The Billionaire's Runaway Nurse

13

“It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me.” Mrs. Green’s voice was gentle but firm, drawing me back from a place I’d let myself drift into, where perhaps I could stay quiet, inconspicuous, unbothered. But here I was, here she was, and it would be impolite to ignore her outright. Instead, I gave her what I hoped sounded like a diplomatic answer.

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, words hanging unformed at the edge of my mind, “it’s just…complicated.” I struggled to find the words.

Mrs. Green’s brows drew together, a mix of curiosity and skepticism in her expression. “Complicated? I don’t see what’s so complicated,” she replied, a note of disbelief sharpening her tone. “Your father is wealthy, and you—passionate, clearly gifted at interior design. You have the resources, the drive. Why wouldn’t you be free to pursue your passion?” There was something, a suggestion of irony or a bite in her voice that left me unsure if her concern was earnest or some veiled reproach.

I smiled bitterly, knowing how effortless it was for people to arrange assumptions about my life, assumptions tied up in illusions of privilege and gloss. “It isn’t that easy. People assume things that couldn’t be further from the truth. From a distance, yes, my life looks…,” I stopped myself. “Let’s just say that things aren’t always what they seem.”

Mrs. Green softened, her tone drifting to something I could nearly trust. “You know, if there’s anything—anything at all—you’d like to share, I’m here. I’d be happy to listen.”

I felt her hand on mine, and my instinct was to pull away, maybe even retreat to some darker recess of my mind where no one could reach. Her sympathy felt warm, like a blanket covering an old wound that had never fully healed, one that grew more tender with time, the kind of tenderness that could make you lose your footing. “It’s… I’m sorry, but it’s just too difficult to talk about,” I finally said, looking down to the table. The shadows of the cutlery, the stillness of my untouched plate—everything seemed conspicuously still, and I almost wanted her to go, to leave me with this disquiet that I knew how to bear alone.

Mrs. Green gave my hand a reassuring pat, not pressing further. I didn’t meet her eyes, focusing instead on my plate, pretending to busy myself with the food I had no appetite for. As I sat there, the hollowness of my own desire to confide felt heavier, more impossible to set down. I craved someone to open up to, someone to unburden my mind. Mrs. Green seemed trustworthy, and yet there were things that needed to stay mine, things buried in the mess of my life and the fault lines that divided it from the outside world. I had to be careful, silent, if I wanted to protect that part of myself.

What would I even tell her? That my father—despite all his wealth—saw his children as objects, easily molded and bent to his whims, extensions of himself rather than people? That his support was as distant as his attention, even as he insisted on controlling every part of my life? I wanted to explain how I’d had to let go of my studies, dreams of building a different future, just so my brother could have a shot, so he could be something. It had all been torn from me, diverted into jobs I neither loved nor hated, work that never fulfilled me but seemed to pad the wall my father built around his indulgences. Every paycheck he siphoned from me, it felt like he was cashing in on my very future.

Or maybe I would tell her about Liam—my brother, my absolute source of pride. He, too, felt the weight of our father’s expectations, this pressure to achieve, to become the bastion of our future in a way that was bound to drain him. While others his age were busy experimenting with freedom, with life, he had become a savior—working, dreaming, even suffering for our sake, all while carrying a burden he never should have borne alone. And then my mother. What could I say about her without being misunderstood? She’d loved us, yes, but somewhere in her absence, a disconnection had formed that nothing could repair, an emptiness that stayed even when she was there. She could have fixed this, maybe she could have even held us together if only she had dared to stand up to him. But she was gone now, and that possibility with her.

“Are you still with me, Mia?” Mrs. Green’s voice broke in, as if through water. I looked up, my vision blurred from holding back the tide of memories. “You haven’t touched your food. Are you alright?”

“I—yes. I’m sorry,” I said quickly, embarrassed, forcing my focus back to the plate as if it were of any consequence. My mind struggled to refocus. Mrs. Green was studying me intently. There was kindness in her gaze but an intensity, too, and I felt I could no longer withdraw.

“Were you always sensitive to dust?” she asked, almost out of the blue.

“Oh, that. Yes, since I was a child,” I replied absently, surprised by the question. “My mother used to take such good care of me because of it. The house was always spotless, not a speck of dust to be seen. Even when we lived in that tiny apartment, she kept everything immaculate, scrubbing, dusting, making sure nothing would bother me. And now…” I could feel my voice waver, the tears creeping up unexpectedly, choking off my sentence.

“Yes?” Mrs. Green asked softly, her face full of sympathy.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, feeling ashamed of the vulnerability that had slipped out unbidden. “It’s just…difficult to think of her.”

