Chapter 1 - The Audition in Broken Glass
The rusted muffler of my battered sedan gave out with a violent metallic screech right before the wrought-iron gates of the Gallagher estate.
Steam poured from the radiator grille like a surrender flag in the damp Chicago fog.
I let my forehead sink into the cold vinyl of the steering wheel and counted to ten.
Two men in bespoke black suits stepped out from the limestone gatehouse with their hands resting inside their tailored jackets.
I grabbed my oversized canvas bag from the passenger seat and pushed the door open against the November wind.
“I am Nora Campbell, the private duty nurse sent by the registry,” I called out, wiping grease from my sleeve.
“Unless you two carry medical licenses under those holsters, you might want to open the gate.”
Neither man cracked a single smile.
They ran metal detectors over my collarbones, confiscated my cheap pepper spray, and escorted me up a driveway that looked more like an armed garrison than a residential property.
Security cameras turned on their swivels with quiet mechanical clicks as we crossed the threshold into the great hall.
A towering man named Frankie led me across polished marble floors that echoed like a mausoleum.
He stopped in front of two mahogany doors and stared down at me with heavy, assessing eyes.
“Mr. Gallagher does not like noise, he does not like excuses, and he does not like strangers touching him,” Frankie warned in a gravel voice.
“Good thing I am a professional and not a stranger looking for an autograph,” I answered, adjusting my scrub top.
The doors swung open into an expansive private study lined with dark oak bookshelves and heavy emerald drapes.
Desmond Gallagher was seated by the panoramic window overlooking Lake Michigan, silhouetted against the gray afternoon light.
His broad shoulders were hunched beneath an expensive charcoal wool blanket despite the roaring fireplace across the room.
He did not bother turning his head when the floorboards creaked under my worn sneakers.
“I specifically instructed the agency to send a male practitioner with ten years of critical care experience,” Desmond said, his voice deep and rough.
“The agency sent the only nurse on their roster who would not run away after hearing your file,” I replied, walking forward without hesitation.
The motorized wheels hummed as he turned his chair around to face me.
His ice-blue eyes were sunken with exhaustion, dark rings carved deep beneath his sharp cheekbones.
He looked at my coffee-splattered scrub pants, my messy bun, and the faded canvas sneakers on my feet.
“You are late,” he remarked coldly.
“My alternator died at your security gate,” I countered.
“You look entirely too young to manage a complex spinal injury.”
“I am twenty-seven, fully licensed, and I spent four years in Cook County Hospital’s trauma intensive care unit before switching to private care.”
Desmond leaned back against the headrest, a sneer curling his lips.
“Cook County teaches people how to bandage gunshot wounds on gang corners, not manage my personal dignity.”
“If your personal dignity was in good shape, Mr. Gallagher, you would not have terrified four qualified nurses into resigning within two weeks.”
Silence dropped over the room like lead.
Frankie shifted his weight near the entrance, his jaw tightening as if waiting for an execution order.
Desmond reached with a trembling right hand toward a heavy crystal tumbler resting on the side table.
His fingers lost traction, and the glass tumbled off the mahogany surface.
Amber whiskey and shards of crystal exploded across the polished hardwood floor between our feet.
Desmond’s jaw clamped shut, humiliation flashing across his pale features before turning into cold fury.
“Clean that up,” he commanded, pointing a rigid finger at the puddle.
I looked down at the puddle of liquor reflecting the gray light of the window.
Then I lifted my chin and met his furious gaze directly.
“No.”
His left eyebrow twitched with dangerous disbelief.
“What did you just say to me?”
“I am a registered nurse, Mr. Gallagher, not your scullery maid,” I said calmly.
“If you want the floor wiped, call your house staff.”
I walked straight through the wet perimeter, knelt directly before his motorized chair, and reached for the thick blanket.
His right hand struck like a coiled viper, catching my wrist in a vice-like grip that bruised my skin.
“Do not touch me,” he hissed between clenched teeth.
“I am touching you because nobody else in this house has the guts to do their job,” I snapped, refusing to pull away.
With my free hand, I yanked the charcoal wool blanket off his lap and tossed it onto the carpet.
Desmond stiffened as if I had stripped away his armor in the middle of a war zone.
His legs, once athletic and powerful, were visibly atrophied beneath his linen trousers.
I reached down, pulled up the fabric of his left pant leg, and tapped the reddened skin near his lower calf.
“Stage one pressure ulcer forming right over your lateral malleolus,” I observed clinical detachment in my voice.
“You sit here wrapped in wool in an overheated room, stewing in sweat and immobility while your tissue dies.”
Desmond’s breathing turned rapid, his grip on my wrist tightening until my fingers began to tingle.
“You have three seconds to take your hands off my body, girl.”
“Squeeze any harder and you will cause carpal compression, which means I will not be able to adjust your tilt settings,” I replied smoothly.
“You are hiding beneath heavy blankets because you cannot stand the thought of anyone seeing your muscles waste away.”
Desmond froze.
The sheer audacity of my words seemed to paralyze the air between us.
Slowly, the tension left his fingers, and he released my wrist, dropping his hand back onto the leather armrest.
He stared at me as though trying to decipher what kind of creature had dared to step into his cage.
“Your agency fee is exorbitant,” he whispered, his tone chillingly level.
“My competence is non-negotiable,” I replied, standing up and smoothing down my scrubs.
He stared at the spilled whiskey on the floor for a long moment before turning back to the window.
“Frankie,” Desmond said quietly.
“Yes, boss?”
“Give her the security code to the medical annex and make sure her car is towed to an authorized mechanic.”
May you like
Frankie blinked in visible astonishment before nodding slowly.
I let out a breath I had been holding since stepping past the front gate, knowing the real war had just begun.
