Strangers Made Perfect

Episode 2: Fate Runs Faster

After completing the required checks—her police clearance, references, occupational health assessment, and interview with the unit manager—Paris officially secured a post at Malone Care Home and Intermediate Care Center in South Belfast.

The home was one of the largest in the city, known not only for its high standards of care but also for its wealthy clientele. This wasn’t just any care facility; it catered to Belfast’s high society, where private suites resembled hotel rooms more than patient accommodations.

The rumors George had mentioned proved true: one of the current residents was part of one of the richest families in Northern Ireland. Not millionaires—billionaires.

“Alright, Paris,” Joan Mwale, the Clinical Lead Nurse, began, her Zambian lilt softening the brisk efficiency in her voice. Tall and broad-shouldered, with skin the deep, rich tone of polished mahogany, Joan carried herself with quiet authority. Her short-cropped hair framed a face that balanced warmth with discipline—the kind of presence that made junior staff stand straighter yet also feel reassured.

Claude, mid-forties, was small and round with a face made for smiling. Bald spots shone through his thinning hair, but they only added to his genial, fatherly air. He had the easy warmth so typical of a Filipino uncle—kind eyes, quick to laugh, impossible not to like. “Hi, Paris.” His cheerful nature instantly put her at ease.

On the other hand, Raphael—tall and close to her age—gave only a polite nod, his silence wrapped around him like armor. His expression was unreadable, but that didn’t hide the sharp lines of his face, the kind of effortless handsomeness that drew the eye even when he seemed intent on fading into the background.

Paris returned Claude’s smile. “Have you both been on this unit long?”

Claude chuckled. “Long enough. I started here after moving over from the Philippines—hard to believe it’s been almost ten years.”

“That’s impressive,” Paris said. “You must really like it here.”

“I do,” Claude replied. “The team feels like family.”

She glanced at Raphael. “And you?”

He shrugged lightly. “I came from Germany a few years back. Still finding my rhythm, I suppose.”

Joan handed her a folder. “This is Mrs. O’Reilly’s care plan. Familiarise yourself with it when you have time. For now, we’ll start the breakfast round. Carers will serve meals; nurses can begin the medication round. You’ll cover Rooms 25 to 30, including Mrs. O’Reilly in Room 30. Ranjit will cover the other side of the unit.”

Ranjit, one of the nurses, had already introduced himself earlier. He had been in the unit for three years and was chatty, though Paris noticed the way his eyes lingered on her.

“Three years is a while,” Paris said, offering him a smile. “Were you always working here?”

Ranjit shook his head. “No, I trained back home first.”

“Back home?” she asked.

“In India,” he replied easily. “I moved here for the job—and the adventure, I suppose.”

Paris nodded, tucking that detail away. “That makes sense. It must have been a big change.”

“It was,” he said with a grin, “but the people here have been good to me.”

Following policy, Paris unlocked her medication trolley and began her 9 a.m. round. According to the census, she had six patients to cover. She dispensed for five, leaving Room 30—the suite—for last.

She hesitated for a moment, medicine cup in hand. Room 30 was the largest, more like a private apartment than a patient room. Money, she thought, truly did buy comfort. Claude arrived beside her with a tray holding porridge and tea.

They knocked. Claude opened the door.

“Good morning, Lety,” he said warmly.

The patient stirred, at first with her back turned. Then she rolled over, revealing her face. Paris blinked, a question forming on her lips.

She leaned closer to Claude and whispered, “Kuya… is she Filipina?”

Claude gave a small nod, his expression softening.

“Good morning, Lety. Here’s your porridge and tea,” he continued, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

“Thanks, Claudio,” Lety teased, making Claude scratch his head in embarrassment.

Recovering her composure, Paris stepped forward. “Good morning, Ma’am. I’m Paris Fajardo, your named nurse today. I’ve brought your medication. Would you like to take it now, or after breakfast?”

“Now, please.” Lety’s accent carried an Irish lilt, though her Tagalog was fluent. She reached for the medicine cup. Paris offered her water and, as per policy, stayed to confirm the tablets were taken.

“You’re very compliant with your meds, Lety,” Paris said kindly.

“I have to be. My son insists,” Lety sighed. “Last time I missed, another nurse was reported, though it wasn’t her fault. My son doesn’t tolerate lapses.”