Mrs. Green reached over and pulled me into a comforting embrace. Her arms felt like a balm, soothing, though I knew nothing could mend the fractures in my heart. I took a deep breath, grounding myself. When she released me, I managed a weak smile, though I could feel how hollow it must have looked.

“I think I’ll rest a bit,” I said, pulling away from her. I knew there was nowhere I’d find peace in this house, but the quiet of Mrs. Green’s room seemed like a refuge, a place where I could, at least, pretend to unwind.

I shifted in bed, slowly lifting myself. Mrs. Green’s room had a window—a small, beautifully framed one—and I realized I could look outside, take in the view beyond. If only I could make it over there. I got to my feet, feeling the strain in my legs, each step more tiring than the last, but I felt a smile break out involuntarily as I approached the window.

Just as I neared, a voice, cold and startling, echoed behind me.

“What are you doing?”

I spun around, shocked, and saw Bryan standing in the doorway, looking unimpressed. Of all people, he was the last person I wanted to see.

“Oh—nothing. What are you doing here?” I stammered, thrown off guard.

“Nothing, just wondering why you’re snooping around like some thief caught red-handed.” His tone was mocking, a hint of laughter in his eyes as he crossed his arms.

“I—wasn’t,” I began, fidgeting under his gaze, “just…walking around the room. Bored,” I finished, unconvincingly.

“This is my house, and I’m free to go wherever I please. Surely that’s not too difficult to understand?”

“Sorry,” I muttered, unwilling to prolong this exchange.

He watched me, his gaze implacable. Then, with a flicker of amusement, he tilted his head, “How’s the patient doing? Better be getting your rest—my seventy-million-dollar prize can’t exactly be useful if it’s lying around sick.”

“Prize?” I repeated, feeling an ache in my chest. He could buy whatever he wanted, and now, even I was merely an “item,” just another asset.

He waved his hand in front of my face, “Hello! Are you listening?” he asked, a hint of genuine concern showing beneath his sarcasm. “Now, go rest. I expect you to be ready to work soon enough.”

I nodded, turning back to the bed, but a sudden wave of dizziness sent me stumbling. As I lost my balance, I felt his arms around me, catching me before I could fall, his face just inches from mine. For a moment, I looked at him, at the worry etched in his eyes, the same eyes that had held so much contempt only moments before.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, his voice softer than I’d ever heard.

“Yes,” I managed, though barely. He exhaled, his relief unmistakable.

The moment hung between us, a sliver of stillness, until his expression shifted back to that familiar mask of indifference. “Comfortable?” he said, the sarcasm back in his tone. But even so, he held me as if he were reluctant to let go.

“Let me go,” I whispered.

He raised his brows, “Then get up,” he replied.

“I would, but…” I began, glancing at his arms around me, “you’re holding me too tightly.”

“Oh,” he muttered, flustered, and quickly released me.

As we both stood, he winced in pain, reaching for his elbow.

“Are you alright?” I asked, alarmed, my concern genuine despite myself.

He grimaced, brushing it off, “It’s fine,” he said, even as he tried to hide his discomfort. But his face betrayed him.

“Let me get Mrs. Green,” I insisted, turning to leave, but his hand caught mine, gripping it.

“No!” he said abruptly. I could see the strain in his face, the way he fought to keep up his façade. He held onto his strength like a lifeline, unwilling to let his guard down.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the apology breaking through my pride. He had tried to help me, and I had responded with hostility, trying to push him away. I couldn’t bear the thought that I might have caused him real harm.

But before he could respond, James appeared at the door, his gaze filled with concern.

“What happened?” he asked, eyeing me suspiciously. Bryan shot him a warning look, unwilling to let me take any blame.

“She had nothing to do with it,” Bryan lied smoothly, his face unreadable.

James stepped closer, helping Bryan to his feet, and as they left, he glanced back at me. For a moment, I saw something soft in Bryan’s expression—something Mrs. Green had alluded to but I had refused to believe. Could he really be the man she had spoken of? Could he be different from my father? It was almost unbearable to consider.

Alone, I sat on the edge of the bed, my mind swirling with conflicting emotions, fighting the urge to sob. Perhaps Mrs. Green had seen in Bryan what I hadn’t wanted to—someone who cared more than he’d ever admit, someone willing to put himself at risk even if he feigned indifference. The weight of everything, my father’s demands, my brother’s sacrifices, and my own unspoken grief, seemed to close in around me. But in that darkness, Bryan’s unexpected kindness cast a flicker of light, making me wonder if, for once, I had been wrong.