Chapter 2 - The Counsel’s Smile and the Poisoned DripMy blood ran cold. If Julian Vance opened that door and found me kneeling beside the bathtub in a locked, steam-filled room discussing neurotoxins with a mob boss who was supposed to be paralyzed, we would both be dead before the water went cold.
Maxwell’s eyes locked onto mine. Without a word, he shifted his weight, his upper body muscles straining as he gripped the marble rim and dragged his legs beneath the water, obscuring any sign of movement.
“Give me five minutes, Julian,” Maxwell called out, his voice returning to its usual gravelly, commanding authority, though a faint tremor betrayed the immense effort it took to keep it steady. “Leave the papers on the study desk.”
“Are you sure you don't need assistance, sir?” Julian’s voice lingered behind the wood, smooth and persistent like oil on water. “Miss Delaney said you’ve been in the bath for an hour. With your condition, it’s dangerous to be unattended.”
“I said leave them, Julian,” Maxwell barked, the sound sharp enough to snap glass.
Outside, there was a brief, tense pause. Then came the soft scrape of leather shoes turning against the hardwood floor, followed by the distant click of the study door closing down the hall.
I let out a long, shuddering breath I hadn't realized I was holding, sinking back onto my heels against the tiled floor.
“He’s one of them,” I whispered, looking up at Maxwell.
“Julian has managed my corporate portfolios for eight years,” Maxwell said grimly, water rippling as he slowly relaxed his grip on the tub. He looked down at his own legs beneath the swirling gray water, his expression dark. “He’s family. Or at least, he was supposed to be.”
“Family doesn't poison your morning coffee or spike your evening tonic with synthetic curare derivatives,” I replied sharply. “Think about who prepares your meals. Who handles your private quarters? Who brought you here after the port accident?”
Maxwell’s gaze darkened into a storm. “After the collapse at the terminal, Julian insisted on hiring a private medical staff. He claimed it was for my own protection, to ensure my privacy while I recovered from spinal surgery. I haven't seen an independent doctor in over a year. Only the physician Julian personally vetted—Dr. Hayes.”
“Dr. Hayes isn't a physician; he’s an executioner in a lab coat,” I said, standing up and brushing my knees. “He’s been dosing you just enough to suppress motor function, mimic permanent paralysis, and rot your nervous system from the inside out, while Julian quietly transferred ownership of your shipping terminals, warehouses, and dummy corporations into his own name.”
Maxwell looked up at me, a strange, heavy intensity in his gray eyes. For the first time, he wasn't looking at a subordinate or a servant. He was looking at his only lifeline.
“If what you’re saying is true, Martha, they’ll kill you the moment they realize you know,” Maxwell said quietly. “They don't leave loose ends in Rourke House.”
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“Then it’s a good thing,” I replied, walking toward the door and checking the lock, “that I’m very good at not getting caught.”
I unlocked the heavy door and slipped out into the dim hallway before anyone could return, leaving Maxwell alone in the steam—not as a broken man in a wheelchair anymore, but as a predator waking up from a three-year trap.
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