Chapter 2 - Scars of the Past
The quiet hum of the IV monitor was the only sound inside the master suite guest wing as dusk settled over the hills.
Dr. Vance finished taping the sterile gauze over Dana’s left hand, his face grave as he repacked his instruments. He had administered two liters of saline, high-dose electrolytes, and a strong anti-inflammatory to counter the intense swelling in her knees and joints.
"Her skin shows second-degree chemical irritation from the lye soap, Julian," Dr. Vance said quietly, stepping out onto the terrace where Julian stood in the cooling evening breeze, a half-empty glass of untouched bourbon resting on the stone balustrade. "She was severely dehydrated. Her blood pressure was dangerously low when I arrived—eighty over fifty. Another hour in that direct sun, exerting herself at that level without water, and her kidneys would have started shutting down. It wasn't just poor treatment. It was gross negligence bordering on assault."
Julian’s jaw tightened. "Can she travel? Can she be moved safely?"
"She needs at least twenty-four to forty-eight hours of strict bed rest," Vance replied firmly. "I gave her a mild sedative to help her sleep through the muscle spasms. If you try to send her home in a cab tonight, she’ll collapse before she reaches her front door."
Julian nodded slowly. "She stays here. In the main guest suite. Assign one of your private duty nurses to stay with her around the clock. Bill my personal account directly."
"Of course," Dr. Vance said, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on Julian’s shoulder. "Julian... I've known your family since your father was running Hartwell Maritime. I know the Sterling family, too. Arthur Sterling is a vindictive man, and Vanessa has never been told 'no' in her entire life. Whatever you're planning to do, tread carefully. The merger papers are already filed with the SEC."
"Let them be filed," Julian said, his voice flat, freezing cold. "Arthur Sterling can take his shares and choke on them. Thank you, Robert. See yourself out."
Once the doctor had departed, Julian walked back into the room.
Dana was asleep, her breathing deep and even for the first time in what looked like years. The harsh shadows under her eyes seemed a little less pronounced against the crisp, Egyptian cotton pillowcase. Her hands, bandaged in clean white gauze, were resting peacefully against the dark silk duvet.
Julian stood beside the bed, looking down at her. He reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch above her cheek, wanting desperately to touch her, to apologize for the decade of silence, but he pulled his hand back. He didn't have the right. Not yet.
"Mr. Julian?"
Rosa’s soft voice came from the open doorway. She was holding a manila folder, old and slightly yellowed at the edges.
"What is that, Rosa?"
"After Miss Vanessa threw that tantrum this morning, she left her private study unlocked," Rosa whispered, stepping into the room and closing the door quietly behind her. "I went in to clear out the tea tray... and I found this on her vanity. She didn't just stumble across an old photo in a magazine, Mr. Julian. She’s been investigating Dana for over three weeks."
Julian turned, his eyes narrowing sharply. He took the folder from Rosa's hands and opened it under the soft amber light of the bedside lamp.
Inside were printouts of background checks, credit reports, and private investigator surveillance photos. Photos of Dana walking a scrawny, dark-haired little girl with oversized pink glasses to an elementary school in East Oakland. Photos of Dana working behind the counter of a greasy-spoon diner at 5:00 AM. Photos of Dana boarding the public bus to come up into the hills for her cleaning shift at the Hartwell estate.
And at the very back of the folder was a copy of the deed of sale for the Whitfield family’s original cottage—the very cottage at the edge of the estate grounds that Julian’s father had quietly demolished fifteen years ago to expand the equestrian paddocks.
Attached to the deed was a handwritten note in Vanessa’s sharp, aggressive scrawl:
*Dana Whitfield. The dead botanist’s brat. Julian still has her childhood sketches locked in his personal safe in the study. She applied through the agency under her married name (Dana Vance-Whitfield). Hire her. Put her in the secondary staff pool. Keep her on her knees where she belongs. Let’s see what the golden boy thinks of his childhood sweetheart when she’s scrubbing our toilets.*
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Julian felt the room tilt slightly on its axis.
A cold, suffocating rage swept through his chest. Vanessa hadn't just mist
