“He’s having fun, sir,” she said, her voice trembling but firm.
“Get away from my son!” Adrian barked, striding forward. “You’re paid to clean floors, not endanger him! Do you understand how delicate his spine is? How much I spend on specialists telling me he must not exert himself?”
“The specialists get paid to keep him still like furniture,” Lily shot back. “I don’t charge anything to make him feel alive.”
The boldness stunned him.
“You’re fired,” he said coldly. “Pack your things. Ten minutes. If you’re still here, I’ll call the police.”
Then it happened.
“N… no!”
The sound came from Mateo.
Adrian turned slowly. Mateo never spoke. His silence had been total. Yet now he was straining, face flushed, reaching—not toward his father, but toward Lily.
“Don’t… go,” he forced out. “She… dances.”
From the doorway appeared Margaret, the head housekeeper. Fifteen years in the house, loyalty as cold as the marble floors. She despised Lily’s energy, the way Mateo seemed to awaken around her.
“Mr. Adrian,” Margaret said smoothly, “the boy is hysterical. He’s near collapse. This is dangerous.”
Logic told Adrian she was right. But his son’s trembling “No” echoed louder.