Chapter 2 - The Price of Kindness
Tessa Miller had spent most of her life learning how to recognize bad news before anyone spoke it.
Sometimes it was a doctor standing beside her sister's hospital bed, holding a chart a little too tightly.
Sometimes it was a landlord knocking three days before rent was due.
And sometimes it was a powerful man in a charcoal-gray suit standing in the doorway of an elderly woman's bedroom, looking at her injured hand as though it were evidence of a crime.
"Mr. Costa," she repeated.
Damian didn't answer immediately.
His mother tightened her fingers around Tessa's uninjured hand.
"Don't take her," Beatrice whispered.
Tessa felt something twist in her chest.
Damian's expression changed so quickly she almost missed it.
"Mother, nobody is taking anyone."
Beatrice stared at him suspiciously.
"That's what your father used to say."
The words landed hard.
Damian looked away.
Tessa knew enough about the Costa family to understand that mentioning the late patriarch was dangerous territory. Housekeepers were discouraged from asking questions, repeating conversations, or lingering anywhere outside their assigned areas.
She gently loosened Beatrice's grip.
"I'll be right outside, okay? And your blanket is tucked under your feet the way you like."
Beatrice looked frightened again.
"Promise?"
Tessa hesitated.
She didn't know whether she'd still have a job in five minutes.
"I'll do my best."
Damian stepped aside and gestured toward the hallway.
They walked without speaking until they reached a small sitting room overlooking the cliffs.
He closed the door.
Tessa remained standing.
"Sit."
"I'm okay, sir."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
She sat.
Damian noticed the way she immediately positioned herself near the edge of the chair, feet together, hands folded in her lap.
Like someone preparing to be judged.
"Show me your hand."
"It's nothing."
"Miss Miller."
She reluctantly extended it.
Damian examined the crude bandage without touching her.
"Who treated this?"
"I did."
"When?"
"Saturday."
"You've been working with an untreated cut for two days?"
"It's not that bad."
He pressed a button on the desk.
"Send Dr. Whitmore to the east sitting room."
Tessa straightened.
"Mr. Costa, please. I really don't need a doctor."
"That remains to be seen."
The silence stretched.
Finally, she couldn't bear it anymore.
"Am I being fired?"
Damian looked at her.
"Why would you think that?"
"Because nobody usually gets called into a private room by the owner of the house because they're doing a wonderful job."
"Are you doing a wonderful job?"
Tessa swallowed.
"I clean everything on my assignment sheet."
"That wasn't my question."
She glanced toward the closed door.
"I know I wasn't hired to help your mother."
"No."
"And I understand there are nurses."
"Yes."
"But she gets scared, and sometimes they're busy, and I just thought—"
"You thought you should risk having a clock thrown at your head?"
Tessa fell silent.
Damian leaned back.
"Why?"
"Because she was frightened."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"It does to me."
For the first time, his carefully controlled expression showed irritation.
"People don't risk their employment, their physical safety, and their time without wanting something in return."
Tessa looked at him for several seconds.
"Is that what you believe?"
"It's what I've learned."
"Then you've had some pretty terrible teachers."
Damian's eyes narrowed.
In another room, spoken by another person, those words might have been a serious mistake.
But Tessa looked genuinely embarrassed after saying them.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"No," he interrupted. "Finish."
She hesitated.
"My little sister was sick for three years. Really sick."
Damian already knew.
He said nothing.
"We spent a lot of time in hospitals. Some people were kind to her because they genuinely cared. Others were kind because they thought someone important might be watching."
Tessa studied her bandaged palm.
"Emily could always tell the difference."
"Emily?"
"My sister."
Damian watched her face carefully.
"Is she better?"
Tessa's fingers went still.
For one moment, he saw grief strip every defense from her expression.
"No," she said quietly. "She died."
Damian felt an unexpected discomfort.
He knew the answer. He had read it in a folder.
Yet hearing Tessa say it made the information feel indecently private.
"I'm sorry."
She nodded without looking up.
"Beatrice reminds me of her sometimes. Not because they're alike. Emily was stubborn in a completely different way."
A faint smile appeared.
"She used to throw pudding at me when she was mad."
Damian almost smiled.
Almost.
"And you think that qualifies you to care for my mother?"
