The tiny red eye of the camera felt like a brand on Delfina’s skin, even after she’d pulled her hand away. Someone was always watching, just as she’d suspected. But who? And why? She glanced at Bastian, whose back was still to her, a rigid sentinel against the vast, glittering expanse of the pantry. He truly seemed oblivious, weighed down by his own relentless fatigue. The thought struck her: if he didn’t even notice a lens planted in his own pantry, how much more was hidden from him? How much more was he truly unaware of, even in his own home? A soft whine brought her back. Churro, still tucked in the pouch, nudged her arm, his small head peeking out. His dark eyes met hers, resting his chin over her wrist. He was why she’d said yes. Before dawn, Delfina followed a muted, impeccably dressed aide through the labyrinthine corridors of Villa Solace. The mansion wasn't just large; it was a fortress, a series of gleaming, minimalist wings connected by glass walkways that offered panoramic views of the Sanmoran cliffs. Her new quarters, situated deep within Bastian’s secluded suite, were far more opulent than anything she'd known during her childhood. A spacious bedroom opened onto a balcony overlooking the churning jade sea, while the attached bath was floored in polished onyx. There was even a small, enclosed patio area – perfect for a certain scruffy terrier mix. As she gently set Churro down on the cool tiles of the patio, a brisk rap sounded on her door. A woman stood there, ramrod straight, her silver hair pulled into a severe bun that seemed incapable of a single stray strand. Her dark, tailored uniform was pristine, her expression unreadable, though her eyes, the color of gunmetal, swept over Delfina with a practiced, assessing gaze. “Delfina Navarro, I presume?” The voice was crisp, like starched linen. “I am Mrs. Vance, Head Housekeeper of Villa Solace. Welcome to the master suite.” “Thank you, Mrs. Vance,” Delfina replied, trying to match the woman’s composure. Churro gave a soft, inquiring bark from the patio, and Mrs. Vance’s gaze flickered towards the sound, a momentary tightening around her lips. “A… peculiar addition to Mr. Ferrero’s preferences,” Mrs. Vance stated, her tone carefully neutral, yet laced with an undeniable disapproval. “Listen closely, Miss Navarro. Mr. Ferrero’s health is… delicate. His sleep is precious, his schedule sacrosanct. This wing exists solely for his recovery. He is not to be disturbed. Not for any reason. Especially not by… distractions.” Her eyes lingered pointedly on the patio entrance. “His medical team has emphasized rest above all else. Any deviation, any disruption, could have severe consequences. Is that clear?” “Perfectly clear, Mrs. Vance,” Delfina said, steadying her chin. The warning about Bastian’s health felt less like a concern and more like a veiled threat, a reminder of the 'reward trap' lurking beneath her new employment. If Bastian collapsed, she would be blamed. Mrs. Vance offered a curt nod. “Your duties are simple: ensure Mr. Ferrero eats only the meals you prepare, and that his environment is conducive to his recovery. Do not interfere with his prescribed tablets, his appointments, or his personal affairs. The previous cook attempted to, shall we say, overstep. She is no longer with us.” The warning hung in the draft of the hallway. With another nod, Mrs. Vance turned and walked away on noiseless soles. The day passed in a blur of unpacking the few belongings she had left and settling Churro into his new, albeit secret, domain. She prepared a light, savory broth for Bastian’s lunch, infusing it with herbs she remembered her grandmother using for clarity of mind. The aide collected it without a word, returning the empty bowl later. The silence of the suite was deep, broken only by the distant tide and Churro’s small snores. As midnight approached, a restless energy settled over Delfina. She had not seen Bastian since their exchange in the pantry. He was a phantom, his presence felt more than seen. Churro, who had been curled at the foot of her bed, suddenly sat up, ears twitching. He whimpered softly, then padded to the door, scratching at it. “No, Churro,” she whispered, trying to coax him back. “Mrs. Vance said we can’t disturb him.” But Churro was not to be deterred. With a burst of unexpected speed, he darted through the barely ajar door, a small, furry streak disappearing down the corridor. “Churro!” Delfina gasped, following him with a surge of panic. The last thing she needed was for the Head Housekeeper to discover him, let alone for him to disturb