Chapter 2 The Contract

“Dr. Hale, if you’ll take a seat.”

The man across the mahogany desk didn’t look like he belonged in a villa. Marcus Lenz was the sort of lawyer who carried city air with him, tailored suit, polished tone, smile that meant I know something you don’t.

Sienna didn’t sit. “You sent for me.”

“Yes.” He slid a thick folder across the desk. “Mr. Varon instructed me to brief you on your terms of engagement.”

She rested one hand on the file, already feeling her jaw tighten. “I signed my contract with the rehabilitation agency weeks ago.”

Marcus steepled his fingers. “Ah, yes. This is an addendum. Let’s say estate protocol or client agreement.”

Her stomach dipped. “Meaning?”

He opened the folder to a single page stamped with Dante’s crest. “You are contracted for six weeks of exclusive service. Termination before that period results in a penalty of two hundred million euros. Additionally, there is a nondisclosure clause. Any discussion of Mr. Varon’s condition, verbally, written, or implied constitutes a breach of contract.”

Sienna blinked. “That’s absurd. I didn’t agree to that.”

“You did, indirectly. Clause nine, subsection C. It activates upon entry to the property.”

So that was why the gates closed behind her like prison bars. Her hands itched to tear the paper in two. He’d done this on purpose, built a wall of legality around himself so no one could walk away, not even a doctor.

She heard her own voice before she felt it. “And if I refuse to sign this acknowledgement?”

Marcus gave a small, sympathetic smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Then you’ll be escorted off the premises. But the penalty will still apply.”

He waited for her reaction, pen poised like bait.

Sienna exhaled through her nose. The rational part of her brain, the part that had learned to survive arrogant executives, insurance boards, hospital bureaucracy told her to stay calm. He wanted her angry, Dante probably did too.

So she didn’t argue. She simply took the pen, signed where he pointed, and slid the paper back to him.

Marcus hesitated, a flicker of something almost human crossing his face. “Dr. Hale, he isn’t an easy man.”

“That’s becoming evident.”

“He’s..” Marcus searched for the right word. “Unaccustomed to being helped. You’ll need to be careful not to provoke him.”

Sienna gave a short laugh. “If that’s what this house considers help, I’ll manage.”

He didn’t smile back. “Just remember the rules exist to protect both of you.”

She doubted that. The rules existed to keep Dante in control.

When she left the library, the villa seemed quieter than before. Even the air felt watched.

The corridor leading to Dante’s suite was long, its marble floor was too clean, and reflective. Her reflection looked back, tired, disheveled, still braced for the next round. He probably wanted her gone already.

Fine. He could want whatever he liked. She had six weeks to prove she didn’t scare easily.

By the time she reached his door, her hand no longer trembled.

She knocked once, twice.

“Enter,” came the voice from inside, cool, detached, and unbothered.

Sienna stepped in, the contract folder still under her arm.

“Still here, Doctor?”

His tone made the title sound like an insult. Dante sat by the window again, the chair angled toward the sea, sunlight cutting across his face. He didn’t turn to look at her.

“I signed your addendum,” Sienna said, setting her clipboard down. “Six weeks. No early exit.”

He gave a faint smirk. “Good. I hate wasted effort.”

She crossed her arms. “Effort? You haven’t done a single exercise since I got here.”

He finally looked at her, and the full weight of that gaze hit like static. “And yet, here you are. Earning your money for watching me do nothing.”

Her mouth twitched. “I’ve worked with soldiers who lost more than you did and didn’t complain half as much.”

The smile dropped from his face. “Don’t compare me to anyone.”

Sienna didn’t flinch. “Then stop acting like a comparison waiting to happen.”

A short silence stretched between them was sharp, brittle, and almost dangerous.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Dante rolled his chair forward, stopping just close enough for her to smell the faint trace of his cedar cologne.

“Tell me, Doctor Hale,” he said, his voice quieter now, “is this how you talk to all your patients?”

“Only the ones trying to scare me.”

He laughed once. “You think I’m trying to scare you?”

“No. I think you’re trying to make yourself believe you’re still in control.”

That got a reaction, a flicker of something like pain, quickly buried. He turned his face back toward the window. “You sound like a therapist. You’re supposed to fix my body, not my mind.”

