“I’m a nurse,” I said quietly. “I’ve cleaned worse. And they’re just feet.”
He didn’t answer. But I saw his jaw tighten.
He made me wait outside his study for hours in the cold hallway, then dismissed me without a word. He criticized my cooking, my posture, my hair. He ordered me to sleep on a chair beside his bed on nights he claimed he was ill, then ignored me entirely.
And worst of all, he made me go out with him.
Twice a month, Don Baste attended charity galas, business dinners, and society events. And twice a month, I was paraded beside his wheelchair like a trophy no one believed in.
I will never forget the first one.
The ballroom glittered with chandeliers and diamonds. As Mr. Voss wheeled us in, the entire room seemed to hold its breath. Then the whispering began.
“That’s him…”
“Look at the size of him.”
“They say she’s the daughter of that gambler, Hale. Sold herself for the debt.”
“What a tragedy. She’s so young, so pretty…”
“Imagine having to…” A woman in a green gown didn’t finish the sentence. She shuddered theatrically, and her friends laughed.
I felt my cheeks burn. I kept my chin high and my smile steady.
Then a man in a tuxedo, drunk and bold, leaned toward me and said loudly, “Tell me, sweetheart, does the Pig snore?”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
I turned. I looked the man straight in the eye.
“My husband,” I said clearly, “has more dignity in his little finger than you have in your entire body. I suggest you remember that the next time you need a loan.”
The laughter died.
Beside me, Don Baste’s hand twitched on his armrest.
I thought it was anger. I would not understand until much later that it was something else entirely.
