Chapter 4

The Long Island Rail Road train hissed to a stop at the empty Hamptons station.

Amira dragged her exhausted legs off the train. She walked two miles down the pitch-black coastal road. The ocean wind turned her damp clothes into a suit of freezing armor.

She reached the side gate of the Shaw estate and pressed her thumb to the biometric scanner. The lock clicked. She slipped through the servant's entrance.

Normally, her employer, Buxton Shaw, would be asleep by now. The massive estate was usually bathed in the soft glow of nightlights.

But tonight, the main living room on the first floor was pitch black. The heavy stench of expensive whiskey hung thick in the air.

Amira slowed her steps, her muscles tensing. She dragged her hand along the wall, searching for the light switch.

Suddenly, a massive crash of shattering glass echoed from the center of the dark room, followed by the sound of heavy, ragged breathing.

Amira yanked her hand back. She peered into the darkness, guided only by the pale moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She saw the custom-built wheelchair tipped over on the Persian rug, its wheels spinning uselessly in the air.

Buxton Shaw was sprawled on the floor amidst a sea of broken glass.

His broad back faced the window. His chest heaved violently, like a wounded beast trapped in a snare.

Amira's eyes darted to his right hand. A dark liquid was dripping steadily from his palm onto the rug. In the moonlight, she knew it was blood.

Her innate empathy overrode her status as an employee. She rushed into the center of the room.

Hearing her footsteps, Buxton snapped his head around. His eyes were lethal, sharp as blades, and completely dead.

"Get out," he snarled, his voice raw and dripping with violence.

The sheer terror in his gaze made Amira freeze for a second. But looking at the blood pooling around his hand, she gritted her teeth and stepped forward.

She ignored his command. She walked straight to the wall and hit the switch for a soft floor lamp.

Warm yellow light flooded the space. Amira finally saw what had shattered. It was a silver picture frame. Inside was a torn photograph of Buxton and his ex-fiancée, Doria Taylor.

Buxton squinted against the sudden light. He planted his hands on the floor, trying to push his upper body up, but his paralyzed legs remained dead weight. He collapsed back onto the rug with a heavy thud.

The sight punched Amira in the gut. She saw her own desperate, cornered reflection in this powerful, broken man.

She walked quickly to his side, ignoring the glass crunching under her sneakers, and dropped to one knee.

Buxton tried to violently yank his arm away. "Don't touch me."

Amira didn't flinch. Looking at the blood, a strange calm washed over her. This was a problem she could solve. Unlike her family, a wound was simple. It just needed to be cleaned and dressed. The thought gave her a sliver of control in a world that had spun out of it. She grabbed his bleeding right hand with absolute firmness. "You need a bandage," she said, her voice flat and leaving no room for argument.

Buxton froze. He was used to people trembling around him. No one had ever spoken to him with that tone of command.

Amira didn't look at his stunned face. She reached into the bottom drawer of the end table and pulled out the first-aid kit she knew was there.

She picked up the tweezers and carefully, meticulously pulled a jagged shard of glass from his palm. Her touch was incredibly light.

Buxton's gaze dropped to her soaking wet hair and her pale, freezing cheeks. The violent storm raging in his chest miraculously began to quiet down.

He smelled the rain and cheap laundry detergent on her clothes. It wasn't repulsive. It felt real. It felt warm.

Amira wrapped his hand tightly in white gauze. She tied it off and lifted her head.

Without warning, their eyes locked in the dim, quiet room.