Chapter 4 - THE JOB SHE COULD WALK AWAY FROM
Carmine Corso’s arrest made the mansion unbearable.
Reporters at gate.
Unmarked cars on road.
Lawyers in dining room.
Everyone looked at me again.
Waiting.
For orders.
That used to feel like oxygen.
Now it felt suspicious.
Ortiz had one rule:
“No internal retaliation.”
I said:
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“Do you?”
Fair.
Carmine’s lawyer claimed:
payments were unrelated.
equipment changes administrative.
electronic signature authorized before injury.
shooter connection coincidence.
Good lawyer.
We had records.
Not verdict.
Fay kept working.
Breakfast.
Linens.
Coffee.
She did not ask about case unless I brought up.
That restraint mattered.
Then one evening she said:
“I found an apartment.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“My landlord agreed to settlement if I move by month end. New place is smaller, but deposit is manageable.”
My chest tightened unexpectedly.
“You’re leaving?”
“Your house?”
“No. Your job.”
She looked at me.
“Not yet.”
Not yet.
Why did that sound like threat?
I hated that.
“How much is deposit?”
Her face closed.
“No.”
I exhaled.
“I wasn’t offering.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
Fair.
She continued:
“The raise helped. Tenant legal aid got fees reduced.”
“Good.”
“Yes.”
I wanted to say:
I can make it easier.
Didn’t.
Then:
“Do you need time off to move?”
She stared.
“Paid?”
“Yes.”
“For everyone or just me?”
I almost laughed.
“Moving leave is not standard household policy.”
“Then don’t make one because of me.”
“Fine.”
I thought.
“You have PTO accrued.”
“I’ve been here two weeks.”
“Then you don’t.”
“Exactly.”
This was exhausting.
“What do you want?”
“A Saturday.”
“You work Saturday?”
“This week.”
“Take it.”
“Paid?”
I looked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m employer and I can authorize one paid personal day without purchasing your soul.”
She smiled.
“Better.”
Good.
Saturday she moved.
I did not send truck.
Did not ask address.
Mrs. Gable helped after Fay asked.
I knew only that new apartment was closer to bus line.
Good.
Then something worse.
At therapy, Marcus said:
“Transfer.”
I set board.
Did it.
Slow.
Ugly.
Independent.
Fay happened to enter with clean laundry.
I waited for her reaction.
She said:
“Your shirt is inside out.”
I looked down.
It was.
She left.
I laughed.
Marcus said:
“She’s good for you.”
“Do not become romantic.”
“I meant clinically. She doesn’t reward every task.”
“Oh.”
“Disappointed?”
“No.”
Liar.
That bothered me.
Attraction had become possible before I wanted it.
Not because she was beautiful.
She was.
Dark hair usually tied back.
Gray eyes.
A small scar under chin.
But beauty was not problem.
Power was.
She worked in my house.
Needed paycheck.
I controlled schedule.
Housing no longer immediate crisis, but still money.
I knew exactly what men like me called it when we wanted something:
complicated.
What it really meant:
dangerous imbalance.
So I did nothing.
Good.
Then I did something stupid.
I asked Mrs. Gable:
“Has Fay dated anyone?”
Mrs. Gable stared.
I immediately knew.
“No.”
She smiled.
“Good answer.”
“Forget I asked.”
“I will not.”
“Mrs. Gable.”
“Dominic.”
She had worked for family twenty years.
Only person besides Carmine Russo who could use first name without asking.
“You are her employer.”
“I know.”
“She is financially recovering.”
“I know.”
“You are also in a psychological crater.”
“I know.”
“Then whatever you think you are thinking, don’t.”
I hated her.
“Excellent.”
She walked away.
That evening Fay brought soup.
I was reading.
She placed tray.
“What did you say to Mrs. Gable?”
I nearly dropped book.
“What?”
“She looked at me like someone was about to make bad decision.”
“She always looks like that.”
“No.”
I said nothing.
Fay crossed arms.
“What?”
I could lie.
Instead:
“I asked if you were dating anyone.”
Her expression changed.
Not flattered.
Good.
“Why?”
“I was curious.”
“That’s not your business.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“I realized immediately.”
She watched.
“Okay.”
No drama.
Then:
“Are you interested in me?”
Direct.
Of course.
I looked at soup.
“Yes.”
There.
Fay took one breath.
“Thank you for being honest.”
“That sounds like rejection.”
“It is not anything yet.”
I looked up.
She continued:
“I work here.”
“Yes.”
“You sign paycheck.”
“Yes.”
“You have guards.”
“Yes.”
“You are dealing with criminal case and rehab and whatever this is.”
She gestured at me.
“Charming personality?”
“That.”
I almost smiled.
“So no.”
The word landed clean.
