"Two years after a sniper’s bullet stole the use of my legs, everyone inside my estate had learned to fear me—nurses quit, therapists fled, and even armed men lowered their eyes when I entered a room. Then a new maid named Emma walked into my private wing, looked straight at the man everyone called a monster, and said, “Do you want me to stop working? Because if I stop, I don’t get paid.”

Two days later, Emma was well enough to walk down to the grand kitchen, though the dark circles under her eyes were still prominent. When she discovered the memory-care facility’s bill had been miraculously paid in full—with a receipt signed by an administrative shell company tied to Moretti holdings—she stormed up to my private study on the third floor without even knocking.

She threw the printed balance statement onto my mahogany desk, her chest heaving with a mixture of pride and fury.

“I didn't ask for charity, Mr. Moretti!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the high wood-paneled walls.

I looked up slowly, leaning back in my leather chair. For two years, men had pissed themselves or stammered apologies when I raised an eyebrow. This exhausted, twenty-six-year-old single mother was standing over my desk, slamming a piece of paper in my face.

A dark, amused smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.

“It’s not charity, Miss Carter,” I replied smoothly. “It’s an advance on your cleaning services. At thirty dollars an hour, you owe me about three hundred hours of dusting baseboards. Get to work.”

She glared at me, her brown eyes flashing with a fierce, defiant fire that I hadn't seen in anyone since before the bullet crippled my legs. She opened her mouth to argue, closed it, and then snatched the paper back.

“You’re an impossible, arrogant bastard,” she hissed.