The Secret Mother And Her Cruel Tycoon

The uniform was polyester. It scratched.

It was two sizes too small, the hem riding high on her thighs, the fabric tight across her chest. It was designed to humiliate, to strip away the last remnants of Aislinn Mann, the art appraiser, and replace her with a generic, nameless servant.

She stood in the hallway, the tray in her hands trembling slightly. Marta had ordered her to take coffee to the living room.

"I need a phone," she said to Marta's retreating back. "I have a right to a phone call."

Marta stopped. She turned slowly. She was a woman made of angles and starch. "There is no signal on the island, Miss Mann. And the landlines are restricted."

"Restricted? This is kidnapping."

"This is employment," she corrected. "To work off a debt."

She walked away.

She dropped the tray on a side table. The china rattled. She didn't care. She needed a way out.

She moved toward the double doors at the end of the hall. She could hear voices.

She pushed the doors open.

The living room was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a churning grey ocean. But her eyes went to the center of the room.

The man-Augustine-was sitting in his wheelchair. His sleeve was rolled up. A doctor was prepping a vein in his arm. An IV bag hung from a stand, filled with a clear liquid.

"I am not a maid!" she shouted, stepping into the room. "And I am not staying here!"

The doctor jumped, the needle slipping in his gloved hand.

Augustine looked up. His face was grey. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He looked worse than he had an hour ago.

"Get her out," he rasped.

Jericho moved from the corner, his hand going to his belt.

"I want to leave!" She took another step forward.

Augustine opened his mouth to bark an order, but no sound came out.

His eyes rolled back.

The glass of water in his hand slipped. It hit the hardwood floor and shattered.

Augustine's body went rigid. His back arched off the wheelchair, his arms seizing up against his chest. A guttural, choking noise came from his throat.

"He's seizing!" the doctor yelled. "Get the diazepam!"

The nurse fumbled with a bag. The doctor tried to hold Augustine's shoulders down, pushing him back into the chair.

"No!" she screamed.

She saw the color of Augustine's lips. They were turning blue.

"He's choking!" She ran across the room.

"Stay back!" Jericho shouted. He pulled his gun. The barrel was black and stared right at her chest.

She ignored it. She ignored the gun. She ignored the fear. She only saw the man dying in the chair.

"Get him on the floor!" She shoved the doctor aside. He was too panicked to resist. "He's swallowing his tongue! You can't keep him upright!"

She grabbed Augustine's shirt. He was heavy, dead weight and rigid muscle. She pulled. He tumbled out of the wheelchair, taking her with him.

They hit the floor hard. She scrambled to position herself.

"Don't shoot her!" the doctor yelled at Jericho.

She forced Augustine onto his side. His jaw was clamped shut. He was making terrible, wet gasping sounds.

"Come on," she gritted out. She jammed her fingers into the pressure point behind his jaw, forcing his mouth open. She swept two fingers into his mouth, clearing the saliva and blood where he'd bitten his cheek.

"Oxygen!" she barked at the nurse. "Now!"

She froze, staring at her.

"Do it!"

She scrambled to the tank.

She held him there, her body acting as a brace to keep him on his side. She could feel every tremor racking his body. He was burning up again.

"It's okay," she whispered, brushing the hair off his damp forehead. It was instinct. The same instinct she'd used for three years caring for her father after his stroke. "Breathe. Just breathe."

The seizure lasted forty seconds. It felt like forty years.

Finally, his muscles went lax. He slumped against her, heavy and limp. A ragged breath tore through his lungs. Then another.

She slumped back, sitting on her heels. Her hands were shaking. There was saliva on her uniform.

The room was silent.

Dr. Aris stared at her, his glasses askew. "Where did you learn that?"

"My father," she said, her voice hollow. "He was a vegetable for three years before he went to prison. I kept him alive."

A groan from the floor.

Augustine's eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, unfocused. He blinked, trying to clear the fog. His gaze landed on her.

She was kneeling over him, her hair falling around her face.

For a second, he didn't look like a tyrant. He looked... human. Scared.

"You..." he croaked.

"I saved your life," she said. "We're even."

Jericho stepped forward to help him up, but Augustine held up a hand. He stayed there, on the floor, looking at her. His vision was clearing. The coldness was returning to his grey eyes.

"Help him up," Dr. Aris ordered Jericho.

They hoisted him back into the wheelchair. He looked diminished, weak. He hated it. She could see the humiliation burning in his eyes. He hated that she had seen this.

"I saved you," she repeated, standing up. Her legs felt like jelly. "Let me go."

Augustine adjusted his cuffs. His hands were still trembling slightly. He clenched them into fists to hide it.

"You saved me because you know if I die, Jericho puts a bullet in your head," he said. His voice was raspy but steady.

"I saved you because I'm not a monster," she spat. "Unlike you."

He looked at Dr. Aris. "Is she useful?"

The doctor hesitated. "She... she knew exactly what to do. Better than the nurse. Her response time was immediate."

Augustine turned back to her. He studied her. Not as a woman, but as an asset. A piece of equipment that had just proven its functionality.

"You're no longer the maid," he said to her. "You're the nurse."

Jericho hesitated. "Sir?"

"She's not going anywhere," Augustine said. He rubbed his thumb over the heavy signet ring on his finger. "She's too valuable to lose now."

He looked at her. "You wanted a job? You have one. You keep me alive until the merger. Then we talk about your father."

"That wasn't the deal!"

"Deals change," he said. "Get her cleaned up."

He spun the wheelchair around and rolled toward his bedroom.

She stood there, panting, watching him leave. She walked to the window.

Ocean. Just endless, grey ocean crashing against black rocks.

She was on an island. There was no boat. No bridge.

She was trapped in a cage with a dying lion.