Emily's POV
I stood in the doorway of the biggest room I'd I stood in the doorway of the biggest room I'd ever seen. The study was vast, with walls lined floor-to-ceiling with books. The huge desk in front of me probably cost more than everything I owned combined.
And then there was him.
Victor Hawthorne sat behind the desk, his wheelchair angled slightly to one side. His sharp eyes, darker than any I'd ever seen, locked onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. His expression was a mix of curiosity and irritation, as though my presence was an inconvenience he hadn't accounted for.
Despite the wheelchair, despite the silver threading through his dark hair, despite being old enough to be my father, Victor Hawthorne radiated a commanding presence that filled the entire room.
When I got that letter about the job as a caregiver, I never thought it would lead me here. To be honest, it seemed too good to be true. But I was desperate, and desperation makes you do crazy things.
So here I was, in the home of one of the richest men in the country, wearing old scrubs and feeling very out of place.
I felt the heat rising to my face as he kept asking me questions a normal employer would ask, even though I felt uncomfortable with his tone. All the while, his gaze was heavy and unblinking.
A man I guessed was the butler , who I had seen earlier came in and asked Victor if he wanted his lunch.
"Get her some juice instead," Victor said, still looking at me. "I'll explain her duties."
He hesitated, his sharp eyes flicking toward me for the briefest moment before he inclined his head. "Very well, sir."
As the butler exited, Victor's attention returned to me. "My schedule requires a degree of order that I suspect you'll find challenging. Nonetheless, I expect you to adapt."
I swallowed hard, nodding. "Of course, Mr. Hawthorne."
He gestured toward a nearby couch. "Help me there." This is your first task. I need to transfer from my wheelchair to the couch for my afternoon physiotherapy. Show me how you'd assist."
My heart kicked into a higher gear. This was a test. One I couldn't afford to fail.
I stood, moving around the desk toward him. "Have you done this before? Transferred to the couch?"
"Daily. For five years."
"Then you know what works for you. Talk me through it."
"You're not a sack of flour, Mr. Hawthorne. You're a person with preferences. I'd rather do this right the first time than have to learn from mistakes that cause you pain."
He studied me for a long moment. "Lock the wheelchair brakes. Left side first, then right. Position it at a forty-five-degree angle to the couch. I'll tell you when the distance is right."
I followed his instructions, my hands surprisingly steady despite my nerves. The wheelchair was heavier than I expected, the mechanisms foreign to me. But I'd learned long ago that confidence mattered more than experience, at least in the beginning.
"Good," he said when I'd positioned it correctly. "Now, I'm going to grip your shoulders for stability. You'll need to support my weight from the right side. Don't try to lift me, let me do the work. You're just a guide. Understood?"
"Understood."
His hands gripped my shoulders, strong despite his paralyzed legs. I felt the warmth of his fingers through my thin scrubs, smelled his expensive cologne mixed with something else….coffee, maybe, and old books.
"On three," he said. "One. Two. Three."
He pushed up from the wheelchair with his arms, his upper body strength evident. I steadied him from the side, one hand on his back, the other supporting his right arm. For a moment we were suspended there, his weight leaning into me, his face inches from mine.
His eyes were even darker up close. Almost black.
Then he was pivoting, and I was guiding him down to the couch, and we'd done it. Smoothly. No stumbling, no pain.
Victor settled against the cushions, breathing only slightly harder from the exertion. "Not bad, Miss Greene."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet. That was the easy part." He gestured toward his legs. "I need to do a series of stretches to maintain muscle tone and circulation. I'll walk you through each one. Pay attention, I won't repeat myself."
For the next forty-five minutes, Victor put me through my paces. He taught me each stretch, each exercise, correcting my grip with sharp words when I got it wrong. His legs were heavier than I expected, the muscles weak from disuse but still present under expensive slacks.
"Gentle," he snapped when I moved too quickly. "Are you trying to tear my hamstring?"
"I'm sorry, I…"
"Don't apologize. Just do it right."
I bit back a retort and adjusted my technique. By the time we finished, sweat beaded on my forehead despite the study's perfect climate control.
"Adequate," Victor said, which I was beginning to realize was high praise from him. "Help me back to the wheelchair."
We reversed the process, and this time it went even more smoothly. As I locked his wheelchair brakes again, Victor wheeled himself back behind his desk, putting distance between us.
"Jenkins will provide you with a detailed schedule," he said, his tone shifting back to businesslike. "My meals are at fixed times. My medications must be administered exactly as prescribed…no exceptions. I expect punctuality, professionalism, and discretion. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"The salary is non-negotiable. Eight thousand dollars per month for now, paid on the first. Meals provided when you're working. Any questions?"
Eight thousand dollars. The number ricocheted around my skull. That was... that was more than I made in Four months at both my jobs combined.
"Miss Greene?" His voice pulled me back. "Questions?"
"When do I start?"
"Tomorrow. 7 AM sharp. Don't be late."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. This was it. This was the miracle I'd prayed for.
"One more thing," Victor said as I turned to leave. "I go through caregivers quickly, Miss Greene. Most can't handle my... temperament. If you think crying will earn you sympathy, you're mistaken. I expect excellence, and I tolerate nothing less. Clear?"
