The rain fell in soft sheets against the penthouse windows, painting streaks across the glass and blurring the view of the city skyline. Distant thunder rumbled like a tired drum, and the evening clouds loomed low, heavy with unspoken tension.
Liam Hart sat still, unmoving, in his custom-built wheelchair near the window. His face was turned toward the outside world, but his eyes were blank, unfocused. To the bustling city below, he was a powerful billionaire who'd disappeared from public view after a freak accident. But inside this quiet apartment, Liam felt like a prisoner of his own body and the silence that came with it.
He hated the wheelchair. Hated the sling around his shoulder, the tight brace on his knee, the way every simple task now felt like climbing a mountain. What he hated more than all of it was the look on people's faces—the pity, the caution, the way they danced around him like he might break if they said the wrong thing.
His sister had insisted on hiring another caregiver. The third one in two weeks. He hadn't bothered learning the names of the last two. One cried after a day. The other left quietly after he told her to stop treating him like a dying child.
This one wouldn't be any different.
The elevator dinged.
Liam didn't move.
He heard the soft shuffle of footsteps across the marble floor, a suitcase wheel clicking lightly over a tile. A woman's voice followed—calm, measured, not sugary sweet like the last one.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Hart. I'm Ava Monroe. Your new caregiver."
Still, he didn't turn.
He hated introductions. They were always the same—a forced smile, a handshake, the awkward exchange of professional niceties. But she didn't wait for him. He heard the sound of her opening her bag and placing something on the coffee table.
He finally turned halfway in his chair, looking over his shoulder.
She was nothing like he expected.
No pastel scrubs. No exaggerated cheerfulness. Ava stood in a navy blouse tucked into black pants, a neat ponytail at her back. No overdone makeup, just a fresh face and sharp eyes. She wasn't smiling, but she didn't look miserable either. She looked… capable.
And unafraid.
"You're braver than the last one," he said, folding his arms.
"I get that a lot."
"You'll probably cry by the end of the day."
"I haven't cried in four years. You won't be the one to break the streak."
He raised a brow, mildly impressed. "You always come in this confident?"
"Only when it's necessary."
He let the silence settle between them for a moment. Outside, a taxi honked somewhere far below. Inside, Ava calmly picked up a leather-bound folder and laid it flat on the table.
"This has your therapy schedule, meal plan, and a two-week progress chart," she said. "We'll adjust based on your pain levels and mobility."
"I'm not following some stranger's chart," Liam said flatly.
"That's fine. You can stay exactly how you are, then."
She said it so plainly that he blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She looked him dead in the eye. "You don't want help, that's your choice. But don't waste my time acting like you're fine. You're not. And until you decide you want to get better, I'll just be the person making sure you don't fall over while you try to act like a superhero."
Liam stared at her, taken off guard by her directness. Most people tiptoed. Ava bulldozed.
"Do you talk to all your patients like this?"
"Only the stubborn ones."
He leaned back in his chair, a small, involuntary chuckle escaping his lips.
"Where did Elise find you?"
"I work through a private rehabilitation agency. Your sister called. I accepted."
"I told her not to."
"And she ignored you. That should tell you something."
He rolled his chair forward and eyed her carefully. "You don't care that I'm rich?"
"I care that you're rude."
Another chuckle. This time louder.
Ava moved to pick up her suitcase. "I'll be in the guest room across the hall. We start at 7:15 tomorrow morning. You'll hate me by 7:20."
"You're assuming I'll show up."
"You're too competitive not to," she replied, walking away.
Twenty minutes passed before Liam wheeled into the kitchen, more curious than hungry. He didn't expect her to cook—most of the others hadn't—but the smell of onions and garlic filled the air, and Ava stood at the stove like she'd been there a hundred times before.
She didn't look at him when he rolled in.
"You're in my kitchen," he said.
"You mean the one filled with expired groceries and a freezer full of takeout boxes?" she replied. "I'm doing your stomach a favor."
He leaned against the counter. "Are you trying to impress me?"
"No. I'm trying to feed you."
"I can order food."
"You could. Or you could try this," she said, plating grilled chicken and roasted vegetables like it was second nature.
He watched her. She didn't fumble. Didn't try to flatter him. She didn't talk unless she had something to say.
"Do you have experience with people like me?" he asked.
"Wounded millionaires with attitude problems? A few," she said. "But I've worked with combat veterans, children with spinal injuries, stroke survivors... You're not the hardest case I've seen. Just the most dramatic."
"I'm not dramatic."
"You're brooding by a window in a penthouse, refusing therapy and lashing out at anyone who tries to help."
He opened his mouth. Then I closed it.
She handed him a fork.
"You can sulk or you can eat."
He took the fork.
They ate in silence for a while. The food was good. Better than he expected. Homemade in a way that felt foreign to this house.
"Do you always do everything yourself?" he asked.
"Most of the time."
"No husband? Boyfriend?"
"No time. No interest. Why?"
"Just curious."
She gave him a look. "Let's keep the curiosity on your recovery."
He smirked. "Touché."
By evening, Liam had retreated to his favorite corner—the living room by the glass wall. The rain had slowed, but the sky was still smeared with storm-gray clouds. The lights of the city blinked slowly beneath them, like fireflies waiting to be noticed.
He watched as Ava moved silently through the hallway, organizing her space. She was efficient, methodical, careful with everything but not stiff. She moved like someone who didn't waste energy.
He found himself wondering more about her—where she came from, what she did when she wasn't being the most frustratingly capable woman he'd ever met. She wasn't trying to fit into his world. That made her stand out more.
A few minutes later, she returned and dropped a blanket over his lap without asking.
"Temperature's dropping," she said. "Don't let your joints stiffen up."
"You're not very gentle."
"Not paid to be gentle," she replied. "Paid to get you better."
"And what if I don't want to get better?"
"Then you're wasting both of our time."
Liam tilted his head. "Have you ever lost a patient?"
"Yes."
"How did that feel?"
Ava didn't answer for a long time.
"Like failing someone who trusted you," she said quietly. "And like losing a friend."
He didn't say anything after that. Neither did she.
But something shifted in the quiet.
That night, long after she'd gone to her room, Liam sat awake in his bed. The city glowed beneath him, and rain tapped gently on the windows again.
For the first time in a while, he wasn't thinking about his injury.
He was thinking about a woman who didn't flinch at his words, didn't bow to his name, and somehow still made his penthouse feel less… hollow.
And for reasons he didn't understand yet, he didn't want her to leave.
Not tomorrow. Not soon.
Maybe not ever.