Paris exchanged a quick look with Claude but only smiled politely. “If you need me, just ring the call bell. I’ll check in later.”

As they left the room, Paris asked quietly, “Kuya, why do carers seem nervous about being assigned to her?”

Claude lowered his voice. “Because of her son, Liam. He’s very strict. Warmth from Lety, coldness from him. He expects everything done by the book. No shortcuts.”

Paris frowned. “George mentioned a nurse resigned after his complaint?”

Claude nodded gravely. “Three weeks ago, Mrs. O’Reilly developed a UTI and became confused during the night. She tried to get up alone, fell, and was found on the floor hours later. When they checked the cameras, the night nurse had been asleep in the treatment room. Liam filed a formal safeguarding complaint. It went all the way to senior management. The nurse resigned before disciplinary action.”

Paris nodded slowly. That was serious—exactly what Trust and RQIA regulations demanded. A safeguarding breach like that could destroy a career.

“Lesson, Paris,” Claude said gently, “never leave her unattended if she’s walking alone. And never, ever cut corners.”

Paris gave a determined nod. “Of course.”

The rest of the morning flew by in a blur of referrals, risk assessments, and documentation. Mondays were always full-on. By the time she finished her 2 p.m. medication round, she realised she hadn’t eaten lunch.

“Did you have your lunch yet?” Ranjit asked, hovering at the treatment room door.

“Not yet,” Paris replied, double-checking the MAR chart to ensure nothing had been missed. “I forgot to bring mine, but my brother’s dropping something off.” Her phone buzzed. “Excuse me—I need to take this call.”

It was George, annoyed. “Paris, I’m in the parking lot. Don’t make me your food delivery guy every week.”

Laughing, she handed the controlled drugs keys to Ranjit. “Cover me—I’ll be back after lunch.”

Down in the car park, George stood waiting, Subway bag in hand, frown on his face.

“Hey, pretty face,” Paris teased, kissing his cheek.

“Ew.” He shoved the bag into her hands. “Here.”

Her eyes lit up. “My favourite! Thanks, George!”

He rolled his eyes but smirked anyway.

And then a car beeped nearby. Its driver’s door opened, and George’s expression froze like he’d just seen Taylor Swift at Starbucks. His cheeks flamed red, his whole body locking up like a malfunctioning robot.

Paris turned, raising a brow. Why does my gay brother always blush like a tomato?

“Liam O’Reilly,” George whispered, like he was announcing the winner of Miss Universe.

Electricity coursed through her body. She clutched George’s arm, her knees weak.

Her mind screamed only one thing—

Run.

The world seemed to tilt.

Definitely it is Orly from two years ago. His hair was shorter now, his jawline sharper, but those eyes—those storm-grey eyes—were the same. The same eyes that had met hers across a bar in Manila. The same eyes that had held her through a night she thought she’d buried forever.

A surge of memories came flooding back—his laugh over coffee, his lips pressed to hers, the heat of his touch. The night she ran without looking back.

But now, he wasn’t just Orly, the stranger who had stolen a piece of her. He was Liam O’Reilly—son of her patient, a man of power in Belfast, her employer’s employer.

“Paris?” George’s voice broke through her haze, low and urgent. He had noticed her hand trembling.

Orly—Liam—closed the car door and glanced toward them. His posture was confident, controlled, every step deliberate. He looked every inch the billionaire’s heir the carers had whispered about.

For a split second, his gaze locked on hers. And in that instant, recognition flickered. His stride slowed. His lips parted, just slightly, as though her name hovered on the edge of his tongue.

Paris’s breath caught. Her chest tightened.

He knows.

Two years she had told herself it was a mistake, a secret, a night erased. And yet here he was—real, tangible, devastatingly close.

Her instincts screamed at her to run, but her feet refused to move.

Liam’s eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat too long before he masked it with a cool, detached expression. He gave a polite nod, the kind you’d give to staff, not to someone who once shared your bed.

“Afternoon,” he said, his voice smooth, formal—professional. But beneath it, Paris swore she heard the ghost of something else. Recognition. Memory. Maybe even amusement.

Then he turned his attention to George, speaking about his mother’s therapy schedule as though nothing at all had happened.

Paris stood frozen, Subway bag crumpled in her hands, her world shattering piece by piece.

The man she thought she’d left in another lifetime was not only back in her orbit—he was standing in the very place she worked.

And this time, she couldn’t simply walk away.