Chapter 2 This Man Was Faking It

Bending in closer, Isla hovered her fingers above the man's skin, poised to test her hunch, when a sudden knock fractured her concentration. Resigned, she walked over to open the door.

Waiting outside, the butler greeted her with his usual calm authority. "Ms. Wright, please remember Mr. Harris requires a nightly sponge bath and thorough massage. The instructions are detailed on the laptop whenever you need them."

The idea of sponging down Theodore's body flashed a vivid, uninvited scene in Isla's mind. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she imagined the task.

Noticing her discomfort, the butler offered a knowing smile. "Nothing to be embarrassed about, Ms. Wright. Don't waste this chance."

With a brisk nod, Isla saw him off, still blushing furiously.

Choices spun through her mind: wake up a man in a coma, or bear his child? Both sounded like impossible jobs.

A billion-dollar reward wasn't exactly falling off trees.

Returning to Theodore's bedside, she pressed her fingertips into his firm chest, tracing along the sharply defined muscles. The longer she touched him, the stranger it felt—these were not the soft, wasted muscles of someone lying in bed for a year. Everything about him seemed too perfect, too unreal.

Halting her inspection, Isla fetched a warm towel sprinkled with self-made drug, preparing to clean him as instructed. Underneath the pressure of saving her mother, she also found herself feeling genuinely sorry for Theodore.

He'd lost his mother as a child and grown up with a father who drowned in parties and empty luxury. Somehow, Theodore had clawed his way to the top, thanks to his grandfather Brent Harris's relentless support. Even so, enemies lurked everywhere—his uncle's branch of the family, scheming board members, all eager for his downfall.

Word around town was that his uncle was behind the coma.

Misery clearly hadn't spared him, either. In that, they had something in common.

A gentle sigh escaped Isla, and her gaze softened as her hands worked with new care, treating Theodore with an unexpected tenderness.

But then— Just as she finished with his chest, her eyes drifted down to those perfectly carved abs. The sight made her swallow, a dryness catching in her throat.

"So, here we are, you and me," Isla said, glancing down at Theodore. "We may be a couple in name only, but I'm your caretaker and you're my charge. I bet I'm not the first—what's this, number seven or eight for you? Must be old news by now."

As she continued the conversation, Isla slid her hands down, fingers working at the waistband of Theodore's pajama bottoms.

"Don't expect me to be bashful," she continued, shooting him a playful look as her hand gave his abs a quick squeeze. "If anyone's getting a raw deal here, it's definitely me!"

Without further hesitation, Isla removed his pants in one smooth move. The moment she did, her body jerked back, towel flying as her heart shot into overdrive.

"Wait a second—you're supposed to be out cold! What is this—"

Her words fizzled out, color rushing to her cheeks. Her gaze locked onto the evidence, narrowing with suspicion.

A man in a coma shouldn't react like that. Whatever act Theodore was putting on, it was slipping.

Choosing not to let up, Isla sank down beside him again—partly out of mischief, partly hunting for proof—her hands gliding across the landscape of his torso, poking and testing every line and muscle.

There—a twitch. Not much, but enough to confirm her doubts.

This man was faking.

Intent on catching him red-handed, Isla focused on all the places that might make even a faker flinch—rubbing, squeezing, even daring a gentle tug, waiting for something to give him away.

Suddenly, she froze in shock, eyes wide as she stared at her palm, now slick with a whitish liquid, realization hitting hard.

She stood motionless before she dashed for the bathroom, furiously washing her hands as if she could scrub the memory away.

Perhaps the medical books were right after all. Even those in comas sometimes showed involuntary reactions.

Meanwhile, just outside the bathroom, Theodore's eyes flew open, his glare scorching the bathroom door with silent rage.

Forcing himself to remain motionless took every ounce of willpower. Irritation gnawed at him.

Without a sound, he tapped a discreet button hidden by the mattress, releasing a wispy, scentless mist into the air in the bathroom.

Oblivious, Isla kept scrubbing, only stopping when she finally felt satisfied.

Returning to the bedroom, Isla blinked in confusion. The room seemed to tilt beneath her. "Why is everything spinning?" she mumbled. The sensation reminded her of her own irritant powder—only airborne.

But that didn't make sense. Her irritant wasn't on the market yet.

Her mind reeled, searching for answers, but darkness swept over her vision before she could piece it together.

The effect was undoubtedly the result of her own concoction. A faint laugh echoed in her thoughts—her formula really packed a punch.

Just before losing consciousness, she glimpsed a flash of intense, almond-shaped eyes, cold and unforgiving.

Who on earth was that?

Her final conscious thought flickered away, and darkness swallowed her whole.

"Cut the cameras. Now!"

With a practiced motion, Theodore caught Isla as she collapsed, his lips twisted in a cold, mocking grin.

"You lay a hand on me? This is what you deserve," he muttered under his breath.

*

Daylight brought chaos—clattering and raised voices echoed through the hall, pulling Isla from uneasy sleep. Every muscle ached, and itchy rashes covered her skin from head to toe.

The urge to scratch was maddening.

Opening her mouth, Isla tried to call for help. Nothing came out. Her voice had vanished, just as she'd feared.

Sitting on the sofa, she pressed her hands to her temples, mind spinning. Who else could have managed to get ahold of her irritant powder?

She rummaged through her pocket. The little pouch was still tucked safely inside.

Before her mind could untangle the mystery, another commotion sounded from outside. "Watch it, don't hurt Mr. Harris!"

Mr. Harris? Isla's heart skipped a beat.

Why was he taken outside the room?

Bare feet slapping the floor, Isla hurried out, nearly barreling into three maids who seemed instantly relieved to spot her.

"Ms. Wright, thank goodness you're safe! Are you feeling alright?"

Fogginess clouded Isla's mind. Voice failed her, but she longed to ask about Theodore.

The maids wasted no time filling the silence, chattering that someone had broken into her bedroom last night, aiming to hurt Theodore. Security, thankfully, had intervened just in time.

So the eyes she remembered—had they belonged to the attacker? And was it possible that person also got their hands on her experimental powder?