Eight months earlier, on a family trip to Lake Shore Drive, a drunk driver sent their armored SUV flipping through rain-slick pavement. Adrian survived. Isabella did not. The twins were trapped in the back seat.
In a private hospital room, the verdict came cold and final.
“They’ll never walk again,” said Dr. Samuel Reynolds, flown in from overseas. “The paralysis is permanent.”
Never.
Maplecrest Estate became a tomb. Adrian drowned himself in work, pouring money into nurses, equipment, renovations—everything except love. He couldn’t look at his sons without seeing the crash, so he disappeared.
The nurses followed protocol. The boys were treated like patients, not children. Don’t move. Don’t try. Don’t hope.
Their laughter faded.
That’s when Margaret stepped in. She fired loyal staff, seized control, and dismissed the last specialist as “too costly.” She hired someone cheap.
That’s how Rosa arrived.
No degrees. No polished accent. Just a woman from rural New Mexico trying to support her sick grandmother.
“Clean,” Margaret told her sharply. “Don’t touch the children.”