Victor's POV
"Not again."
The words came out from my throat, strangled and raw, as I jolted awake. My breathing was unstable. The nightmare clung to me, suffocating and always the same.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to erase the images that haunted my sleep. But they never left. They were burned into my mind, a permanent scar that no amount of time could heal.
Morning light crept into the room, soft and indifferent. Another night survived. Another day to endure.
I dropped my hands and stared at the ceiling, my breathing slowly returning to normal.
The silence of the room pressed down on me, thick and oppressive.
This room, the one I'd asked Jenkins to prepare for me downstairs, was nothing like the master bedroom upstairs. That room, with its king-sized bed and her presence lingering in every corner, had become unbearable.
I couldn't sleep there anymore. I couldn't keep waking up and reaching for someone who would never be there again.
So I moved down here, into one of the rooms I'd had renovated to suit my needs. It was closer to my study and more practical, or at least that's what I told myself. The truth was, I was just running from ghosts.
My arms trembled as I pushed myself upright. The wheelchair sat beside the bed, waiting. Always waiting. Jenkins had polished it to a mirror shine, as if making it gleam could somehow make its presence less of an insult, less of a reminder of the man I used to be.
I gripped the cold metal handles and hauled myself into it, biting down hard as pain lanced through my back. I'd learned not to cry out. Pain was constant now, my faithful shadow.
But it was nothing compared to the weight I carried inside, the guilt that crushed me more thoroughly than any car ever could.
It should have been me.
The thought came suddenly, as it did every morning. If I hadn't confronted her, if I'd paid more attention…
I slammed my fist against the armrest, the sound echoing in the empty room.
She was gone because of me. And I was left here, half a man in every sense that mattered, rattling around in a house too large and too full of memories.
The past week had been particularly brutal. Martha and Rosa, the two maids who'd worked here for years, had finally had enough.
They'd resigned within days of each other, their departures quiet but damning. I knew why. I'd driven them away with my bitterness, my sharp words, my refusal to be anything but the worst version of myself.
I lashed out at whoever was nearest. They'd borne the brunt of my anger until they couldn't take it anymore.
I couldn't blame them. I could barely stand myself.
Only Jenkins remained. My butler. He'd been with me through everything, through the accident, through the funeral, through the dark months that followed when I'd wanted nothing more than to disappear entirely.
Especially after she died.
Jenkins had stood by me when I'd screamed at him, when I'd thrown things, when I'd told him to leave me the hell alone. He'd weathered every storm without flinching. I didn't deserve his loyalty, but I was selfishly grateful for it.
The intercom on my nightstand buzzed. "Mr. Hawthorne? Are you awake, sir?" Jenkins' voice, ever calm, filled the room.
"Yes, Jenkins," I replied, my voice hoarse. "I'll be with you shortly."
Getting ready was the hardest part of my day, even though I'd become efficient at hating every second of it.
I wheeled myself into the bathroom. After splashing water on my face, I reached for a damp towel and began to wipe myself down. It wasn't much of a shower, but it was the best I could manage these days.
When I finally looked up, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The man staring back at me was a stranger. I looked away immediately as I wheeled myself out of the bathroom. I couldn't even bear my own reflection.
Where was Victor Hawthorne, the man who had graced the covers of business magazines? The man who could make or break companies with a single word?
Gone, I reminded myself. That man died the night of the accident.
The accident. Even now, five years later, the memories were vivid enough to make my breath catch.
I put on a black suit, freshly cleaned and pressed. Even in despair, old habits die hard.
I wheeled myself out of the room. The hallways stretched endlessly before me, the polished floors reflecting nothing but emptiness. At least down here, everything was accessible. I'd left the upstairs untouched, a monument to what was, what could have been. I hadn't been up there in months. Maybe years. I'd lost track.
Jenkins was already waiting in the dining room, dressed impeccably in his usual butler's attire, a crisp white shirt beneath a tailored black jacket, paired with perfectly pressed black trousers and a neatly tied bow tie. A silver tray of breakfast dishes was arranged on the massive gold dining table.
"Good morning, Mr. Hawthorne. I trust you slept well?"
I didn't bother to answer. We both knew I hadn't. "Any messages, Jenkins?"
"Mr. Bennett called," Jenkins said, pouring coffee into a teacup with steady hands. "He says he has an update on the situation."
I nodded, my appetite suddenly gone. The "situation," a nice way to describe how they were taking advantage of my misfortune. My time away from the public eye had strengthened my enemies. They sensed weakness, and in the world of business and finance, weakness was blood in the water.
"I'll take the call in my study," I said, my voice sharper than intended.
Jenkins nodded, and as I wheeled past him, he said softly, "Sir, if I may... you should eat something."
