Chapter 2 - The Crash in the East WingI pushed open the heavy oak doors of the east wing suite and froze.

In the dim light of a single floor lamp, a young man lay sprawled on the dark hardwood floor beside an overturned wheelchair. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his dark hair messy, and his knuckles bruised from striking the floor.

It was Ethan Whitmore.

He looked up at me, his deep-set eyes flashing with a dangerous mix of fury, vulnerability, and embarrassment.

“Get out!” he barked, his voice sharp and hoarse. “Who told you to come in here? Call the housekeeper and get out!”

I set the towels on a side table. I didn't run. Having spent my life around my father’s unpredictable temper, I knew the difference between real malice and the desperation of someone backed into a corner.

“I’m not calling the housekeeper,” I said softly, my voice steady despite my racing heart. “She’s asleep on the first floor. If you want to get back into the chair, you’re going to have to let me help you.”

“I don't need help from a maid!” Ethan growled, trying to push himself up with his arms, only for his muscles to betray him, sending him back to the floor.

I knelt beside him, keeping my movements calm and methodical, just like the medical manuals I had spent months reading at the library.

“I’m Claire,” I whispered, placing a firm, supportive grip around his torso. “I’m not going to hurt you, Ethan. On three. One... two... three.”

Using my legs for leverage, I lifted his frame, guiding him safely back into the leather wheelchair.

Ethan sat breathing heavily, his head bowed, his hands trembling slightly on the armrests. He expected me to pity him, to gawk, or to run off and gossip. Instead, I quietly righted the overturned floor lamp and swept up a broken glass tumbler.

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He watched me from the shadows. “Why aren't you afraid of me?”

“Because you’re just hurt,” I answered honestly, meeting his eyes. “There’s a difference.”