The man I hired

I see the man sleeping on the hospital bed.

Sunlight pours in from the narrow, non-opening windows near the ceiling, a clean, almost judgmental beam that lands directly on his face, as if the day itself has chosen him for inspection. The light illuminates every sharp line, every unfairly perfect angle of his ridiculously handsome features. It should be harsh, unflattering—but on him, it looks deliberate, reverent.

I walk carefully, placing each step with intention, praying the sound of my heels cracking against the polished marble floor won’t wake him. The room smells sterile and expensive, the kind of scent money buys when it wants to pretend pain doesn’t exist. The marble beneath my feet gleams, elegant enough to justify the obscene amount I paid for this private room. And yet, for all its luxury, the lighting is wrong, the angles are wrong, the bed positioned as if no one considered how the sun would fall on a body laid out to heal—or to___.

I stop directly across from him and shift just enough so my shadow covers his face, shielding him from the light. I don’t know why I do it. Instinct, maybe. Or guilt. Or something softer I refuse to name.

Up close, he’s even more imposing. Handsome doesn’t begin to cover it. He’s built—broad shoulders, solid chest, the kind of body that looks earned, not gifted. Tattoos trail from the side of his neck and disappear beneath the thin hospital gown, dark ink against pale fabric, like secrets half-confessed. He looks too big for the bed, a giant forced into a space not designed to hold him. His feet nearly reach the edge; his shoulders strain against the narrow mattress.

But I’m not surprised.

Julien Laurent looks exactly like I expected him to.

A little too much of everything—too tall, too striking, too intense even in sleep. A man whose reputation arrives before he does, whose name carries weight long before the body follows. I’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. Power clings to him the way the light does, uninvited and unavoidable.

Hospital sheets cover most of him, crisp white pulled up to his waist, but they do nothing to hide his frame. Even broken, even still, his presence fills the room. One leg lies awkwardly elevated, his injured foot wrapped and bound, resting on a bulky pillow. Bandages run from the middle of his knee down to his toes. That foot—damaged, fragile—is exposed, while the other remains hidden beneath the sheet.

The healthy one.

Not that “healthy” means much right now.

Because the rest of him is anything but. Broken ribs—plural. Internal damage that required immediate attention, quiet machines, hushed voices in hallways I didn’t walk down fast enough to hear. His chest rises and falls slowly, carefully, as if his body has learned the cost of moving too much. Every breath is measured, negotiated.

I should feel relief. I think I do.

Thank God I found him, I tell myself, the words echoing without conviction. I came here with purpose. I came to have a word—or two—with this man. I didn’t come to tiptoe around him, didn’t come to stand guard against sunlight or study the curve of his mouth as he sleeps.

And yet here I am.

Standing too close. Staring too long. Caught somewhere between irritation and something dangerously close to awe.

There’s a faint crease between his brows, even in sleep, like his mind refuses to fully rest. His lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones, and I wonder, absurdly, how someone who causes so much chaos can look so peaceful when unconscious.

This is ridiculous.

I straighten slightly, reminding myself why I’m here. Julien Laurent isn’t a painting to admire or a myth to dissect. He’s a man who knows things. A man who holds answers I need. Whatever spell this room is casting—it has no right to distract me.

I came to talk.

Somehow, though, I found myself standing still, my body blocking the sun, my thoughts spiraling inward, mesmerized and unprepared for the reality of him.

Sleeping.

Vulnerable.

And far more human than his reputation ever warned me he’d be.

While I’m still arguing with myself—wake him now, come back later, come back tomorrow—he wakes up for me.

It’s his hand that moves first.

I notice it because it shouldn’t move. The sheet shifts, then a ridiculously large, muscular arm slips free, instinctively tugging downward. The metal cuffs bite back, stopping him short. He tugs again, stronger this time, the chain clinking softly against the bedframe. His eyes are still closed. He isn’t fully awake yet—just testing, checking, his body reacting before his mind catches up.

I take a step back without thinking.

The third tug is harder, impatient, and that’s when his eyes snap open. They lock onto me instantly, sharp and unfiltered, like he’s already decided I’m a threat. For a split second, a completely irrational thought crosses my mind—if he pulls hard enough, he might actually break free.

Then his gaze daggers into mine, and the thought dies.

It’s intense. Suffocating. His arms freeze midair as if he’s forgotten they exist, his stare cutting straight through me, We stay like that for—thirty seconds, maybe less, maybe more. Time bends under the weight of it.

I’m the one who breaks first.

My eyes drop to his hanging hand, the cuff biting into his wrist. He follows my gaze, confusion flickering across his face before understanding settles in. He tests the chain once, then tries the other arm—the one I stupidly left free.

I immediately regret that decision.

“Who the f*ck are you?” he demands.

His voice is rough, edged with frustration and irritation, like waking up chained to a bed is only mildly inconvenient. I don’t answer. I let him look. Let him register the room, the bed, the machines, the way one leg is bound and elevated, the way pain tightens his jaw as reality sinks in.

He shifts and pushes himself upright with a sharp inhale. “I’m in a f*ck*ng hospital,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

I know that movement hurts. His ribs, his leg—sitting up was a terrible idea.