Bastian. He led her to a massive, frosted glass wall that seemed to glow faintly from within. This was Bastian’s office, a place Mrs. Vance had explicitly warned her to avoid. Through the translucent barrier, she could just make out a silhouette. Churro, however, found a small seam in the glass and squeezed through, vanishing inside. “Oh, no,” Delfina breathed. She pushed open the heavy glass panel, stepping into an expanse of dark wood and polished steel, dominated by a wall of monitors displaying scrolling data. Bastian sat at a long, sleek desk, bathed in the cool light of a single monitor. He was on the phone, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the silent room. “I follow the ‘logistics,’ Director Vance. What I do not grasp is the sudden, inexplicable delay in my pharmaceutical shipment. It’s been three days. Three days of this charade. Are you truly so incompetent, or is this a deliberate act of sabotage?” His voice was sharp, a razor’s edge. “Let me be clear. If this continues, if my directives are ignored, I will personally see to it that your entire board is dissolved. Your shares will plummet, your careers will evaporate. Do we have an agreement?” Delfina froze, hidden mostly by a towering bookshelf. She recognized the name. Director Vance. Was he related to the Head Housekeeper? Bastian was arguing over the very prescriptions that had failed him before her broth. Her gaze fell to Churro, who had somehow managed to leap onto Bastian’s lap, head tucked under his arm. Bastian, mid-threat, had paused, his hand gently stroking the dog’s scruff. His shoulders dropped, sagging against the high leather backing. He sighed, a long, ragged sound, then spoke into the phone, his voice flat, devoid of its earlier menace. “Resolve this. Today.” He hung up abruptly, dropping the phone onto the desk with a soft thud. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, his breathing shallow. Churro, sensing the shift, nuzzled closer, a low purr rumbling in his chest. Bastian’s eyes slowly opened, fixing on Delfina’s hiding spot. He hadn’t seemed surprised to see her. “You came for him,” he murmured, his voice raspy. Delfina stepped forward, feeling exposed. “He… he slipped out. I apologize, Mr. Ferrero. I will take him immediately.” She moved to gently pull Churro from his lap, but Bastian’s hand tightened, a silent plea. “No,” he murmured, fingers tightening in the terrier’s scruff. “Stay.” His gaze, heavy with fatigue, rested on her face. “Please.” It wasn't a command. It was a desperate whisper. The man who wielded power over entire boards of directors was pleading with her, a maid. She held her breath. She couldn't refuse him, not when he looked so utterly broken. She hesitated, then sat on the plush rug beside his chair, cross-legged. Churro gave a contented sigh, settling deeper into Bastian’s lap. The minutes stretched into a quiet eternity. Bastian closed his eyes again, his breathing deepening. The rhythmic thrum of the villa’s unseen machinery filled the silence. Delfina watched him, a strange mixture of pity and concern swirling within her. He was so utterly alone. His hand, which had been stroking Churro, slipped down, finding her wrist. His long fingers closed around her pulse point, warm and steadying. He was holding onto her, as if she were a lifeline. And then, for the first time since she’d met him, Bastian Ferrero fell into a deep, genuine sleep. His grip on her wrist remained, anchoring her. She couldn’t move without waking him. She was trapped, but not unpleasantly so. Her eyes scanned the desk, taking in the scattered documents, the half-empty glass of water, and then, a small amber bottle. His amber prescription vial. Curiously, she leaned closer, twisting her wrist just enough to get a better look at the label. The pharmaceutical logo was unfamiliar, but the generic name, printed in small, stark letters, was not. *Aurelius-B*. A common, inexpensive beta-blocker, typically prescribed to regulate heart rate and lower blood pressure. But the pills inside, visible through the amber glass, were a stark, vivid red. And they were far too large for a standard beta-blocker. Her grandmother, a former nurse, had always kept a well-stocked medicine cabinet, and Delfina knew the profiles well. These weren't beta-blockers. These were the exact shape, size, and vibrant color of *Solara-Stim*, a notoriously potent stimulant, known for inducing heart-racing energy and, in large doses, cardiac stress. Someone was actively trying to induce a heart attack. Someone was always watching.

The Midnight Prescription