Chapter 4 - THE MEDICINE ELEANOR HAD BEEN TAUGHT TO FEAR
Celia Ward returned to the estate at 6:18 the following morning.
No warning.
No call.
She simply appeared at the service gate with her medical bag and said she had recovered from food poisoning.
Security did not let her through.
Roman had replaced the entire east-wing access list overnight.
Celia became angry.
Then frightened.
Then insisted Eleanor needed her medications at seven.
Marco called Roman.
Grace happened to be in the breakfast room with Eleanor.
“She’s here.”
Roman’s expression went cold.
Grace looked up.
“Celia?”
“Yes.”
Eleanor’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.
The change was immediate.
Her face emptied.
Her hand began shaking.
“No white cup.”
Grace moved closer.
“What?”
Eleanor stared toward door.
“No white cup.”
Roman heard.
His jaw hardened.
Dr. Hayes had already discovered medication discrepancies.
Now the patient was reacting to caregiver’s arrival before seeing her.
Grace crouched beside chair.
“You don’t have to take anything right now.”
Eleanor’s fingers closed around Grace’s sleeve.
“She makes me sleep.”
Roman turned toward Marco.
“Police are already coming?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Celia was interviewed in estate security office with attorneys and police present.
Roman did not attend initially.
Grace did not either.
Dr. Hayes reviewed medication bag.
Several pills matched prescriptions.
Others did not belong in Eleanor’s current regimen.
One was an older sedative that had been discontinued nearly eleven months earlier.
The doses were not lethal.
That almost made it worse.
Enough to increase confusion.
Drowsiness.
Falls.
Memory impairment.
Dependence.
Enough for every symptom to be blamed on disease.
The medical investigation would determine exactly what harm resulted.
But no one could explain why discontinued medication was still in Eleanor’s organizer.
Celia initially said mistake.
Then pharmacy issue.
Then old emergency instructions.
Every explanation collapsed.
Finally police showed her the employment trail.
Gabriel’s family office had recruited her through a private nursing agency.
Not Roman.
Roman had approved overall medical budget but trusted the family office to handle staffing.
Celia’s supplemental payments came from a consultancy linked to Gabriel.
Her face changed.
“I didn’t hurt her.”
Roman, now watching through one-way glass with his attorney, nearly entered.
Grace stood beside him.
“Don’t.”
His hands curled.
“She drugged my mother.”
“We don’t know everything yet.”
“We know enough.”
“To do what?”
He looked at her.
She continued.
“Scare her until she asks for a lawyer and says nothing?”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“My lawyer says she already should have one.”
“Then let process work.”
He looked at Grace.
“You have enormous faith in institutions.”
She almost laughed.
“No.”
“I have enormous distrust of powerful men deciding they are institutions.”
That landed.
Roman looked away.
Celia eventually requested counsel.
Before that, she said one sentence investigators preserved.
“Mr. Gabriel said Mrs. DeLuca became agitated when she remembered the Miller woman.”
Roman went still.
Grace did too.
“What Miller woman?” the detective asked.
Celia looked frightened.
“Nora.”
There.
Thirty years had not erased threat.
Gabriel knew Eleanor remembered Nora.
He knew memory could lead to winter book.
Why wait until two years ago to suppress?
Because Eleanor’s decline gave opportunity.
Perhaps she had begun talking about Nora again after a small stroke.
Gabriel panicked.
Instead of killing her—too obvious—he ensured confusion looked deeper.
Grace felt physically ill.
Roman entered after counsel approved.
He sat across from Celia.
No threat.
His calm was worse.
“Did my uncle instruct you to medicate my mother beyond Dr. Hayes’s orders?”
Celia’s attorney said:
“Do not answer.”
Roman nodded.
Then stood.
No violence.
No whispered promise.
He left.
In hallway, he punched the wall.
Grace jumped.
Blood appeared across his knuckles.
“Very mature.”
He stared.
“My mother has been imprisoned in her own mind.”
“You don’t know how much is disease and how much is medication.”
“Enough.”
“Yes.”
She looked at his hand.
“And breaking your hand fixes?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She opened a first-aid cabinet.
Roman watched.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That word again.
Grace cleaned his knuckles.
Not gently.
He hissed.
“Perhaps less enthusiasm.”
“I’m a temporary housekeeper, not a nurse.”
“You’re not temporary anymore.”
Her hand stopped.
“What does that mean?”
Roman realized.
Wrong.
“I meant—”
“No.”
Grace stepped back.
“This is exactly the problem.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You need staff.”
“My mother wants you here.”
“She wants me, not my employment contract.”
Roman went still.
Grace continued.
“I came because agency sent me.”
“I stayed because she needed me.”
“But I am not becoming permanent possession of DeLuca estate because you decided.”
“I didn’t mean possession.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
“But men in your family apparently have a long history of deciding who belongs where.”
The comparison hurt.
Roman accepted.
“You’re right.”
