face goes red. “It’s medical protocol.”

“Of course,” he says, voice low. “Nothing personal.”

My fingers clench on the cuff. He’s playing with me. He knows exactly what he’s doing. But two can play.

“Yes,” I say, sharper than I intended. “Nothing personal.”

Our eyes meet for the first time since I walked in, and the air between us thickens. For a second, I swear he’s about to drop the act, to say something that will blow the pretense apart.

But then he looks away, smooth. “That’ll be all for tonight.”

Dismissed. Just like that.

I pack my equipment in silence, I can feel his gaze, watching me as I take my leave.

Back in my room, I pace.

Every interaction tonight has been sharp edges, clipped words, unfinished sentences. I should be relieved he’s pretending not to know me. It keeps the lines clean. Professional. Exactly what my supervisor warned me to cling to.

But the way he spoke, the way his eyes lingered, the way he shifted his arm just enough to test me, it doesn’t feel like ignorance.

It feels like a game.

And I’m already losing.

The next morning, Clara finds me in the kitchen. “Mr. Thorne wants his therapy session. Now.”

I follow her back to the library. The moment I step inside, the tension tightens again. He’s already there, sleeves rolled up, arms resting on the wheels of his chair.

“Morning,” I say softly.

He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his chin, a silent command.

I guide him through stretches, range of motion exercises, careful with every movement. He doesn’t complain, but the silence is worse than words.

Finally, I mutter, “You’ll recover faster if you cooperate.”

His head tilts, eyes narrowing. “Is that medical advice or personal opinion?”

His eyes meet mine. My heart races. “Both.”

A pause. His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Noted.”

I finish the session in silence, my hands steady even though my chest feels like it’s on fire.

When it’s over, I step back, wiping my palms on my scrubs. “That’s enough for today.”

He wheels closer. Not much, just a foot. But enough to close the distance between us..

“Tell me something, Miss Williams.” His voice is quiet, dangerous. “How long do you think you can keep pretending?”

The question hangs in the air, sharp.

My pulse stumbles. My lips part, but no words come out.

Alex smiled, before turning his chair toward the window.

“Dismissed.”