That was the record. Most caretakers lasted exactly 72 hours inside the Graham estate before fleeing through its iron

Declan’s fingers tightened on the armrests of his wheelchair until his knuckles turned bone-white. The air in the room instantly dropped several degrees.

"Rossi wants a sit-down?" Declan’s voice was dangerously smooth, like velvet wrapped over steel. "The man burns two of my trucks, intercepts my harbor shipment, and then demands I crawl to his table?"

"He knows about the car bomb from three years ago, boss," Victor said, his voice laced with reluctance. "He knows you haven't left this estate since the accident. Word on the street is that Rossi thinks you're either dying or completely brain-dead. He’s pushing you because he thinks the throne is empty."

Narin stood near the window, quietly wiping down a glass display case containing antique daggers. She kept her head down, her movements rhythmic and silent. She knew the golden rule of surviving around dangerous men: if you pretend you are furniture, they treat you like furniture.

"Where does he want to meet?" Declan asked.

"The Foundry," Victor replied. "Neutral ground. Tonight at midnight. He specified that if you don't show up, he’ll consider our truce officially broken. By tomorrow morning, his hitters will be crawling over our territory."

Declan let out a cold, rasping laugh that had zero humor in it. "He wants to see the crippled king in public. He wants to humiliate me in front of the other captains."

"We can send a strike team to the Foundry instead," Victor suggested, leaning over the mahogany desk. "We surround the block. We take Rossi out before he reaches the door."

"And trigger an all-out mob war in the middle of the city?" Declan snapped, his icy blue eyes flashing with fury. "The feds are already breathing down our necks. A war on the streets brings the FBI straight into our vaults. No."

Declan fell silent, his gaze drifting toward the shadowed corner of the room. The silence stretched for a agonizing minute.

"We go to the sit-down," Declan said quietly.

Victor blinked, clearly shaken. "Boss... you haven't been seen in public in three years. Your medical transport vehicle isn't armored enough for a high-risk meet."

"Then prepare the armored SUV," Declan ordered. "Ramp installed in the back. Four guards in the trailing vehicle. You and Marco riding with me."

"Understood," Victor said, turning on his heel. "I'll assemble the security detail."

As Victor slammed the double oak doors behind him, Declan slumped back into his leather chair. The sudden burst of command had drained what little energy he possessed. Sweat broke out across his high forehead, and his breathing turned shallow. The physical strain of holding himself upright, paired with the sheer tension of the news, was taking a heavy toll.

Narin set down her cleaning cloth. She walked over to the side table, picked up a clean linen hand towel, dipped it into a bowl of cool water, and wrung it out.

She stepped toward his chair.

Declan’s head snapped up, his blue eyes sharp with immediate hostility. "What did I tell you about coming near me without permission?"

Narin didn't pause. She reached out and pressed the cool towel gently against his sweat-slicked forehead.

Declan froze. His entire body went taut, like a steel spring wound too tight. No one touched Declan Graham. His guards feared him; his associates respected him; his doctors treated him like a fragile artifact. But Narin touched him as if he were simply a human being who was overheating.

"You're going to pass out before midnight if you keep holding your breath like that," Narin said evenly, dabbing the towel against his temple.

"I don't need a nurse," Declan growled, though he didn't pull away.

"I'm not a nurse. I'm a maid who wants her four thousand dollars on Friday," Narin replied smoothly. "And if you die of a stress-induced stroke tonight, Mrs. Gibson isn't going to sign my paycheck."

Declan looked up into her face. Her gray eyes were completely devoid of fear. There was no pity in them either—just a sharp, practical intelligence.

"You heard what Victor said," Declan muttered, his voice dropping low. "I'm going into a room filled with armed men who want to tear my empire apart because I can't stand on my own two feet."

"They want to tear your empire apart because they think you're weak," Narin corrected, stepping back and folding the towel. "Are you?"

Declan narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You're stuck in a chair," Narin said, leaning against the side of his massive desk. "That's a physical fact. But for the last forty-eight hours, all I've seen you do is rule this house with sheer force of will. You throw glasses, you order warehouses burned, and you make grown men with guns tremble just by looking at them. The chair didn't make you weak. You letting them see you care about the chair is what makes you weak."

Declan stared at her. For the first time since she had walked into his dark room two days ago, the anger in his eyes vanished, replaced by a deep, dark intrigue.

"You have a very dangerous mouth, Narin," Declan whispered.

"I have a very realistic perspective," she replied. "Now, do you want your dark suit pressed for midnight, or are you going to show up looking like a recluse?"

A faint, barely perceptible twitch appeared at the corner of Declan's mouth. It was as close to a smile as he had come in three years.

"Press the suit," he said.

By 11:30 PM, the grand courtyard of the Graham estate was filled with the rumble of heavy engines. Two black armored SUVs sat idling near the front steps. Rain was falling in heavy, dark sheets, slicking the stone driveway.

Narin stood on the covered porch, holding Declan's heavy wool overcoat. She had spent the last two hours meticulously ironing his dark suit, polishing his leather shoes, and ensuring his physical appearance was flawless.

Four heavily armed guards moved Declan down the custom ramp from the front doors into the rear of the lead SUV. He looked striking—his dark hair combed back, his jaw freshly shaved, wearing a bespoke suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, despite the blanket covering his lap inside the modified vehicle.

As Victor prepared to shut the SUV's heavy armored door, Declan suddenly held up a hand.

He looked past Victor, his icy gaze locking onto Narin standing alone under the porch light.

"Narin," Declan called out over the sound of the rain and idling engines.

Narin stepped forward to the edge of the stairs. "Yes, Mr. Graham?"

"Get in."

Victor turned around, his jaw dropping in shock. "Boss? What are you talking about? She’s the maid!"

"Rossi expects me to come surrounded by gunmen," Declan said, his voice cold and deliberate. "He expects me to look defensive. If I bring a personal assistant, it shows I treat his little emergency meeting like routine paperwork." He looked back at Narin. "Get in the car."