Chapter 5
“You are the only person in this house who never asked me for anything.”
Iris almost laughed, but it came out broken.
“I work for you.”
“You work,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Nicholas…”
The sound of his name in her voice seemed to undo him for a second.
He came back to the table, but he did not sit.
“I’m going upstairs,” he said. “You should sleep early.”
“You know I won’t.”
“I know.”
At 11:40, Iris found him on the living room floor.
The lamps were off. Only the city light reached through the windows, painting the room in blue and silver. Nicholas sat against the base of the sofa, his shirt open at the collar, one hand pressed to his chest. His breathing was shallow and fast.
For one terrible moment, Iris thought he was already dying.
“Nicholas!”
She dropped beside him.
His skin was cold. His eyes were open, fixed on something beyond her shoulder.
“Call Dr. Hale,” he said.
She reached for her phone.
His hand closed around her wrist.
“No ambulance.”
“You don’t get to be arrogant right now.”
“No ambulance,” he repeated, and there was fear beneath it. Not of death. Of spectacle. Of lights outside the house. Of cameras. Of the world taking even this from him.
Iris called the doctor.
Dr. Hale arrived in 18 minutes, a silver-haired woman in slacks and a raincoat, carrying a medical bag and the expression of someone who had long ago stopped pretending wealth made sickness more elegant.
She examined Nicholas in silence while Iris stood near the doorway, arms folded tightly over herself.
“Panic attack,” Dr. Hale said finally. “Exacerbated by exhaustion, pain, and stubborn male idiocy.”
Nicholas, pale against the sofa, murmured, “Medical school made you poetic.”
“Watching rich men refuse help made me blunt.”
She gave him medication, checked his vitals again, then pulled Iris aside into the hallway.
“He needs supervision tonight,” Dr. Hale said quietly.
“I’ll stay nearby.”
“I mean in the room.”
Iris glanced toward the living room.
Dr. Hale lowered her voice further. “He is not only physically unwell. He is frightened, and he has spent his entire adult life confusing isolation with strength. Do not let him send you away.”
“He already tried.”
“I assumed.”
The doctor looked at Iris with sharp, assessing eyes.
“Do you care for him?”
Iris went still.
“That is not a medical question.”
“No,” Dr. Hale said. “But the answer may matter more than the medicine.”
When the doctor left, the mansion seemed even larger.
Nicholas was still on the floor when Iris returned, though now his breathing had eased. He looked humiliated.
“I can get up,” he said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Iris—”
May you like
“Don’t start.”
He closed his mouth.