I grab the remote from the side table and adjust the bed before he can protest. It folds and lifts smoothly, angling him back until he’s forced to lean instead of fight gravity. He resists at first, pride flaring, jaw clenched.

I smile despite myself.

Arrogant. Typical.

I set the remote down, move to the foot of the bed, and lean against the back of the couch. Folding my arms, I look at him calmly—finally ready to talk.

Now that he’s awake.

By the time I decided I wanted to hire Julien Laurent, I already knew three versions of him.

There was the one whispered about in back rooms and shadowed hallways—the man who broke bones and bent rules, who handled things no one else wanted their fingerprints on. Then there was the quieter rumor, the one people lowered their voices for: that he helped women disappear when they needed to, that children walked away from fires he was supposed to have started. And then there was the version he insisted on being—half myth, half warning, all denial.

None of them told the full story. Which, frankly, made him interesting.

I’d been digging for weeks when I heard he’d be in town. A club on the south end, underground work of some kind. No details. No clarity. Just Julien Laurent orbiting trouble like gravity owed him money. I didn’t go myself—Instead, I sent three of my men with instructions so clear they could’ve been embroidered on a pillow.

No fighting. No threats. Just give him my card.

Simple.

Of course, nothing about Julien Laurent is simple.

They called me from the van an hour later.

“yeah so.....He doesn't look that great,” one of them said carefully.

“Define not great,” I replied.

There was a pause. Then, “He was limping. And then he kind of… dropped. In the street.”

So much for the dramatic first impression.

I told them to pick him up and take him to the hospital. A private one. The expensive kind with marble floors and terrible lighting choices. If I was going to save a legend, I was going to do it properly.

Which brings us to now.

He’s awake. Chained. Furious. And staring at me like I personally ruined his day.

“Who the f*ck are you?” he snaps.

No hello. No thank you for the medical intervention.

Men.

"Where is my thank you?" I say,

That earns me a glare.

“I would’ve been fine,” he says. Almost rolling his eyes, Almost.

I laugh. I actually laugh. “You fainted in the middle of the street.”

“I was tired.”

“You were bleeding.”

“I’ve bled before.”

“Jesus,” I say pleasantly, “and if I hadn’t stepped in, you’d be bleeding with a permanent limp. So congratulations. You still have a future that involves walking.”

He clenches his jaw. “You didn’t have to save me.”

“No,” I agree. “But I did. Which makes this attitude deeply ungrateful.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and annoyed.

“What do you want?” he finally asks. "Who even are you?"

Direct. Efficient. I respect that.

“I want you to come work for me.”

He coughs like the words physically assaulted him. “What?”

“I want you to come work for me,” I repeat, slower this time, like he’s the problem.

“No.” He says like its the most obvious thing in the world.

I blink. “No?”

“I don’t work for anyone,” he says flatly. “Who the ffck do you think I am?”

I smile. Sharp. Satisfied. “Oh, I know exactly who you are. Julien Laurent.”

That gets his attention.

His eyes snap back to mine, something wary and dangerous flickering there. He doesn’t ask how I know his name, but the question hangs between us anyway.

“I did my research,” I continue. “Extensively.”

He scoffs, then winces, pressing a hand lightly to his ribs. “Then you clearly did a bad job. Because if you knew who I was, you’d know I don’t take orders.”

“Good,” I say. “I don’t give them.”

That shuts him up for half a second.

I glance at the machines, the bandages, the very expensive reality of his current situation. “You’re hurting. Doctor says you’ll live, unfortunately for both of us. Two weeks, maybe more, before you’re back on your feet.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do,” I interrupt. “But this conversation? We don’t need to finish it now.”

His brow furrows. “Finish what conversation?”

“The one where you hear me out,” I say. “And then decide you don’t like my offer.”

He lets out a breath, irritated. “So when you found me, what—your men were supposed to kidnap me?”

I raise a brow. “Kidnap you? Please. You’re not that special. They were supposed to give you my card.”

He studies me, silent now.

I step closer, pull a sleek card from my pocket, and place it on the table beside his bed. “Heal. Don’t walk on that foot unless you enjoy undoing excellent surgery. When you’re ready—if you’re ready—come find me.”

“And if I’m not?” he asks.

I straighten, already turning away. “Then you won’t. And life will go on.”

At the door, I pause. “But Julien? You owe me a leg.”

His laugh follows me out—low, reluctant, and entirely too amused for a man who just got chained to a hospital bed by a stranger who knows his full name.

Good.

Let him think about that.

Weekends are the only days I allow myself to wake up late.

Even then, my body doesn’t really understand the concept. I surface slowly, half-awake, half-alert, the way I always do—like someone who learned early that rest is a privilege that can be revoked without warning. Sunlight presses through the narrow gap in the curtains, pale and unassuming, touching the wall before it reaches me. I let it. I don’t move right away.

The room is quiet. No alarms. No voices. No urgency.

For a moment, I lie there and listen to the building breathe.

It’s a sound most people don’t notice—the subtle groan of structure, the faint whisper of pipes, the distant echo of footsteps far below. I own this entire place, every floor of it, and yet it still feels distant in a way I can’t control. It doesn't comfort me. Ownership doesn’t mean domination. It means responsibility.

Eventually, I sit up.

I don’t own expensive pajamas or silk nightgowns or anything soft that feels