I didn't say anything else. Not to the men, not to my parents. I just stood there for another minute, staring at the life I thought we had, now hanging by a thread.
I went upstairs.
Closed the door to my room and sat at the edge of my bed, still in my scrubs, tasting the bitterness of almost slipping earlier that day.
Eighty-three thousand dollars.
I couldn't cry. There wasn't time for that.
I pulled out my phone, scrolled to the most recent unknown number. No name. Just a message from yesterday: Done thinking?
I didn't overthink it this time. I typed:
Yes.
It was sent before I could regret it.
Not even thirty seconds passed before my phone lit up with a reply:
You'll start tomorrow. The car will come by at 9. Discretion required.
I stared at the message like it was a signature on something I couldn't undo. My stomach twisted.
This wasn't a nursing assignment. This was stepping into his world.
But when your family's sinking? You don't wait for clean lines and comfort.
You jump.
I lay back on my bed, eyes tracing the ceiling. I should've felt relief. I should've felt like I did something right.
Instead, all I felt was the sharp edge of something new pressing against the back of my ribs.
Curiosity.
Before the sun had fully risen, I slipped out the front door, beating the agreed-upon nine o'clock pickup. I couldn't wait.
I drove back to my apartment—the one I'd tried to leave behind but never really could.
Inside, I moved straight to the trash can in the kitchen, the one where I'd thrown the pills weeks ago.
The plastic bag rustled as I reached in, fingers trembling, brushing against the bottle. Half-empty, but still enough.
No hesitation this time.
I swallowed the pills, bitterness flooding my mouth, burning down my throat. No haze. No escape. Just raw, unfiltered me.
I leaned back against the counter, heart pounding, waiting.
Because the car would be here soon.
And after that, there was no turning back.
My phone buzzed once. A text.
The driver's five minutes out.
No name. Just like the last time. I didn't reply.
I grabbed my bag. Locked the door behind me without looking back.
The city was waking up—soft gray light slipping between buildings, morning traffic beginning to hum. Somewhere, people were brushing their teeth, pouring coffee, kissing someone goodbye without realizing it might be the last time.
Then the black car pulled up. Sleek. Tinted windows. No logos. The back door opened automatically, and I climbed in without a word.
The driver didn't ask my name. He didn't have to.
I rested my forehead against the window, watching the world blur past.
I had no idea where we were going.
Only that I was already gone.
The car slipped through the private gate—it didn't creak, just opened like it had been expecting me. The driveway curved through manicured hedges and tall trees, silent and endless.
Isaac Langton's estate wasn't a home. It was a monument.
Stone walls, pale and untouched by time. Windows too tall to feel warm, too quiet to welcome. Nothing flashy. No gold, no glass. Just weight. Presence.
The kind of place that didn't ask for attention. It commanded it.
I stepped out.
Everything was too quiet. No dogs barking. No birds. Just the hush of trees in windless air.
The front doors opened before I reached them.
Inside, the floors gleamed like they'd never been walked on. The air carried a faint scent—clean, clinical, with something herbal underneath, like money trying to smell like calm.
A woman appeared—early forties maybe, tight bun, expression hard. "Miss Gabriella Carlos?"
I nodded.
"Right this way. Mr. Langton is expecting you in his office. Contract will be reviewed before duties begin."
Her voice was crisp, no room for small talk. She walked fast, and I followed.
We passed rooms I didn't have time to take in—vaulted ceilings, quiet corners. Every space felt curated, like a photo in a catalog, expensive, cold, untouched.
The woman stopped at a heavy set of double doors.
"He's inside."
I opened them before I could overthink.
The room was large—masculine in a quiet, understated way. Bookshelves lined the walls, a decanter sat untouched on a sideboard, and behind the desk, in a chair too big to look comfortable, was Isaac.
He didn't stand when I entered, but I noticed the slight stiffness in his posture. His left arm rested carefully in a sling, shoulder clearly still healing
"Gabriella," he said, voice lower than I remembered. "Right on time."
I nodded. "Still breathing, I see."
His mouth twitched. "Much to the surprise of a few people, yes."
I set my bag down beside the chair he gestured toward. It felt too plush, too expensive for someone who still lived out of a shared laundry closet at home.
On the desk between us, a folder sat waiting. My name was typed cleanly across the tab. No hospital logo. Just stark letters and silence.
He nodded toward it. "Standard NDA. Your terms. Boundaries. Compensation. Expectations."
I flipped it open—mostly out of habit, not trust. My eyes scanned the pages fast, but I stopped at the number. The pay made my throat tighten.
"This is…" I trailed off. "I thought you said this wasn't charity."
"It's not. It's compensation for discretion, loyalty, and the emotional stamina to not flinch when things get… complicated."
"Sounds like you're hiring a therapist."
He gave a dry laugh, but it was brief. "Not quite. I've got too many people telling me what I want to hear. I need someone who doesn't work for the media, doesn't care about money, and isn't here to be impressed. You proved all three."
"And the nurse part?"
He glanced down at the sling and the bandages barely visible beneath the hem of his sweater. "Still very necessary."
I exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment starting to settle in my chest. My thoughts flicked back to my mother's voice on the phone. The scene in the living room. The way her shoulders curled in like a woman who'd been carrying too much, for too long.
I looked up. "You're wrong about not caring about the money though. I'm here until I'm satisfied."
His brow lifted. "Satisfied?"
"I need a specific amount," I said flatly. "Once I hit it, I'm gone. No notice, no drama. And I'm not quitting my job at the hospital—just so we're clear."
That caught his attention.
"You're planning to do both?" he asked.
"Part-time, here and there," I said. "I'm not going to give that up without knowing what I'm getting into."
He didn't press. Just tilted his head and studied me like he could already see the number written somewhere on my skin.
The contract lay between us on the desk, pages crisp and waiting.
"Fair enough," he said finally, leaning back in the chair. "Then let's get you paid."
"I didn't say I'd sign anything today."
His mouth quirked. "You came all this way just to window-shop?"
"I came to see the terms," I said, crossing my arms. "This isn't a job—it's a transaction. And I don't sign anything I haven't read twice."
A pause.
Then he stood—or tried to, wincing slightly from the strain on his shoulder. My instinct was to move toward him, to help, but I held still. So did he.
"Take the contract," he said. "Read it. Rip it up, if you want. But while you're here, I expect presence. Eyes on me. Mind in the room."
I nodded once. No promises. Just acknowledgment.
He gestured toward the woman in the hallway. "Miriam will show you to your quarters. We'll speak later."
I grabbed the folder, heavy with ink and implications, and followed Miriam in silence.