"No. I think it means I don't get offended when someone who's suffering acts like they're suffering."
Before Damian could answer, someone knocked.
Dr. Whitmore entered carrying a medical bag.
Tessa's palm required a proper examination, cleaning, and fresh dressing. Fortunately, the doctor found no evidence of serious infection or tendon damage, although he gave her strict instructions about wound care and warning signs.
While he worked, Damian stood at the window.
"Your mother had another difficult afternoon," Whitmore said.
"I know."
"You should also know Miss Miller has been helping more frequently than the nursing reports suggest."
Tessa looked alarmed.
Damian turned.
"How frequently?"
The doctor hesitated.
"Nearly every day."
"And why wasn't I told?"
Whitmore adjusted his glasses.
"Because the senior nursing supervisor said it was an informal arrangement."
Damian's expression hardened.
"An informal arrangement."
"Yes."
"Using an employee paid twelve dollars an hour to perform duties assigned to specialized nursing staff?"
The doctor said nothing.
Tessa spoke quickly.
"Nobody made me do anything."
Damian looked at her.
"That isn't the point."
Whitmore finished dressing her hand and departed.
Now the room felt smaller.
Damian returned to his desk and opened a drawer.
He removed a checkbook.
Tessa's stomach dropped.
He wrote an amount and slid the check across the table.
She looked down.
Ten thousand dollars.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
"What's this?"
"Compensation."
"For what?"
"Helping my mother."
Tessa stared at the number.
Ten thousand dollars could prevent the next eviction notice.
It could stop the debt collector who called her workplace.
It could buy groceries without forcing her to calculate every penny.
She pushed the check back.
"I can't take that."
"You can."
"I wasn't asking to be paid."
"I know."
"Then why are you doing this?"
"Because I can."
She looked up.
"And because you don't understand why I'd help someone without money?"
Damian didn't answer.
Tessa stood.
"I'm grateful you offered. But I don't want your mother thinking I was nice to her because I wanted something."
"She wouldn't know."
"I would."
Damian studied her.
For the first time in years, he had offered someone money and discovered it wasn't enough to end the conversation.
"You're refusing ten thousand dollars?"
"Yes."
"On twelve dollars an hour?"
Her expression changed.
"How do you know what I make?"
"I own the house."
"Then maybe you should know somebody working full-time in a house this expensive shouldn't have to choose between groceries and rent."
The silence afterward was absolute.
Tessa realized what she'd said.
Her face went pale.
"I'm sorry."
Damian slowly closed the checkbook.
"You're right."
She blinked.
"What?"
"You're right."
He walked toward the door.
"Your hand is to heal properly. You'll have paid time off from duties that interfere with that. The housekeeping manager will receive instructions."
Tessa didn't move.
"And my mother," Damian continued, "has been calmer with you than with anyone I've hired in two years."
He opened the door.
"Would you consider spending part of your working day keeping her company? Officially. With training and medical supervision."
Tessa looked stunned.
"I don't know."
"Think about it."
He paused.
"And Miss Miller?"
"Yes?"
"If anyone tells you you're not allowed to sit beside my mother, send them to me."
That evening, Damian returned to his bunker.
He replayed their conversation once.
Then again.
Finally, Paul Mercer entered.
"You wanted to see me?"
Damian didn't turn.
"I want every employee's wages reviewed."
Paul stopped.
"Every employee?"
"Starting with housekeeping."
"That's a significant expense."
"So is incompetence."
Paul looked at the frozen image on Monitor Four.
Tessa was adjusting Beatrice's blanket.
"Something else, boss?"
Damian tapped the screen.
"Find out who's been telling the nurses to leave the room whenever she arrives."
Paul frowned.
"You think someone's taking advantage of her?"
"I think someone has been very careful about making sure she takes responsibility without having authority."
He leaned forward.
"And I want to know who."
Before midnight, Paul returned with the first answer.
The senior nursing supervisor had been falsifying the daily care logs.
But that wasn't what made Damian stand up.
Attached to several of those reports was a medication authorization form.
And the signature at the bottom belonged to Beatrice Costa.
May you like
His mother had supposedly signed it six weeks earlier.
On a day when she had been unable to remember how to hold a pen.
