Damian Blackwood, the troubled heir of a powerful family, was terrified of thunderstorms. His autism made the sound unbearable. Usually, at times like this, he would be curled up in my arms, trembling, listening to me read to him through a pair of custom-made noise-canceling headphones. But tonight, the door to his bedroom was slightly ajar. I stood outside with a glass of warm milk and saw Lily Miller, her clothes half-off, draped over him like a serpent. A deafening clap of thunder split the sky. Damian arched his neck, a strangled scream tearing from his throat as cold sweat beaded on his skin. Lily didn't soothe him. Instead, a thrill seemed to pass through her as she bit down on his shoulder, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscles with brazen confidence. I expected him to push her away. But his hands dug into her back, and a sound I’d never heard before—a low growl, twisted with both pain and pleasure—escaped his lips. The five-year care contract I had with the Blackwood family was set to expire in three days. It was time for me to leave. … The next day, Damian was burning with a high fever. Lily had dragged him out onto the terrace to spend half the night in the pouring rain, lost in their own madness. When I went to his room to bring him a cooling patch, Lily was perched casually on the edge of his bed, peeling an apple. The paring knife danced between her fingers, its blade glinting as it came dangerously close to Damian’s face time and again. Before, I would have snatched the knife away instantly, terrified that the sharp object might agitate him. But now, Damian was propped against the headboard, the whites of his eyes flushed red from the fever, his gaze utterly transfixed by the perilous gleam of the blade. “Irene, what are you doing here?” Damian’s voice was a low rasp, thick with a lazy, post-coital quality. “You didn’t take your medication last night.” I placed the cooling patch on the nightstand, my voice perfectly level. “Also, Mr. Blackwood wanted to know why you smashed the limited-edition sports car.” That car was my twenty-fifth birthday present to him. He’d once mentioned he liked it, so I bought it for him. Even though he couldn't drive, I had wanted to make him happy. This morning, I found it in the garage—a mangled heap of scrap metal. “I told him to smash it.” Lily took a crisp bite of the apple and laughed. “Irene, you knew he couldn’t drive it. Were you trying to mock him? I took Damian to a junkyard, we each grabbed a sledgehammer, and we beat that thing to a pulp. You should have seen how happy he was.” She leaned closer to Damian, her fingers tracing a suggestive path along his feverish cheek. “Right, my lord?” Damian didn’t deny it. He captured her hand, raising it to his lips for a soft kiss, his eyes filled with a doting fondness. “Yeah. It felt good.” His gaze shifted to me, instantly turning to ice. “Irene, tell me how much the car cost. I’ll pay you double. And from now on, stay out of my business.” My heart felt like it had been struck by a sledgehammer. I looked at the man I had dedicated five years of my life to caring for. To protect his sensitive hearing, I’d given up wearing high heels. To guard his fragile pride, I never mentioned his condition to outsiders, always treating him with the respect due to a proper heir. I had cradled him so carefully, a fragile piece of porcelain I was terrified of shattering. But it turned out he never wanted my protection. He liked the destruction, the ruin, and the thrilling dance on the edge of morality that Lily brought him. “No need to pay me back.” I lowered my eyes, hiding the sting of tears. “It was a gift. What you do with it is your business.” As I turned to leave, I heard Lily’s playful complaints and the rustle of fabric from behind me. “Hey, stop moving around, you’re still running a fever…” “The fever makes it better,” Damian’s voice was a low, urgent murmur, laced with a raw, carnal desire I had never heard before. “It makes me feel more…” I closed the door, shutting the room’s debauchery behind me. Pulling out my phone, I dialed the number I had been hesitating over for so long. “Hello, Professor Davies? It’s Irene. About that special talent program you mentioned… I’ve decided to accept.” Memories flooded back, pulling me to that rainy night six months ago. Lily Miller first appeared at the Blackwood manor as a scholarship student I was sponsoring, coming to express her gratitude. I had found her being bullied by classmates earlier that day and had stepped in to chase them off. I invited her back to the house to change into some dry clothes. She stood shivering in her washed-out, threadbare school uniform, drenched to the bone like a drowned rat. She hesitated at the edge of the expensive Persian rug, afraid to even step on it for fear of leaving