My world shattered when my fiancé abandoned me just weeks before our wedding, leading me to accept a live-in nursing role for a paralyzed billionaire, only to be stunned by a chilling discovery on my first night

Bring your credentials and references. The address will be texted shortly. Do not be late.

The line went dead. At 4.30 a.m., I boarded the earliest flight out of Helena to San Francisco, connecting to a regional shuttle that climbed the hills of Cyprus until it left the real world behind. Everything felt like a dream I hadn’t earned.

And then I saw the house. It looked like a modern fortress, glass, steel, and sharp edges woven into the cliffside as if someone had carved a mansion out of sunlight and stone. A long black gate swung open as my cab approached.

And for a second, I wanted to tell the driver to turn around. Too late. Margaret Temple met me at the front door.

A woman in her sixties, thin as wire, hair pulled into a tight twist, dark blue suit without a wrinkle. She looked me up and down with the precision of someone who had worked in either the military or hospital. You’re early, she said.

I didn’t want to be late. Good. Follow me.

The interview was swift. She glanced over my resume, asked four questions, didn’t smile once, and finally said, The position is yours, Ms. Carter. The terms are simple.

Round-the-clock availability. Two days off per month. No visitors.

Medical knowledge is crucial. Discretion is non-negotiable. Your patient is a complicated man.

You will be living on the second floor, adjacent to his suite. Meals and lodging are included. Salary, $12,000 per month, plus performance bonus depending on the condition’s progression.

I tried not to react. I still remember gripping the arms of the chair to keep from laughing out loud. It was more than triple what I made at the hospital.

I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have anything but an overstuffed duffel bag and a bleeding heart. But I said yes.

I said it without hesitating. Margaret slid a folder across the table. This is your contract.

Review it before tomorrow. Your patient is Mr. Ryan Hale. The name meant nothing to me then.

It would soon mean everything. The next morning, I stood outside his door, folder in hand, heart thudding. The hallway was quiet, hushed by the kind of carpet that swallowed footsteps.

Everything about this house was polished and cold. Stone floors, sleek lines, expensive silence. Margaret stood beside me, clipboard pressed to her chest.

You’re sure you want this? She asked without looking at me. I signed the contract. That’s not what I asked.

I swallowed, yes. She knocked twice, then opened the door without waiting for a response. The room was large, too large.

Vaulted ceilings, glass walls looking out over a stretch of redwood trees. Sunlight bleeding across pale hardwood floors. It felt less like a bedroom and more like a throne room built for a ghost.

He was by the window in a sleek black wheelchair, back to us. Mr. Hale, Margaret said crisply, your new nurse has arrived, Emily Carter. He didn’t turn right away, just sat there, fingers slowly tapping the armrest.

Then finally he pivoted and my breath caught. I don’t know what I expected, an older man maybe, someone frail, but Ryan Hale was young, maybe mid thirties, tall even while seated, short dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes like cut glass, and yet there was something exhausted about him. His skin was pale, his frame lean, but his expression, his expression was the thing that warned me.

He looked at me like I was already disappointing him. So, he said, voice low and biting, they sent me another one. I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off.

What’s the bet this time, Margaret? A week? Ten days. Margaret didn’t answer. She only said, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted, and left, shutting the door behind her.

Silence stretched. I’m not here to place bets, I said finally, just to do my job. He rolled his chair a few feet closer, examining me like I was a piece of art he didn’t particularly like.

And what job do you think that is? Medication, physical therapy, monitoring vitals, supporting rehabilitation. He snorted. You forgot the part where you nod sympathetically while I fail to walk again.

That’s usually everyone’s favorite part. I didn’t flinch. I’m not here to pity you.

He tilted his head slightly. Oh, that’s new. Most of them crack by day three.

Maybe I’ll surprise you. Maybe, he said, though the smirk that curled at the edge of his mouth made it clear he didn’t believe a word. We went through the day in stiff silence.

I administered medication, reviewed his physical therapy plan, took notes. Ryan kept making barb comments, testing me, pushing. But I didn’t bite.

I’d worked with veterans who lost limbs, teenagers who screamed through every injection, mothers who wept through morphine highs. Ryan Hale was not going to scare me. That evening, as I prepped his room for the night, he said suddenly, You’re not what I expected…