Chapter 4 - The Truth
Aleandro handed me the warm teacup and pulled a velvet chair closer to the bed.
He sat down, his dark eyes never leaving my face.
“Dr. Vincent found exactly what I expected him to find,” Aleandro said quietly.
“Severe malnutrition. Clinical exhaustion. Dangerous dehydration.”
He paused, his jaw tightening slightly.
“And severe, recurring physical trauma.”
I looked down at the tea, unable to meet his intense gaze.
“I told you, I fell at work. I work in an ER, it gets chaotic—”
“Amanda,” Aleandro interrupted softly.
The way he said my name sent a strange shiver down my spine.
“Dr. Vincent is the chief trauma surgeon for my organization. He has treated gunshot wounds, knife lacerations, and blast injuries.”
Aleandro leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“He knows exactly what defensive bruising looks like. He knows the difference between a clumsy fall and a deliberate strike.”
I squeezed the teacup so tightly my knuckles turned white.
“Why do you care?” I whispered, a defensive edge creeping into my voice.
“You don't know me. You could have just dropped me at a hospital.”
“I don't like seeing innocent people hurt in my city,” Aleandro replied smoothly.
“Especially people who spend their lives helping others.”
He pointed to a large covered silver dome on the tray.
“There is hot soup and fresh bread under there. The doctor said you need to eat slowly.”
I suddenly realized how ravenously hungry I was.
The smell of the rich broth was entirely intoxicating.
I removed the silver dome with shaking hands and began eating the incredible chicken soup.
Aleandro watched me in silence for several minutes, allowing me to eat in peace.
“What is your boyfriend's name, Amanda?”
I froze, the spoon stopping halfway to my mouth.
“I didn't say I had a boyfriend.”
“A woman your age, living in Queens, working double shifts to pay rent, covered in fresh bruises that you are terrified to talk about.”
He leaned back in the chair.
“It doesn't take a detective to deduce who is waiting for you at home.”
I put the spoon down, my appetite suddenly vanishing.
“His name is Ryan,” I whispered, staring at the expensive duvet cover.
“Does he work?”
“No. He got fired from his construction job six months ago.”
“And that is when the hitting started?”
I didn't answer. I didn't have to.
Aleandro’s dark eyes hardened into something incredibly cold and dangerous.
“He drinks your paycheck, and then he punishes you when you can't provide more.”
It was not a question; it was a statement of pure fact.
“I have to go back,” I said, panic finally beginning to set in.
“If I'm not home by tonight, he'll be furious. He'll think I left him.”
“You are not going back to that apartment, Amanda.”
Aleandro’s voice was completely calm, but it carried the weight of absolute authority.
“You can't keep me here!” I argued, my heart rate accelerating.
“You're right, I cannot legally keep you here,” he agreed easily.
“But I can offer you a proposition.”
I looked at him suspiciously. “What kind of proposition?”
“I need a private, live-in nurse for my grandfather. He recently suffered a stroke and requires constant medical supervision.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, black business card.
“You will live here, in this penthouse. You will have your own private suite, a generous salary, and absolute safety.”
I stared at the card in shock.
“Why would you offer this to a stranger you met on a subway?”
Aleandro stood up, walking toward the large bedroom windows overlooking the city.
“Because I believe in recognizing value where others only see vulnerability,” he said quietly.
He turned back to look at me.
“And because nobody deserves to live their life entirely in fear.”
Before I could process the incredible offer, my cheap cell phone began buzzing violently from inside my canvas bag near the door.
Aleandro walked over, retrieved the phone, and looked at the cracked screen.
“It's Ryan,” Aleandro said, his voice dropping an octave.
“He has called you forty-two times since last night.”
May you like
He held the phone out toward me.
“Are you going to answer it, Amanda? Or are you going to let me handle this?”
