Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO HATED MIRRORS
The Montenegro mansion had thirty-two rooms and not a single one Dante enjoyed being in.
I discovered that during my first week.
He refused breakfast in the conservatory because the windows reflected his wheelchair.
He avoided the library because its upper shelves reminded him he couldn't reach his favorite books.
He wouldn't enter the music room because it contained a piano he used to play standing beside his mother.
And he hated the master bathroom.
Especially the mirror.
One morning, I found him staring at the closed bathroom door.
"Something wrong?" I asked.
"No."
I waited.
His jaw tightened.
"I can't get into the shower without someone helping me."
I looked toward the bathroom.
The marble floor was beautiful.
The doorway wasn't wide enough for easy wheelchair access.
The shower had a raised threshold.
There were no properly positioned grab bars.
The mansion cost millions.
Yet it had become an obstacle course for the man who owned it.
"Dante," I said, "the problem isn't that you need assistance. The bathroom wasn't designed for your current needs."
He looked at me.
"You're blaming the bathroom?"
"Absolutely."
He stared.
Then laughed.
A brief, surprised laugh.
I smiled.
"Now, if you'll stop glaring at the plumbing, we can ask an occupational therapist to assess the space."
His expression became thoughtful.
"You think it could be changed?"
"Of course. But the modifications should be based on a proper assessment and your preferences."
He looked toward the door.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then nodded.
"Arrange it."
It was the first instruction he gave me that wasn't about making someone leave.
Over the next several days, Dante agreed to meet with his rehabilitation physician, Dr. Helena Duarte, who had followed his case since the accident.
She reviewed his medical history.
The spinal injury.
The surgeries.
His pain.
The changing sensation in his legs.
And the concerns that had led him to stop attending treatment.
She didn't promise miracles.
Instead, she explained the importance of monitoring his condition and developing realistic goals with physiotherapy, occupational therapy, and nursing support.
Dante listened.
Not comfortably.
Not without interrupting.
But he listened.
At one point, he asked, "What if I never walk again?"
Dr. Duarte looked directly at him.
"Then we still have meaningful work to do."
He lowered his eyes.
She continued.
"Mobility, strength, skin protection, pain management, bowel and bladder care, emotional health, and independence all matter. Walking isn't the only measure of rehabilitation."
I saw his fingers relax against the armrests.
For the first time, somebody had explained that his future was larger than a single outcome.
Later that afternoon, I helped him review the rehabilitation schedule.
He studied the printed page.
"Three sessions a week?"
"Initially. The team will adjust it according to your condition and goals."
He frowned.
"That's a lot."
"You used to attend six business meetings before lunch."
"Those involved comfortable chairs."
I laughed.
He almost smiled.
Then he looked at the schedule again.
"Marina."
"Yes?"
"Will you be there?"
I hesitated.
"I'll coordinate your nursing care and communicate with the rehabilitation team as appropriate."
He nodded.
For a moment, he looked relieved.
Then his expression hardened.
"Don't tell anyone I'm trying."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Why not?"
"Because they'll expect something."
I understood.
He'd spent three months surrounded by people who looked at him with pity or impossible optimism.
Every tiny improvement became a celebration.
Every setback became a disappointment.
He was exhausted from being watched.
"Then we'll focus on what matters to you," I said. "Not on putting on a performance for your household."
He studied me.
Then nodded.
"Good."
That evening, Augusto found me reviewing care notes in the staff office.
He placed a cup of coffee beside me.
"How is he?"
"He's participating."
The old man's eyes filled.
"Thank God."
I smiled.
Then he became serious.
"Marina, may I ask something?"
"Of course."
"Have you noticed anything unusual about his medication?"
I looked up.
"What do you mean?"
Augusto lowered his voice.
"Before the accident, Dante rarely seemed tired. Now some days he's barely awake. Other days he's furious."
I considered the question.
There were many possible explanations: injury-related complications, sleep disruption, pain, mood changes, or medication effects.
"Has the prescribing doctor reviewed everything he's taking?"
Augusto hesitated.
"I assumed so."
I frowned.
"Who manages his prescriptions?"
"His cousin, Rafael."
I looked at him.
"Rafael Montenegro?"
Augusto nodded.
"He oversees most of the business while Dante is recovering."
I glanced toward the medication records.
For the first time, I noticed that some entries had been changed without an accompanying explanation.
I didn't know whether it meant anything.
But I knew one thing.
Someone needed to reconcile the medication list against the actual prescriptions.
May you like
And the more I examined the records, the more uncomfortable I became.
---
