“Wynter wanted me to try the wheelchair,” Anika says. The uncertainty in her voice makes it sound like I forced her.
Ray’s eyes snap to mine, hard and furious. “Did you want to try?” he asks her.
“Not really,” she admits quietly. “But she’s right . . . it might be good for Sebastian to see me out of the room.”
Ray’s jaw tightens. “Put her back in bed,” he growls.
The nurse doesn’t argue. She lowers Anika immediately.
“Wynter,” he barks, already turning away. “My office. Now.”
Anika gives me a small, apologetic shrug as I follow him out.
The second the door closes behind us, he turns on me. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he snaps. “Who made you her nurse?”
My stomach flips, but I don’t back down.
“You’re not responsible for that side of things,” he continues. “You feed her, keep her company, and stick to basic care.”
“Anika needs to—”
“You don’t know anything about her,” he cuts in, stepping closer, his voice rising.
I hold my ground, even though every instinct tells me to step back. “She needs to get out of that room.”
“And you’re the expert now, are you?”
“No,” I fire back, “but I know it’s not good for her to be locked away like that. If she starts leaving the room, we can build from there. Maybe even get her out of the apartment eventually.”
His expression darkens. “Have you lost your fucking mind?” he shouts. “Just do what I pay you for!”
“I am,” I argue. “I’m taking care of her. That includes her mental health.”
His voice drops, quieter, more dangerous. “I mean it, Wynter. If Anika doesn’t want to do something, you leave it.”
I shake my head. “So, that’s it? You’re happy for her to rot in that bedroom for the rest of her life?” He eyes me, his jaw tight with tension. “There’s no reason she can’t leave this apartment,” I push, my voice shaking now but still strong. “I checked with the nurses.”
“I bet you did. Little miss fucking annoying,” he growls.
Something in me snaps. “Fuck. You.” The words land between us, sharp and deliberate.
His eyes flash. “I am your boss,” he reminds me, each word controlled.
“Sorry,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Am I being unprofessional?”
He exhales slowly, stepping back, putting the desk between us like a barrier. “We should talk about last night.”
My chest tightens. “No.”
His eyes narrow. “Something you need to understand about me, Wynter—no one tells me no.”
I fold my arms, refusing to give him anything.
He sighs. “It’s okay to feel guilty,” he continues, watching me closely. “If you’ve got someone back home, I get it. It was a mistake.” Josh flashes through my mind, that familiar ache blooming in my chest. “He doesn’t need to know.”
I look away. “If that’s all, Mr. Carmichael,” I say tightly, “I have things to do.”
He scoffs, disbelief written all over his face. “Really? That’s how you’re playing this?”
