Chapter 8 - Scars Under Warm Water
The private wing of Roman Calder's estate was silent.
A female physician, Dr. Chen, had spent two hours cleaning my cuts, stitching my
temple, and wrapping my wrists.
She left an IV drip running with fluids and glucose.
The master bathroom was filled with steam.
Roman had ordered the staff to leave the entire second floor.
He stood by the massive porcelain tub, testing the water temperature with his
palm.
"I can do this myself, Mr. Calder," I whispered from the edge of the dressing
chair.
I wore a soft silk robe that belonged to the estate, several sizes too large.
Every joint in my body ached.
Roman didn't turn around immediately.
"Your wrists are bandaged, Nora. You can't get them wet, and you can't lift your
arms."
He rolled up his dark sleeves.
"And stop calling me Mr. Calder."
"It's my job—"
He turned around.
The harsh look on his face had completely melted away.
"You don't work for me anymore."
My heart skipped a painful beat.
"You're firing me?"
He looked at me for a long moment.
A strange, tender expression crossed his rugged features.
"I am retiring your apron," he said softly.
"No one who bled for this house will ever cook my meals again."
He walked over to me.
He gently helped me to my feet.
My knees buckled instantly, but his strong arms caught me before I could fall.
He supported my weight, guiding me to the edge of the warm bath.
With unbelievable care, he helped me submerge my bruised legs and shoulders into
the fragrant water, keeping my wrapped wrists resting safely on dry towels along
the rim.
The warm water felt like a miracle.
It washed away six days of grime, diesel stench, and cold dread.
A long, ragged sob broke from my throat before I could stop it.
Roman sat on the marble edge beside me.
He didn't offer empty platitudes.
He took a soft sponge, dipped it into the warm water, and gently washed the
dried blood from behind my ears.
His touch was so light, so reverent, that fresh tears slid down my cheeks.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, looking up into his storm-gray eyes.
"I'm just the cook from Highlandtown."
Roman paused.
The sponge hovered over the water.
"For five years, I sat in that dining room alone," he said, his voice deep and
quiet.
"Every meal you made tasted like home. Something I haven't had since my mother
died."
He looked at my face, tracing the healing welt on my cheek with his thumb.
"I used to listen for your footsteps in the kitchen every morning at dawn."
"It was the only sound that told me the day was worth waking up for."
I couldn't breathe.
The air between us felt charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with
fear.
A light knock on the bathroom door broke the spell.
May you like
Mrs. Gable's voice came through the wood.
"Sir? The boy is downstairs. He won't eat until he sees his sister."
