The shriek of the security alarm ripped through the bubble of pleasure with the brutality of a whip. Mario and Claudia went from ecstatic surrender to total paralysis. Claudia leaped out of bed, tripping over the nurse's gown on the floor, panic painted on her face. Mario, still with semen drying on his skin, remained impassive, his mind already in survival mode.
"Mario! What was that? The elevator... I heard the click," Claudia gasped, gathering her intimate clothes with trembling hands.
"Calm down, Claudia. Breathe. It's a sensor in the east wing, on the service door that leads to the kitchen. It's not Eleanor. Her arrival protocol is different," Mario said, his voice low and charged with cold authority. The adrenaline of arousal had transmuted into the adrenaline of danger. The erotic game was over; the war had just begun.
Mario turned on the tactile control panel embedded in his nightstand. Small video windows appeared. His gaze immediately focused on the image revealing the intruder: it wasn't a thief. It was Burton, the head of internal security for the mansion, a methodical man loyal to the family, but who reported directly to Eleanor in Mario's absence.
"It's Burton. Eleanor's idiot put him on early night rounds. He never does this. She must have smelled something, or she simply doesn't trust anyone," Mario explained, his jaw tight. "Listen closely. Burton cannot see us in this situation. You have thirty seconds to get dressed and one minute to restore the scene."
Claudia needed no further orders. Urgency made her agile. Her body, still damp with the sweat of passion, quickly slid into her nurse's uniform. The clothes, once a symbol of her power fantasy, were now her survival disguise.
"The smell, Mario. The air…" she murmured, her voice barely a whisper as she tried to vent the room. The strong scent of sex, sweat, and Claudia's perfume felt suffocating.
"Open the air filter. Quick! And the sheets," Mario ordered her to pull the top sheet to cover the dark, damp stain on the mattress. The speed of Claudia's movements was a tense dance, every touch between them an electric reminder of their recent intimacy, now a latent risk of discovery.
Claudia knelt to put Mario's pajama pants on him, the same pants she had removed only moments before. Her hands brushed the still-sensitive skin of his groin, where the moisture of her own body mixed with Mario's residue. She felt a shiver of excitement despite the terror.
"Ready. Get me up," Mario said, referring to his motorized wheelchair.
This was the most dangerous and slow step. Claudia had to roll the bed down, adjust the height, and then, using all her strength and technique, transfer Mario's dead weight from the cushioned mattress to the chair. Her muscles strained, their faces dangerously close. The effort was physical, not sexual, but the intimacy of the task, the mutual knowledge of each other's vulnerability, was absolute.
"Almost there…" Claudia said, pushing the chair's buttons to ensure Mario was seated correctly.
At that moment, Mario, looking at the monitor, whispered, his voice almost inaudible:
"He's in the hallway, Claudia. One minute and he's here. My face… it has to be the usual. Clinical tension. Nothing more. Get my file."
Claudia rushed to the nightstand, grabbed Mario's thick medical file, and opened it on his lap. The image she presented was that of the diligent nurse checking vital signs, the perfect disguise. She stood beside him, her breathing ragged.
The click of the elevator opening on Mario's floor resonated through the room. A few seconds later, Burton appeared in the doorway, his bulky body dressed in a neat uniform and his face expressionless.
"Mr. Hawthorne. Excuse the intrusion. Night rounds. The kitchen motion sensor gave a false positive," Burton explained, his voice monotonous. His hawk-like eyes, however, did not focus on the kitchen. They focused on Claudia's face, which was slightly flushed, and on the almost imperceptible disarray of her uniform.
"No problem, Burton," Mario said, his voice firm and icy, the voice of the magnate. It was a tone Claudia rarely heard, the tone he used with Eleanor. "Miss Mendoza was adjusting my nighttime medication. Is there anything unusual outside?"
Burton walked slowly around the room. His gaze swept over the bed (the slight crease in the sheet), the floor (where the gown had fallen), and then Mario's face. The silence grew heavy, each second an eternity. Burton could not know that, ten minutes earlier, that room had been the scene of a carnal explosion of forbidden desire.
"No, sir. Everything is quiet. Just checking procedures. I thought your day caregiver was here today," Burton said, subtly throwing a dart.
"Miss Mendoza is covering the night today. Staffing issues, Burton. Anything else?" Mario's voice was a veiled ultimatum.
Burton paused next to Mario's chair, his massive silhouette casting a shadow over both of them. He leaned in and noticed the slight flush on Claudia's neck.
"Just a little warm, Miss. Is the thermostat too high?" Burton asked, his eyes fixed on the reddish mark Mario had left on her neck when he desperately grabbed her.
Claudia felt her heart leap out of her chest. She had to lie with conviction.
"No, Mr. Burton. I just finished an intense passive physiotherapy session. I move his limbs to maintain blood flow, it's hard work," Claudia said, forcing a professional smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Burton seemed satisfied with the explanation. Physical exertion was a reasonable pretext for the sweat.
"Very well. Have a good night, Mr. Hawthorne. And you too, Miss Mendoza."
Burton withdrew, the click of the elevator being the sweetest sound Claudia had ever heard. She collapsed against the wall, trembling.
"Oh my God! That was… too close," Claudia whispered, her eyes full of tears of relief and terror.
"It was much too close. And Burton is not stupid. His question about physiotherapy… it wasn't a coincidence. Eleanor is making a move. She must have contacted him before returning," Mario said, clenching his fist. "We no longer have 48 hours, Claudia. We have perhaps eight. We have to leave at zero hour. Now."
Mario adjusted the controls of his chair, heading toward the door. Claudia followed him, her mind already focused on the plan.
"The briefcase. The evidence briefcase she gave you in Chapter 6," Claudia said, picking up the small leather case containing proof of Eleanor's scam.
"Yes. It's our insurance. Let's go to the control study, Claudia. I'm going to disable the cameras facing the hangar and erase the logs. Get ready. In fifteen minutes, we're going to the private airstrip. Zero hour has arrived," Mario said.
As they left the suite, Claudia allowed herself one last glance at the disordered room, at the trace of their passion under the sheet. The room was the last witness to their forbidden life.
**:** Mario and Claudia moved through the main hallway, a velvety darkness that gave them cover. As they passed the large window overlooking the interior courtyard, Claudia stopped dead. Her breath hitched in her throat. Another car. It was parked discreetly under the awning; it wasn't Eleanor's vehicle, nor Burton's. It was a black surveillance van, with small parabolic antennas. They weren't just being watched; they were being recorded.
"Mario," Claudia whispered, clutching the briefcase to her chest, "they've seen us."