Chapter 5 #2
I press a hand to the rough bark of the nearest tree and ground myself with its solidity.
You’re here for Aunt Jane, I remind myself. You’re here to rebuild your life, not fall apart over a moody billionaire with grey eyes.
I step back onto the path and inhale the scent of the wet roses, letting it settle me. I need to focus. I need my independence. And I definitely need to figure out what to do about my car that’s sitting somewhere on a road, waiting to be rescued.
One thing is certain. I’m not asking Hunter Rexon for help.
Not with my car. Not with anything that isn’t strictly professional. I will figure it out myself. I have to. I sink onto the stone bench at the edge of the garden. I need to think. Really think.
First order of business, I need a plan to retrieve my car. Preferably one that doesn’t involve Hunter Rexon breathing down my neck or rescuing me again like some scowling storm god.
Mrs. Lane would know the gate code. She knows everything. Maybe she can call a taxi for me, or perhaps I can ask her for permission to give the towing company access. If I can get the car moved, repaired, and back in my possession, I won’t have to rely on Hunter for anything.
Independence, distance, and I want my dignity back. Yes, that’s the goal.
I stand to go find Mrs. Lane when a flicker of movement catches my eye. Up on the second floor, framed by the tall window, a dark silhouette stands, broad shoulders, expression unreadable but unmistakable.
Hunter.
He’s on a phone call, his posture tense, gaze fixed straight down…on me.
My breath catches, sharp and unwanted. For a moment, it looks like he forgets the call, and simply watches. Not glaring. Not scowling. Just… watching. I look away quickly, pretending to adjust the skirt of the borrowed yellow dress. My heart knocks against my ribs, too fast.
When I glance up again a minute later, he’s still there. Our eyes lock this time, my pulse jumps, and I’m the one who breaks away first, turning back toward the roses as if they urgently need inspecting.
Why is he watching me? And why does it feel like he’s trying to figure me out?
A horrible thought creeps in. What if he’s already thinking of replacing me?
He practically said last night that I wasn’t competent.
He told the agency as much. Maybe this morning’s moment of concern meant nothing.
Maybe he’s calling the agency right now, telling them the nurse is too messy, too emotional, too… me.
A cold pit forms in my stomach. I cannot lose this job. Not now. Not when I’m barely holding the pieces of my life together. Not when my heart is still raw from Connor’s betrayal.
Dr. Connor Davis.
Even thinking his name makes nausea coil in my chest. The perfect smile he wore for cameras.
The curated life he built for social media.
The moment I ended our engagement, I knew he’d twist the story, paint himself as the wounded party.
He comes from money. Both his parents are famous surgeons.
Connor has connections; he was determined to get back together.
And I decided, I’m never going to allow him to use me again.
So I ran.
I ran here to breathe. To get away from the spotlight. To rebuild myself quietly. This job at the Rexon mansion is my clean slate.
Which means I need to sign that contract today. Before Hunter changes his mind, before insecurity or suspicion or whatever storm he carries inside convinces him I’m temporary.
I square my shoulders. I am not losing this job.
Not to his grumpiness. Nor to my embarrassment. Rose Hills may be the smallest place I’ve ever lived in, but right now? It’s the only place that feels safe. I lift my chin, take a steadying breath, and head back toward the house.
Contract first. Stability second. Healing… maybe someday.
But only if I hold onto this chance. I pull out my phone, half-hoping, half-dreading to see a missed call from Racheal, my roommate. She is the only one who knows I’m here in Rose Hills hiding. I tap her name.
I get voicemail. “Hey, it’s me,” I whisper, pacing the edge of the patio. “Just checking in. Please call me when you can.”
I hang up before the shaking in my voice can slip through. The silence that follows is heavy. Racheal always answers. Always. If she’s not picking up, it means one thing.
Connor is stirring up trouble. A cold flutter ripples through me, but I push it down hard. I can’t let this get to me. I press my palms against my cheeks, breathe in, breathe out, and force myself into work mode.
Aunt Jane’s room is bright with soft yellow walls and framed photographs, the same warm palette she favors in her clothes.
Everything about her feels intentionally cheerful—from the bold colors she wears to the way she carries herself— making her instantly approachable in that unmistakable, loving-aunt way.
She perks up when I enter, and together we go over her exercise routine, gentle stretches, slow deep breathing, and a few mobility movements she promises not to skip. I go over her medications, timing them with her daily habits. She nods along, asking thoughtful questions.
“You’re very thorough,” she says. “I like that.”
Warmth spreads through my chest. “Did you ever take care of a loved one? Your touch is so gentle,” she says.
“After I lost my parents when I was in high school, my grandma Ruth took me in. I loved taking care of her when she was alive and therefore chose nursing as a career.”
“I’m so glad you are here, Adaline,” says Aunt Jane.
“Tomorrow we’ll walk before lunch. Just a small lap through the garden,” I say.
“Then it’s a date,” she smiles, easing herself into bed for a short rest.
