The Billionaire’s Broken Contract

Chapter 10: Hidden Kindness

Riley's POV

The small white bottle sat on my nightstand like a question mark.

I picked it up, turning it over in my hands while reading the label: "Alprazolam - For anxiety - Take as needed." My name was on the prescription, but I hadn't filled it. I'd never even been to see a doctor.

Yet here it was, along with a note in Marcus's neat handwriting: "The Dr. is expecting you on Thursday at 2 PM for follow-up."

I set the bottle down, my hands trembling slightly as the plastic clicked against the wood surface. Someone had arranged everything. The doctor's visit I didn't remember making, the prescription I didn't remember filling, the medication that would help with the panic attacks that had been destroying my life.

Someone who didn't want me to know he'd helped.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. I quickly shoved the bottle into the nightstand drawer. "Come in."

Mrs. Cheni entered with a breakfast tray. "Mr. Graham wanted me to make sure you ate something substantial today."

I looked up from where I was sitting on the edge of the bed. "He did?"

"He was very specific about the menu. Said you needed protein and vitamins." She set the tray on the small table by the window. "There's also fresh orange juice and herbal tea for anxiety."

Herbal tea for anxiety. How did Brett know about natural remedies for panic attacks?

"Mrs. Cheni," I said, standing up and smoothing down my robe. "Can I ask you something?"

She straightened. "Of course."

"Has Mr.Graham ever done things like this before? For other women?"

Mrs. Cheni's expression grew careful,"What kind of things?"

"Arranging medical care. Leaving medications. Taking care of someone without telling them."

"Mr. Graham is a very private man about his kindnesses." She moved to the window and adjusted the curtains slightly.

"His kindness?" The word felt strange on my tongue.

"He doesn't like people to know when he helps them. Says it makes them weak, dependent." She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the tablecloth, her movements nervous. "But between you and me, he's been helping people quietly for years."

I sat down at the small table, leaning forward with interest. "What kind of help?"

"Foster children aging out of the system. Homeless families. People who remind him of..." She stopped herself, pressing her lips together. "I shouldn't say more."

"People who remind him of what?" I pressed, sensing this was important.

Mrs. Cheni looked toward the door, then back at me, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Himself. When he was young."

After she left, I sat at the small table, picking at my breakfast while my mind raced. Brett had been in foster care, just like the story in his file said. He understood what it felt like to be powerless, dependent on others for survival.

Was that why he was helping me? Or was there something else?

I decided to test my theory. That afternoon, I found Brett in his office, reviewing contracts with his usual intense focus. He looked up when I entered, his expression neutral.

"Thank you," I said simply, standing in front of his desk.

He set down his pen as he arched his brows. "For what?"

"The medication. The doctor's appointment."

His jaw time. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I took a step closer to his desk. "The prescription bottle in my room. The appointment with Dr. Sam."

"Marcus handles all medical arrangements." He picked up another document, not meeting my eyes. "If you have questions, ask him."

"I'm asking you." My voice was steady despite my racing heart.

Brett set down his pen again, harder this time. His gray eyes cold. "Are you questioning my word?"

"No," I said, lifting my chin. "I'm thanking you for helping me."

"I didn't help you. I don't help anyone." He stood abruptly, his chair rolling back as he moved to the window. "You're useful to me in a specific capacity. If you're too mentally unstable to fulfill that role, then I'll find someone who can."

I felt like he'd slapped me. "Is that really how you see me? As just useful?"

"That's exactly how I see you." He turned back, his expression hard. "You're easily replaceable, Riley. Don't forget that."

But as he said it, something flickered in his eyes. Something that looked almost like... regret?

"I should go," I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, you should." He turned back to the window, his shoulders rigid.

I walked to the door then paused. "Brett?"

"What?"

"When I had the panic attack yesterday, you knew exactly what to do. You knew how to help me breathe, how to calm me down." I turned to face him fully. "That's not something you learn from books."

His face went completely blank,"Get out."

I took a step back into the room instead of leaving. "You've had them too, haven't you? Panic attacks."

"GET OUT!" The roar echoed through the office as I flinched but didn't move, my feet planted firmly on the carpet.

"I'm going," I said quietly, my voice steady despite my shaking hands. "But thank you. For everything. Whether you admit it or not."

I left him standing by the window, his shoulders rigid with tension, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

That evening, I was in the kitchen making tea, when Marcus found me.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, pulling out a chair and sitting across from me.

"Better. The medication helped." I wrapped my hands around my warm mug.

"Good. Dr. Sam is excellent and very discreet." He poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot, the liquid steaming in his cup.

"Marcus," I said, studying his face in the soft kitchen lighting. "Can I ask you something?"

"Depends on what it is." His tone was cautious but not unfriendly.

"Does Brett really see me as just useful? As easily replaceable?"

Marcus poured cream into his coffee, stirring it slowly while considering his words carefully. "Mr. Graham has a complicated relationship with attachment. He's learned to protect himself by keeping people at a distance."

I leaned forward across the small table. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I can give you." He set down his spoon and met my eyes. "But I will say this in eight years of working for him, I've never seen him pay such close attention to someone's wellbeing."

My heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"

Marcus glanced toward the doorway, then lowered his voice. "The security footage from your room. He watches it sometimes, late at night. Making sure you're sleeping, that you're not having nightmares." His voice was gentle, almost sad. "He knows exactly when you take your medication, when you eat, when you cry."

I felt my breath catch. "He watches me?"

"He tells himself it's about monitoring your behavior, making sure you're not planning to break the contract." Marcus took a sip of his coffee, his eyes serious over the rim. "But I've seen the look on his face when he thinks you're in distress."

"What kind of look?" I whispered.

Marcus set down his cup with a soft clink. "The kind a man gets when he's terrified of losing something."

I stared at Marcus, trying to process this information while my heart hammered against my ribs. "Then why does he treat me the way he does?"

Marcus's smile was sad and knowing. "Because he's more afraid of caring about you than he is of losing you."

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind spinning. Brett was watching me through the security cameras. He'd arranged for my medical care. He'd helped me through my panic attack with the skill of someone who'd experienced them himself.

But he'd also humiliated me in front of his friends, made me stand in the corner like a child, and told me I was easily replaceable.

Which version was the real Brett Graham?

And why did I find myself hoping that the man who watched over me in the dark, who made sure I was safe and cared for, was the one hiding behind all that cruelty?

As I drifted off to sleep, I could have sworn I heard footsteps in the hallway outside my door. Slow, hesitant, like someone who wanted to knock but couldn't bring themselves to do it.

I held my breath, listening, but after a moment, the footsteps moved away.

In the morning, I'd find a small vase with fresh flowers on my windowsill, and a note in handwriting I didn't recognize: "Sleep well."