I paused, fighting the urge to snap at him. He was only trying to help. He always was.
"Later," I muttered. "You can bring my lunch to the study."
The study was my sanctuary, the one place in this big house where I felt somehow in control. It was just down the hall from my room now, another reason I'd relocated downstairs. I could wheel myself there in moments without struggling.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with first editions. My desk, a massive piece of mahogany, dominated the room. Behind it, a wall of screens displayed stock tickers, news feeds, and security camera feeds from around the property.
I positioned my wheelchair behind the desk and picked up the phone. "Bennett. What news?"
Charles Bennett, my lawyer and one of the few people I still trusted, didn't waste time with pleasantries. "It's not good, Victor. The board is getting restless. There's talk of a vote of no confidence."
I clenched my fist, anger burning through me. "They can't do that. I built this company from nothing. It's mine."
"They can, and they will, unless we act." Bennett paused, choosing his words carefully. "They're questioning your ability to lead, given your mental state and reclusiveness. They want stability, Victor, a sign that everything is under control."
"Under control?" The laugh that escaped me was bitter and sharp. "What do they expect? Should I dance for them? Walk into the next board meeting on two good legs?" I paused. "I'm in a wheelchair, Charles, not brain dead."
"I know that, and you know that. But perception is everything in this game, Victor. You've been out of the public eye for too long. People are starting to forget the man you were. They need to see you as the Victor Hawthorne they remember, strong, capable, in command. And frankly, Victor, they need to see you as stable."
I turned my chair to face the window, looking out over the grounds of my mansion.
"What are you suggesting?"
"They want you settled," Charles said. "Married, to be exact. A strong partnership that signals stability and reliability to the board and shareholders."
The word hung in the air, heavy with implication. Married. The idea was so absurd I almost laughed. "Have you lost your mind? Who in their right mind would marry me?"
"It doesn't have to be real, Victor. Just convincing enough to satisfy the board and the shareholders. A contract, if you will. A business arrangement."
I turned away from the window, my mind racing. A contract marriage. It was insane, desperate. But then again, desperate times called for desperate measures. And if there was one thing I excelled at, it was turning desperate situations to my advantage.
"Find someone," I said finally, my voice flat and emotionless. "Someone desperate enough to agree to this madness."
"I may already have a candidate in mind," Charles replied, slight relief in his voice. "I'll send you the details shortly. And besides, I already scheduled a meeting for you at 2 PM."
As I hung up the phone, a few hours later, a knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.
"Come in," I called out, expecting Jenkins with my lunch.
The door opened, but it wasn't Jenkins who entered.
A young woman stood in the doorway, her eyes wide as she took in the study. She was dressed in scrubs, her honey-blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
She looked out of place in the luxurious surroundings, like a sparrow that had accidentally flown into a peacock's cage.
Her gaze landed on me, and I saw the moment of recognition, followed quickly by shock and then pity. I braced myself for the usual reaction, the awkward apology, the hasty retreat.
But this woman surprised me. After the initial shock passed, she straightened her shoulders and met my gaze directly. There was compassion in her eyes, yes, but not pity. And something else, a strength, a determination that caught me off guard.
"I'm sorry," she said, stammering. "I think I'm lost. I'm Emily Greene, the caregiver."
Emily Greene. The name tugged at my memory, familiar somehow.
Then it clicked. The file Bennett had sent moments ago. The candidate I was supposed to meet at 2 PM.
Fate, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.
"Miss Greene," I said, my voice cold and bossy. "You're late."
Emily blinked, glancing at her watch. "I don't..."
"I expect punctuality from my staff," I interrupted. "If you're going to work here, understand that."
Her brows furrowed, but instead of backing down or retreating like most people did, she took a step closer. Her voice, when she spoke, was firm.
"With respect, Mr. Hawthorne, I can't do my job if I'm kept waiting at the gate for twenty minutes."
Just then, Jenkins appeared in the doorway, slightly flustered. "My apologies, sir. Miss Greene arrived earlier, but there was confusion about which entrance to use, and I didn't realize she'd wandered."
"I'll take it from here, Jenkins," I said, cutting him off.
I gestured toward the laptop on the desk, its screen displaying her information.
"Your details," I said. "It says here that you've worked in elder care and nursing homes, yes?"
"Yes, sir," she replied. "Three years at Riverside."
"And yet," I said, folding my arms, "you couldn't manage to find the proper entrance. Curious."
"Jenkins, you can leave now," I said, waving him off.
As Jenkins hurried away and Emily stepped further into the study, her confusion evident, I couldn't help but wonder, Was this the beginning of my salvation, or the final nail in my coffin?
Only time would tell. But one thing was certain, life in my fancy prison was about to get a lot more interesting