The bathwater was hot enough to scald human flesh, and Maxwell Rourke did not react.

The secret rehabilitation began that very night under the shroud of darkness.

Behind the heavy double doors of the master bedroom, the space became a private battlefield. Martha pushed the heavy furniture toward the perimeter of the room, creating an open ten-foot lane across the thick Persian rug.

“Again,” Martha commanded, her voice a muted whisper.

Maxwell stood between two heavy walnut dining chairs, his broad palms braced flat against their high backs. His jaw was set like carved granite, veins bulging along his neck and forearms. His legs shook violently, the muscles firing for the first time in over four hundred days, screaming against the sudden load of his two-hundred-pound frame.

“I can manage three steps,” he grunted, sweat dripping off the bridge of his nose onto the carpet.

“You won’t manage three steps until you can stabilize your core without dumping all your weight into your wrists,” Martha countered, kneeling beside his left knee, her hands firmly guiding the joint. “If you lean forward like that, your patella will give out. Keep your hips aligned. Look at me, not at the floor.”

Maxwell shifted his weight. His left foot moved forward four inches. He dragged the right one behind it, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“Fourteen months,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “Fourteen months Julian sat across my desk, signing shipping manifests, transferring shell corporations, telling me to rest while he systematically bled my father’s legacy dry.”

“Anger raises your blood pressure, Maxwell. It doesn't rebuild lost quadriceps tissue.” Martha placed one hand firmly against his lower back and the other flat against his chest, bracing him as his balance wavered.

He froze. His chest rose and fell sharply against her palm. At this distance, she could feel the heat pouring off him, the sheer density of his frame, the clean scent of cedarwood mingling with the raw salt of his exertion.

Maxwell looked down at her. His eyes were dark, intense, stripping away every defense she had built over years of surviving in hospital corridors.

“You’re remarkably bossy for a woman who was scrubbing my baseboards three days ago,” he murmured, his breath brushing her forehead.

“You hired me to clean,” Martha said softly, refusing to look away. “Right now, I’m cleaning up the mess your family made of you.”

A dark smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Careful, Martha. Men who speak to me like that usually end up in Narragansett Bay.”

“Men who speak to you like that don’t know how to keep your heart from stopping when Bradley doubles your dose.”

Before he could answer, the floorboards outside the corridor creaked.

The sound was faint—a soft, deliberate pressure on the third-floor hallway runner.

Martha reacted instantly. She dropped to her knees, hooking Maxwell’s legs. With a coordinated thrust born of trauma ward emergencies, she hauled his weight toward the edge of the bed. Maxwell threw himself backward onto the mattress, kicking the sheets up over his lower body, while Martha shoved the two walnut chairs back against the wall with a muffled thump.

She dropped to the carpet beside the bed, grabbed a polishing cloth and a can of beeswax from beneath the nightstand, and began frantically rubbing the wood grain.

The door handle rattled. The lock clicked, turning from the outside with a master key.

Julian Rourke stepped into the room. He was wearing an open silk shirt, a half-empty glass of Scotch in his hand. His gaze was sharp, suspicious, sweeping the dim bedroom until it landed on Martha on the floor.

“What are you doing in here at three in the morning?” Julian asked, his voice dripping with venom.

Martha kept her head down, her voice trembling with just enough rehearsed fear to sound authentic. “The... the master had an accident with his water glass, Mr. Julian. The mahogany was staining. Miss Delaney said if I let the antique wood warp, I’d be docked two weeks’ pay.”

Julian took two slow steps toward her, his eyes traveling over her kneeling form, lingering on the curve of her waist. “Clara works you too hard, little bird.” He reached down, his fingers lightly brushing Martha’s chin, forcing her to look up. “Though I suppose a girl with your tarnished credentials can’t be too picky about her hours.”

A chill ran down Martha’s spine. *He knows who I am.*

“Julian.”

The voice came from the bed. It was weak, slurred, perfectly imitating the chemical fog Dr. Bradley’s poison usually induced.

Julian pulled his hand away from Martha, turning his attention to his cousin. “Ah. You’re awake, Max. Did the maid disturb your sleep?”

Maxwell blinked heavily, his head lolling slightly to the side. “Send her away... the noise gives me a headache. And pour me... some water.”

Julian smiled—a cold, triumphant sneer. He loved seeing the mighty Maxwell Rourke reduced to a mumbling invalid.

“Go on, girl,” Julian said without looking at her. “Leave the glass. Let the wood rot. My cousin won't be noticing the furniture much longer anyway.”

Martha bowed her head, gathered her cloths, and slipped out the door. But as she crossed the threshold, she caught Maxwell’s reflection in the dark windowpane.