a stain. While I turned to get her a towel, Damian came downstairs. He, who was normally terrified of strangers, didn’t hide. Instead, he stared, mesmerized, at the water dripping from the ends of her hair. “Are you cold?” he asked. Lily looked up, her wide, doe-like eyes brimming with helplessness. “Your house is so big, Irene… I’m a little scared.” That day, for the first time ever, Damian took out his most treasured cashmere blanket and clumsily draped it over Lily’s shoulders. He looked at me and said, “Irene, don’t send her away. She’s like me.” I thought it was merely his compassion for someone weak. I never imagined it was the beginning of the farmer and the viper. Lily started visiting the manor frequently. She was smart; she knew exactly how to use her “vulnerability” to her advantage. Three months ago, I noticed my vanity had been disturbed. My mother’s only legacy—an antique sapphire bracelet—was lying in the trash can, broken in three pieces. It was the most precious thing I owned. Even when Damian was having a severe episode, I would guard it with my life, terrified he might break it. I confronted Lily, nearly mad with grief and anger. She shrank into the corner of the sofa, sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry, Irene… I just thought it was so beautiful, I wanted to try it on… I’ve never worn anything so nice… It was an accident…” I was shaking with fury. I raised my hand, about to order her out of the house. Before my hand could fall, I was shoved violently aside by a force that was shockingly strong. My lower back slammed into the sharp corner of a table, the pain so intense I couldn't stand up straight. Damian stood in front of Lily, his eyes—the same eyes that had once looked at me with such dependence—now filled with disgust and suspicion. “That’s enough, Irene!” He shielded the girl behind him like a wolf protecting its cub. “Isn’t it just a stupid bracelet? How much is it worth? I’ll buy you ten, a hundred of them!” “It was my mother’s…” I explained, my eyes burning. “So what?” Damian cut me off, his logic simple and brutal. “Lily didn’t mean to do it. She’s poor, she’s never seen nice things. Why are you being such a bully? Look at her, you’ve scared her half to death!” He turned back to Lily, gently wiping the tears from her face, his voice a soft coo. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. She won’t touch you.” The scene was a cruel parody of how I used to protect him from the taunts of his extended family. Only now, he was the towering protector, and I was the cruel, heartless abuser. Damian’s art studio had always been a sanctuary, off-limits to everyone in the house. Even the cleaning staff wasn't allowed inside. Only I had a spare key. Because, as he used to say, I was the only one who was never a disturbance. Late one night, I heard a heavy crash from inside. I pushed the door open to find a scene of utter chaos. Expensive paints were splattered across the walls and floor. The pure white wool rug, meant for him to rest on, was covered in a rainbow of footprints. And Lily, holding a red paintbrush, was laughing as she smeared strokes of color across Damian’s bare chest. I had never seen him like this. He lay in the center of a rumpled canvas, a smile playing on his lips, letting the paint drip down the contours of his muscles. It was decadent. Depraved. And it burned my eyes. “Get out.” The moment he saw me, the smile vanished from his face, replaced by the hot, flushed anger of being caught. “Irene, who said you could come in without knocking?” My eyes fell to a sketch trampled underfoot. It was the birthday gift he had promised me—a half-finished portrait of me sleeping. Right now, the heel of Lily’s shoe was grinding into the eye of my likeness, leaving a dark, ugly smudge. I walked over, bending down to pick it up. “There’s broken glass on the floor, be careful not to cut yourself.” The words were pure instinct. But Lily let out a deliberate gasp as if I had startled her. She “slipped,” falling dramatically toward Damian. He instinctively reached out to catch her, but his elbow slammed hard into me. Thud. The impact sent me stumbling backward. I fell, my hand landing directly on a sharp, shattered piece of a ceramic palette. Blood instantly welled up, staining the already filthy rug a deep crimson. The air was dead silent for three seconds. Damian shoved Lily away, his eyes locked on my bleeding hand. His pupils contracted violently, and his body tensed as if he was about to rush over to me. But Lily timed her next move perfectly, wrapping her arms around his neck and whining, “Damian, you hurt me…” He froze. The familiar flicker of concern in his eyes vanished, replaced by a mask of cold indifference. “You’re the one who barged in here.”
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