Chapter 3 - THE SHADOW OF THE PAST
The next two hours were a masterclass in physical and emotional exhaustion.
Under the strict supervision of the estate's chief medical officer, a stern man named Dr. Thorne, Paloma was walked through the grueling process of managing Julian Zarate’s daily care. She was taught how to operate the electric hoist to transfer his dead weight from the wheelchair to the bed, how to stretch his immobile limbs to prevent muscular atrophy, and how to check his vital signs.
Throughout it all, Julian remained entirely silent, staring at the ceiling with an expression of cold detachment, as if his body were merely a piece of furniture being moved around the room by strangers.
Yet despite his quietness, the tension in the room was unbearable.
Paloma worked with intense concentration, memorizing every instruction, every safety protocol, every detail. Her hands were raw, her back burned with tension, but she refused to display even a moment of weakness.
By six o’clock, Dr. Thorne handed her a clip-board with a daily schedule and stepped back toward the door.
“He requires a warm bath to manage nerve pain every evening at six-thirty,” Dr. Thorne said quietly, out of Julian's earshot. “The tub in his master bathroom is fully adapted. I have already filled it to the proper temperature. All you need to do is assist him with his upper body clothing, guide the hoist, and perform the wash. Do you think you can handle that alone?”
Paloma looked at the massive mahogany doors leading into the master suite, her throat dry.
“Yes,” she said. “I can handle it.”
Dr. Thorne nodded approvingly. “You’re doing remarkably well, young woman. Most people break down during the physical transfer. Mr. Zarate is a heavy man, and his lack of movement makes him difficult to maneuver.”
Once the medical staff cleared out, the master suite became dead silent once more.
Paloma rolled Julian’s motorized chair into the vast master bathroom. The room was larger than Paloma’s entire apartment, lined with dark grey Italian marble, heated stone floors, and a massive, custom-built sunken tub surrounded by soft ambient lighting. Steam rose gently from the surface of the water, filling the room with the relaxing scent of eucalyptus and lavender.
Julian sat in his chair near the edge of the tub, his dark eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror above the vanity.
“Well?” he asked coldly, his voice echoing off the marble walls. “What are you waiting for, Paloma? You insisted you were qualified. Get on with it.”
Paloma took a slow, steadying breath. She stepped behind his chair, unlocking the safety harness that held his chest secure.
Her hands were shaking slightly, but she willed them to be still. This is just a job, she told herself repeatedly. This is medicine for Brandon. This is food for Elena. This is survival.
She stepped around to face him. Julian watched her every move with a detached, testing gaze, as if waiting for her to stumble, to show disgust, or to break down.
Paloma reached out, her fingers resting against the top button of his charcoal dress shirt. The fabric was soft, ridiculously expensive Italian cotton.
She unbuttoned the first button.
Julian’s breath hitched slightly—a tiny, almost imperceptible sound, but in the quiet room, it sounded like a crack of thunder. For all his coldness, he was still a proud man who hated being exposed, hated needing another human being to perform the most basic tasks of existence.
Paloma kept her eyes focused strictly on her work, maintaining a professional, gentle demeanor.
She unbuttoned the second button.
Then the third.
As the fabric parted, revealing his broad chest and muscular shoulders, Paloma’s breath suddenly caught in her throat.
She froze.
Her hands stopped dead on the fourth button.
Julian frowned, his brow furrowing as he looked down at her. “What’s wrong now? Did you suddenly remember your delicate sensibilities?”
Paloma didn't answer. She couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe.
Her eyes were locked onto his left collarbone.
There, stamped clearly against his pale skin, just below his shoulder joint, was a distinct, raised birthmark. It was small, roughly the size of a coin, shaped like a dark, perfect crescent moon.
Paloma’s head began to spin. Her vision narrowed to a tiny point of burning light.
No, her mind screamed. No, no, no. It’s a coincidence. It’s just a birthmark. Millions of people have birthmarks.
Her trembling hands reached out without her conscious control, gently pulling the left side of his shirt further down his shoulder.
Tucked around his neck, resting against his chest, was a thin, tarnished silver chain. Hanging from the chain was a heavy, custom-made steel pendant shaped like an anchor, with three distinct notches carved into the side.
Paloma felt the ground drop out from beneath her feet.
She knew that chain. She knew that pendant. She had held that very piece of metal in her hands twenty years ago.
Her mind was violently pulled back through time, tearing through two decades of buried memories, pain, and deliberate forgetfulness.
Twenty years ago. A small coastal town three hundred miles south.
A stormy night inside a broken fishing hut.
A twenty-year-old boy with dark hair and striking, intense eyes, holding her hands in the dark while rain slammed against the tin roof. A boy who had given her his silver anchor chain, swearing on his life that he would come back for her after he settled his father's debts. A boy named Julian—a boy who had vanished the very next morning without a single trace, leaving her alone, terrified, and carrying a secret that had altered the course of her entire life.
A secret she had forced herself to lock away in the deepest, darkest corner of her heart, convincing herself that he was dead, that he had abandoned her, that he was nothing more than a ghost.
And now, twenty years later, the ghost was sitting right in front of her.
Not dead. Not a poor fisherman's son.
A billionaire. Paralyzed. Sitting in a mansion surrounded by unimaginable wealth, while she had spent the last two decades starving, scraping, and drowning in poverty.
The realization struck Paloma with the physical force of a freight train.
Her knees simply gave out.
With a soft gasp, her legs buckled beneath her, and Paloma collapsed onto the hard, warm marble floor, dropping to her knees, her body shaking so violently that her teeth clicked together.
Julian’s cold demeanor cracked instantly. His eyes widened in absolute shock as he looked down at the woman kneeling at his feet, clutching her head, weeping silently into her hands.
“Paloma?” Julian’s voice lost all its bitter edge, replaced by genuine, panicked confusion. “What is wrong with you?! What happened?!”
Paloma looked up slowly, her face washed entirely white, her dark eyes wide with an overwhelming mixture of terror, rage, and agonizing grief.
May you like
She stared into his icy grey eyes—the same eyes that had looked at her with love twenty years ago, the same eyes that now looked at her like she was a total stranger.
“It’s you...” Paloma choked out, her voice breaking into a thousand shattered pieces. “My God... it’s you.”
