Chapter 2 - The Diagnosis in the SteamThe silence that followed stretched thin and dangerous, vibrating against the damp stone walls of the pavilion. Vince took a threatening step forward, his broad shoulders tensing, but I held my hand up to halt him.
The young woman—who hadn't even bothered to introduce herself—stood her ground. She was wrapped in my heavy charcoal robe, her damp hair clinging to her neck, looking remarkably small against the grand backdrop of the thermal baths, yet her eyes held an unwavering, piercing intelligence.
“I said,” she repeated, her voice steady despite the obvious exhaustion in her frame, “that the tremor in your hand isn't neurological. It’s orthopedic. Or worse, psychological trauma manifesting through a severe nerve impingement or structural damage in your right shoulder joint.”
Vince scoffed quietly, shaking his head. “Ma'am, you’re trespassing on private property, and now you’re diagnosing the resort owner like a cheap parlor trick. Step away.”
“I’m not playing tricks,” she retorted, flashing a brief, bitter look at my security chief before turning back to me. “Look at the way you hold your right shoulder, sir. It’s slightly elevated, locked into a fixed brace. You’re overcompensating for a clavicle or rotator cuff injury that never healed properly because you refuse to slow down long enough for physical therapy.”
She wasn't wrong.
Every single word she spoke struck with the terrifying precision of a scalpel. Fourteen months ago, when my brother’s car wrapped around a concrete bridge abutment, my shoulder had taken the brunt of the dashboard impact. The best orthopedic surgeons in Boston had patched me up, but the relentless pace of running my family’s multi-billion-dollar resort empire left zero time for rehab. The chronic, dull ache had become my daily companion, and the hand tremor was the body's way of screaming for relief that I consistently denied it.
“You’ve spent time in a clinical setting,” I observed quietly, lowering my arms. “You notice things ordinary guests don't.”
“I told you, I was halfway through my third year of nursing school before my mother’s stroke,” she replied, her shoulders slumping slightly beneath my oversized robe. “You learn to read bodies when you spend twelve hours a day turning patients who can't move themselves.”
“What’s your name?”
She hesitated, her eyes flickering toward the exit as if calculating her chances of outrunning Vince. “Elena. Elena Vance. No relation to your corporate empire, before you ask.”
A faint, humorless smirk crossed my face. “Elena. Well, Elena Vance, you break into my private sanctuary, sleep through a volcanic steam bath, insult my security protocols, and diagnose my physical ailments in less than ten minutes. You’re remarkably efficient for someone who claims to be exhausted.”
“I didn't break in,” she shot back, a sudden spark of genuine anger flashing in her eyes. “The gate was unlocked, and there was no warning sign. And as for your shoulder—you’re welcome. Though knowing guys like you, you’ll probably fire your doctor tomorrow out of wounded pride.”
Vince stepped in, his expression thunderous. “That’s enough. You’re leaving right now.”
Elena didn't argue. She turned on her heel, marched over to the bench where Ruth had left the clean clothes, changed out of my robe behind a privacy screen with practiced speed, and left the pavilion without looking back.
As the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind her, Vince exhaled sharply. “She’s dangerous, sir. Or at the very least, a liability. Shall I have her followed?”
May you like
I stared at the empty spot by the mineral pool where she had been sleeping. The water still rippled softly.
“No,” I said, walking slowly toward the exit. “Find out which room she and her ‘union raffle’ friend are staying in. And check her medical background. Quietly.”
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