After making sure she’s comfortable, I head downstairs.
The moment I step into the kitchen, Mrs. Lane looks up from slicing apples.
I notice the careful way she shifts her weight, how each movement is precise and measured.
She looks capable at first glance—efficient, in control—but there’s a fragility there too, one you’d miss if you weren’t trained to see it.
She’s older than Aunt Jane, I realize. Calm. Stern. Very much in charge of this household. Even the way she dresses—pressed blouse, hair neatly pinned back—feels like armor she’s learned to wear well.
I glance around and notice the staff who were here earlier are gone. They’d been helping with cleaning, chores, and garden work. Given the size of the mansion, there’s no way she could manage it all alone—especially not when it comes to Aunt Jane’s health.
“You’re here by yourself?” I ask.
“Oh yes,” she says with a fond little smile. “Hunter doesn’t like people lingering. And he really values our privacy,” Mrs. Lane says.
“The help comes in from town usually in the afternoons, a few days a week, and leaves once their work is done,” She adds.
More like, dealing with people seems like Hunter’s least favorite thing.
Lucky them, in small towns like Rose Hills, steady work is hard to come by—they get paid and get to avoid Hunter’s intimidating presence all day.
Unlike me.
“Adaline, dear,” she says, “I’m running into town this afternoon with my grandson Liam. Why don’t you join us?”
“Sounds great, I need to check on my car,” I say.
She nods. “Liam is eager to meet you. He practically worships Hunter.”
I blink. “Worships… Hunter?”
“Oh yes,” she laughs. “That boy thinks the sun rises and sets on him.”
A short while later, we’re in Mrs. Lane’s old sedan, the radio humming softly. Liam is driving. He is a typical teen, tall, lanky, and enthusiasm pouring out of him like a shaken soda can.
“So,” he says, pushing up his sleeves, “are you liking the mansion so far?”
“It’s… big,” I say diplomatically.
“And Hunter?” His tone is bright, curious.
I nearly choke. “Hunter is… my boss.”
“He’s the best big brother I never had,” Liam declares. My eyebrows shoot up.
“That’s… a good thing?” I say.
He grins. “The best.”
Before I can process that, Liam adds casually, “Oh—your green sedan? Hunter had it towed to Mr. Reeves’ shop,” like this is the most obvious thing in the world.
I blink. “He—what?”
“Last night,” Liam says, like it’s obvious. “He’s weirdly proactive that way.”
My thoughts skid. Hunter barely tolerates my presence—wants me fired, and yet he arranged my car’s rescue without saying a word.
“Do you know what happened to my luggage?” I ask.
Liam laughs. “No one touches Hunter’s property. If it’s in the car, it’s safe.”
Safe.
The word settles something in my chest.
I still haven’t thanked Hunter for last night. And given his talent for turning every interaction sharp… the idea knots my stomach. I press my forehead to the cool glass.
This job is already more tangled than it should be.
When we arrive at the town square, the moment Liam parks his car on Main Street, the quiet charm of Rose Hills greets me with a postcard-perfect lie.
Cobblestones, flower boxes, warm shop windows glowing gold through the cloudy afternoon.
But beneath it all, there’s something else. Like everyone is watching.
“Repair shop’s two blocks down,” Liam says, locking the car. “Mr. Reeves might be on break, but he won’t be long. Want me to come with you?”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, Liam.”
Mrs. Lane gives me a warm smile. “Call if you need anything, dear.”
They head toward the grocery store, and I walk alone down the sidewalk, shivering slightly in the cool breeze. The town feels quaint, peaceful. I spot the repair shop up ahead, its metal shutters halfway down, lights off.
Closed. Of course. I blow out a breath and decide to wait. I lean against a nearby lamppost, watching raindrops gather on the edges of the awning. Fifteen minutes pass. Then twenty.
And then the whispers begin. Two older women exit the bakery beside me, their conversation hushed until they see me. Their eyes flick from my face to the direction I came from. To the mansion’s hilltop in the distance.
“Did you hear?” one murmurs. “Rexon brought someone new in.”
“That's because no one in this town will work for him. Poor girl, won't last more than a few days.”
The other tuts sympathetically. “He’s trouble. Always was. Nearly got himself arrested back in the day, for that fire incident.”
My ears perk up. Did they say arrested? Did I hear that correctly?
The other woman continues. “And now look, he disappears for years, returns with billions, money like that doesn’t come from anything good.”
The women step closer to the bakery window, voices dropping, but not enough.
“All these years and he hasn’t changed. Cold as winter stone and brutal.”
“He’s trouble. Always was.”
They might as well be listing the reasons I told myself not to like him. Their voices blur into judgment and accusation.
I hate how much it bothers me. I barely know Hunter. He’s been nothing but sharp edges and warning signs.
The contradictions twist inside me. Who is he really? The brutal man they describe?
Or the one who showed flickers—tiny, reluctant flickers of something human beneath all that armor?
I don’t know what I want to believe about Hunter Rexon, and that scares me more.