“Ever?”
She looked annoyed.
“Don’t bargain with no.”
There.
I nodded.
“You’re right.”
Good.
“No while I work here.”
“Yes.”
“And if I leave, that still doesn’t mean yes.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She picked up empty coffee cup.
Then:
“For what it’s worth, I’m interested too.”
My entire body went still.
She smiled slightly.
“That doesn’t change answer.”
Then left.
Cruel woman.
Perfectly correct.
The next week, household manager structure changed.
Mrs. Gable became direct supervisor for all domestic staff.
I removed myself from scheduling, discipline, and payroll approvals except budget.
Not because I was plotting romance.
Because I had never needed that much direct control anyway.
Still, I told Fay.
She frowned.
“Because of me?”
“Partly because I realized it was inappropriate that I could affect your hours personally.”
“Good.”
“And because Mrs. Gable is better at it.”
“Obviously.”
I glared.
Then:
“This is not me trying to get around your no.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because if it were, you’d have made speech.”
Fair.
Carmine Russo later said:
“You’re reorganizing house because maid rejected you.”
I stared.
“Say maid like that again and I’ll—”
Stopped.
He raised brow.
Old language.
I exhaled.
“She’s household attendant. And no.”
He smiled.
“Boss, everyone knows.”
“Everyone knows what?”
“That you like her.”
“Wonderful.”
“Also everyone knows she told you no.”
I closed eyes.
“Why is that public?”
“Mrs. Gable.”
Traitor.
Carmine laughed.
Then serious:
“It’s good.”
“What?”
“That she can tell you no and still work here.”
There.
That hit.
Because six months ago, men who told me no did not stay near me long.
Maybe the house needed to see it.
Not romance.
A rule.
Fay worked.
I behaved.
Weeks passed.
No flirting.
Mostly.
She occasionally insulted my shirts.
I occasionally complained about her coffee.
The boundary held.
And for the first time since accident, I had something I wanted that I could not purchase, order, threaten, or accelerate.
It was miserable.
Probably useful.
After Fay’s no, I spoke to Dr. Bell.
Not about her.
About me.
“Do you know therapist who works with spinal cord injury?”
He stared.
“What?”
“Don’t make face.”
“You fired three psychologists in hospital.”
“They were annoying.”
“One asked how you felt.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled.
Then gave name:
Dr. Samuel Reed.
Not family.
Not employee.
Independent.
First session, I said:
“I don’t believe in therapy.”
He answered:
“You came.”
I disliked him.
Good sign apparently.
We talked about accident.
Not cousin yet.
Not Fay.
The moment in wreck when I tried to move my legs and nothing happened.
The helicopter.
The doctor saying spinal cord.
The first bowel program.
The first time two aides lifted me naked.
I had never said those things aloud.
Instead, I had called people incompetent until humiliation became anger.
Reed said:
“Anger restored hierarchy.”
I looked.
“What?”
“If you humiliated them first, you were not the vulnerable one.”
There.
I hated that.
“Are you saying I abused staff because I was embarrassed?”
“I’m saying embarrassment was one fuel. You still chose behavior.”
Good.
No excuse.
I went back next week.
Fay did not know for a month.
Then saw appointment card.
“You’re in therapy?”
“Yes.”
She smiled too much.
“Say one thing and I fire you.”
“You don’t supervise me anymore.”
Right.
She laughed.
That was almost worth therapy by itself.
Dating could wait.
Employment could not.
Mrs. Gable hired Fay’s replacement through agency.
Her name was Nia Torres.
On first morning she entered my room carrying breakfast.
I felt old reflex.
Test her.
See if she flinches.
I hated myself for recognizing it.
Nia placed tray.
“Good morning, Mr. Corso.”
I said:
“Morning.”
That was all.
She looked almost surprised.
Later she asked Mrs. Gable whether I was always that quiet.
I heard through staff gossip.
Fay found out.
Texted:
Proud of you for not terrorizing new employee. Gold star.
I replied:
Blocked.
She sent star emoji.
Good.
The house had survived Fay leaving.
Important.
So had I.
That made whatever came next less dangerous.
One more thing changed after Fay’s no.
I stopped letting staff call every preference an order.
If I wanted coffee, I asked.
If I needed help transferring after fatigue, I asked.
That sounds childish.
Maybe it was.
For years, people had treated my wants as commands before I spoke.
Learning to phrase need as request felt almost like learning a new language.
Mrs. Gable noticed first.
“Please?”
I glared.
She smiled.
“Just confirming.”
I hated her.
Still said it again.
By then, saying please no longer felt like surrender. It felt like information.
The house survived the new rule. So did my ego, barely.
May you like
That was enough for one week.
I kept asking anyway. That was the new rule.
