Chapter 2 - THE FOLDER IN THE LOCKED DRAWER
Wren's first evening at Marchetti House began with an argument over a thermostat, continued with a broken lamp, and ended with a discovery that would make her question every decision she'd made that week.
The thermostat was the easiest problem.
"Seventy-four," she announced.
Enzo looked up from his desk. "Sixty-eight."
"Seventy-two, and I stop complaining."
"I don't negotiate with employees."
"Then congratulations. You've hired your first union."
From the doorway, Enzo's security chief, Matteo Russo, coughed into his fist.
Enzo glared at him.
Matteo vanished.
Wren adjusted the temperature to seventy-two.
The lamp was more complicated.
She was carrying fresh linens through the upstairs hallway when her oversized boot caught the edge of a Persian rug. The lamp toppled, struck the wall, and broke into three pieces.
Wren stared at it.
A housekeeper named Rosa appeared.
"Oh, sweetheart."
"I can fix it."
Rosa looked at the shattered porcelain.
"With what?"
"Optimism and industrial glue."
Rosa laughed.
It was the first genuine laugh Wren had heard inside the house.
Enzo, however, was less amused.
When Wren informed him, he asked whether she intended to destroy the entire estate before breakfast.
"Depends," she said. "How attached are you to the west wing?"
He stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly, laughed.
The sound startled both of them.
It ended quickly.
But Wren remembered it.
That night, she completed an initial nursing assessment with Enzo's permission, documented the skin concerns, and contacted his rehabilitation physician, Dr. Helena Shaw. His pressure injuries needed proper evaluation and a treatment plan, not improvisation. Wren also requested a pressure-relieving cushion review, a reliable repositioning schedule, and an assessment of his hand tremor.
Enzo objected to nearly everything.
Not because he wanted to remain ill.
Because he was tired of strangers treating his body like property.
Wren finally placed her clipboard on the table.
"You make the decisions about your care," she told him. "But I have to tell you what the risks are. That's my job."
He studied her.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I document your refusal and ask what you're willing to try."
He looked away.
Nobody had offered him that choice in months.
At eleven forty, Wren entered the study to retrieve her forgotten phone.
The room was empty.
Her phone sat beside the desk.
As she reached for it, a drawer slid open slightly.
Inside lay a folder.
Her name was visible.
WREN CALLAHAN.
She froze.
The folder contained photographs.
Her apartment building.
Her dead Corolla.
Her brother Gabe outside a diner.
A copy of her eviction notice.
And a handwritten note.
Subject is financially vulnerable. Brother's debt provides leverage.
Wren's stomach turned.
She heard the soft sound of wheels behind her.
Enzo stood—or rather sat—in the doorway.
His expression changed when he saw the folder.
Wren lifted it.
"How long have you been watching me?"
He said nothing.
She took a step toward him.
"How long?"
"Two weeks."
Wren felt the room tilt.
"You hired me because of this?"
Enzo looked at the photographs.
"Partly."
Her voice dropped.
"Then you didn't hire a nurse."
May you like
She threw the folder onto his desk.
"You bought a weakness."