Grace blinked.
He was getting disturbingly better at that.
“Then?”
He breathed.
“What do you want?”
Grace thought.
“I want my agency contract completed.”
“Yes.”
“Then if Dr. Hayes believes Eleanor benefits from continued visits, we create separate arrangement through independent medical-care coordinator.”
“Not me.”
“Correct.”
“Not DeLuca Capital.”
“Correct.”
“Her personal trust can pay?”
Grace hesitated.
“If a neutral fiduciary manages.”
Roman almost smiled.
“You’ve known my mother two weeks and already rebuilt governance.”
“Your family seems to need adult supervision.”
He laughed.
A real laugh.
Grace stared.
It changed him.
That was dangerous.
Roman saw.
The laughter faded.
Neither mentioned it.
By afternoon, police had taken Celia’s records.
Her agency suspended her.
Gabriel’s attorneys issued statement denying wrongdoing.
He called Roman personally.
Roman answered on speaker with counsel.
“Roman.”
“Uncle.”
“I hear you have turned your mother’s illness into a police spectacle.”
Roman’s eyes went cold.
Grace sat across room.
Gabriel continued.
“She is confused.”
“She remembers Nora.”
Silence.
There.
Roman felt it.
Grace did too.
Gabriel recovered.
“Nora Miller?”
“You remember her.”
“Of course. Your mother’s charity project.”
Grace’s jaw tightened.
Project.
Roman said:
“She lived in our house.”
“A long time ago.”
“She found the ledgers.”
Silence.
Then Gabriel laughed.
“Roman, grief and dementia create stories.”
“We found them.”
No response.
“The original ledgers.”
Still nothing.
“Your signature is on them.”
Gabriel’s voice changed.
“You do not understand what you’re looking at.”
“Then explain to federal investigators.”
Grace’s eyes lifted.
Federal.
Roman was going bigger than local police.
Gabriel whispered:
“You are your father’s son.”
Roman’s face went completely still.
Then:
“No.”
He looked at Grace.
Then toward Eleanor’s suite.
“I am trying very hard not to be.”
He ended call.
Grace’s chest tightened.
That evening, Eleanor asked for Grace.
Not Nora.
Grace.
They sat beside window.
Rain had stopped.
Eleanor’s mind was clearer than it had been in months.
Dr. Hayes believed reduced sedatives helped, but cautioned that underlying vascular disease remained.
Some memories would still vanish.
Some days would remain difficult.
Grace understood.
Eleanor touched her hand.
“You are not Nora.”
Grace swallowed.
“No.”
“I know that now.”
Tears filled Grace’s eyes.
Eleanor smiled sadly.
“But when I saw you, I saw the girl I lost.”
“That makes sense.”
“No.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened.
“I don’t want to make you carry her.”
Grace looked up.
The old woman was lucid enough to know the danger.
“You don’t owe me being Nora.”
Grace cried.
“Thank you.”
Eleanor touched her cheek.
“You’re Grace.”
“Yes.”
“My Grace?”
Grace laughed through tears.
“If you behave.”
Eleanor smiled.
Outside the room, Roman heard every word.
He had spent his life believing love meant holding people close enough they could not be taken.
His mother had just taught him something different.
Real love recognized when holding too tightly turned another person into someone they were not.
Later, Grace left for employee room.
Roman stopped her in corridor.
“Thank you.”
“For?”
“My mother.”
Grace sighed.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Make me responsible for her recovery.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were close.”
Roman considered.
Then corrected.
“Thank you for treating her like a person.”
Better.
Grace nodded.
“You’re welcome.”
He looked at her.
Then:
“And I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“The first day.”
“You tried to throw me out.”
“Yes.”
“Because your mother called me daughter.”
“Yes.”
“You glared like I had personally robbed Switzerland.”
“Also yes.”
Grace crossed arms.
“Why?”
Roman took a breath.
“Because everyone who has ever learned my mother was vulnerable eventually wanted something.”
Grace’s expression softened a fraction.
“And you assumed I did.”
“Yes.”
“That was insulting.”
“Yes.”
“Classist.”
“Yes.”
“Possibly size-related.”
Roman’s head snapped up.
“No.”
Grace watched.
He continued immediately.
“I saw the uniform. The agency badge. The fact that you were a stranger.”
His eyes held hers.
“Your body was not part of my suspicion.”
Grace believed him.
That surprised her.
Roman added:
“I noticed your body later.”
She froze.
Roman froze too.
Silence.
Then Grace said:
“That may be the first time I’ve seen you make a tactical error in real time.”
Roman actually looked embarrassed.
Grace laughed.
He stared.
She kept walking.
Behind her, Roman closed eyes.
His mother was recovering.
His uncle might be a criminal.
His father’s legacy was collapsing.
May you like
And somehow the most destabilizing event of his week was watching Grace Miller laugh because he had accidentally admitted he found her attractive.
He was in serious trouble.
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