“Funny,” she said. “They tend to be connected.”

He ignored her and gestured at his leg brace. “Fine. Do what you came here to do. You’ve got one session to prove you’re worth keeping.”

“Keeping?” She arched a brow. “I’m not one of your staff, Mr. Varon.”

“Then act like a professional and stop taking things personally.”

Her patience frayed. “You just fired your assistant for following your orders.”

He didn’t respond. The silence was deliberate again. It felt like he was testing her.

Sienna crouched beside the chair, pulling on gloves. “We’ll start with range-of-motion assessment. Minimal strain.”

“I said you had one session,” he repeated. “I didn’t say I’d cooperate.”

“That’s fine,” she said, voice steady. “You don’t have to.”

She reached for his left leg slowly, and with caution, her hand hovering inches away. His entire body stiffened.

He said it before she touched him. “Don’t.”

Her hand froze midair. “You need to move the muscles, or they’ll.”

“I said don’t.” His voice was sharper now, every word like a blade.

She met his eyes. “You hired me to do my job. So let me do it.”

He gave a small, derisive laugh. “You really think this is about a job?”

“What else would it be?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the control on his chair and without warning, tipped his balance just enough to send himself sliding toward the floor.

The crash was heavy, echoing through the room.

“Dante!”

He braced one arm but couldn’t catch himself. The chair rolled back, hitting the wall. For a heartbeat, he stayed on the ground, jaw clenched, refusing her help.

Then she moved, kneeling beside him, calmly. With no sign of panic or sympathy.

“Don’t touch me,” he rasped.

“Then get up yourself,” she said, voice level.

His glare met hers, and for a second, neither of them moved.

The silence between them thickened. Sienna’s pulse drummed in her ears, but she kept her voice even.“Your chair’s out of reach. You’ll need help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

His pride was louder than his pain. She could see it in the tension of his jaw, the way his right hand trembled as he tried to shift weight to the brace on his bad leg. He wasn’t ready. Every motion scraped his breath short.

“Fine,” she said quietly, standing. “Then stay there.”

She turned toward the table, making a show of jotting notes into her clipboard. The stubbornness in her tone made him look up, sharp and disbelieving. For a man who’d spent months being handled like fragile glass, defiance was unexpected.

“You’re walking out?” he asked.

“I’m a doctor, Mr. Varon, not your audience.”

That hit harder than she expected it to. His jaw flexed, he planted one hand on the marble floor and pushed again, harder this time, gritting his teeth through it. The sound he made was half growl, and half breath dragged her eyes back to him.

He was trying, really trying, and failing. The leg brace slipped, and his elbow buckled.

Sienna swore under her breath and moved before she could think.

Her knees hit the marble,her hand caught his shoulder. His skin was hot, rigid with effort. She slid an arm under his and guided his weight upward. He resisted for half a second, then gave in, breath ragged, humiliation raw on his face.

“Don’t..” he started, but the word fractured halfway through.

“Relax,” she said softly. “I’ve got you.”

The phrase wasn’t tender. It was factual, and clinical. Still, something in it made him still.

Her movements were practiced, and impersonal one hand under his shoulder, the other bracing his spine. She felt the solid weight of him, the strain through his torso, the pulse under his skin was fast, furious, and alive.

When he finally steadied against the chair, he didn’t let go. His grip on her forearm tightened just slightly enough to stop her breath for a second.

She looked up. His eyes were unreadable and dark, focused, but something dangerous shimmered beneath the control.

“Let go,” she said.

He didn’t. The air between them shrank, charged with the kind of tension neither of them could name yet.

Then, his voice dropped low, the words brushing close enough for her to feel them.

“You think you can fix me?”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned closer, his fingers tightening once more. “Try not to break first.”

For a moment, neither moved. The only sound was the distant hiss of the sea below the cliffs.

Then she pulled her arm free, slow and steady, refusing to show how fast her heart was beating.

“Session’s over,” she said.

She turned toward the door, her pulse hammering against the calmness in her voice.

Behind her, Dante laughed once,a sound with no humor in it at all.

“Tough skin,huh? I know how to deal with your type”. He muttered as she shut the door behind her.