I met his gaze one final time. "Crystal clear, Mr. Hawthorne. I'll see you tomorrow."
As I walked out of his study, I felt his eyes on my back. Heavy. Assessing.
I'd gotten the job. Against all odds, I'd gotten it.
As if on cue, Jenkins appeared in the doorway, holding a silver tray with juice and biscuits. He didn't say a word, only motioned for me to follow him.
—
The bus ride home was a blur. The emotional exhaustion from working with Mr. Hawthorne weighed heavy on my shoulders. Every word he'd spoken felt like a needle pricking my confidence.
When I walked into our apartment, Lily ran to greet me, her smile wide and infectious.
"Mommy! Mrs. Johnson was here to help! She took care of me and Grandma!"
Relief washed over me. "That's wonderful, sweetie." I smoothed her hair, grateful beyond words. "Do you think she's home?"
"I guess so. She just left a few minutes ago."
I kissed Lily's forehead. "I'll be right back, okay?"
I crossed the hallway and knocked softly on Mrs. Johnson's door. She opened it almost immediately, her kind face breaking into a warm smile.
"Emily! Come in, come in. How did it go?"
I stepped inside, suddenly overcome with emotion. "Mrs. Johnson, I can't thank you enough for watching them today. And... I got the job."
Her eyes lit up. "Oh honey, that's wonderful! See? I told you it might be that miracle you needed."
"It is," I said, my voice thick. "The pay is... it's more than I could have hoped for. But there's one thing, the employer wants to remain anonymous. I can't tell anyone who I'm working for."
Mrs. Johnson waved a hand dismissively. "That's fine, dear. Rich people have their quirks. What matters is that you've got steady work and good pay."
She reached out and squeezed my hand. "And don't you worry about a thing here. I can help check on your mom and Lily whenever you need. I've got nothing but time, and it does this old heart good to be useful."
Tears pricked my eyes. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You're not without me, so you don't have to worry about that." She patted my cheek. "Now go home to that beautiful girl of yours."
Back in my apartment, Lily bounced over to me, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Mommy! Mommy! Look!" She held up a sheet of paper, waving it like a flag. "I got an A on my math test!"
My heart swelled as I knelt down to hug her. "That's amazing, sweetie. I'm so proud of you."
She beamed, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself feel genuinely happy. Maybe things really were starting to look up.
I checked on mom, adjusted her blanket, before heading to the kitchen to start dinner.
That night, after tucking Lily into bed and settling Mom for the evening, I sat at the kitchen table and allowed myself a moment to breathe. Yes, Mr. Hawthorne was difficult. Yes, today had been grueling. But I had a job. A real job with real money.
Tomorrow would be better, I told myself. It had to be.
Three Weeks Later…
The next three weeks continued in much the same way. No matter what I did, it wasn't good enough. Mr. Hawthorne found fault with everything, how I cleaned, how I organized his papers, even how I walked.
"Miss Greene!" his voice bellowed from the study one afternoon. I rushed in, nearly dropping the tray of medications I was carrying.
"What is this?"
He gestured to the glass of water on his desk. I blinked, confused. "Your water, sir. As you requested."
"I specifically asked for room temperature water. This is clearly chilled." His eyes bored into me, daring me to contradict him.
I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to point out that he had made no such specification. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hawthorne. I'll replace it immediately."
Mr. Hawthorne seemed determined to make my life as difficult as possible. Nothing I did was ever good enough, fast enough, or quiet enough. Part of me wanted to pack my bags and leave.
But I couldn't leave. No matter how hard this job was, no matter how cruel Mr. Hawthorne could be, I had to stick it out. My family was counting on me.
Because for all his impossible demands and cold demeanor, the job was saving us.
Just last week, I'd walked into Mr. Grissom's office with an envelope containing every penny I owed him, four months' worth of back rent. His shocked expression had been almost worth the months of anxiety.
"Well," he'd grunted, counting the bills twice. "I suppose this means you're staying."
"Yes, sir. And I'll be on time from now on."
He'd nodded curtly, but I'd caught something that might have been respect in his eyes as I left.
Two days ago, I'd finally walked into Dr. Landon's office and picked up Mom's medications, all of them. No more choosing between pills. The relief on the pharmacist's face when I paid the full amount in cash had matched my own.
And just yesterday, I'd taken Lily shopping, really shopping, not just scraping together enough for the bare necessities. We'd gotten her three new outfits for school, a proper winter coat, and yes, another pair of shoes, added to the pink one I got earlier.
"Are you sure, Mommy?" she'd asked, her eyes wide as I added items to our cart. "Can we really afford this?"
"Yes, baby," I'd said, fighting back happy tears. "We really can."
For the first time in years, I'd paid my electricity bill before the disconnect notice arrived. I'd bought little groceries and even managed to put a little money aside in savings, not much, just fifty dollars.
So when Mr. Hawthorne barked at me about the water temperature, when he criticized my handwriting on his daily log, when he made me redo tasks I'd already completed perfectly well, I took a deep breath and reminded myself why I was there.
That night, as I collapsed into bed exhausted and disheartened, I let myself cry. The job was crushing my spirit, bit by bit.
The money was good, better than good, if I was being honest. But at what cost to my sanity?