Chapter 2: Hired by a Whisper

She paused, looking me over, and said, "You look like you bring good luck."

Her voice was soft and a little sad, like she was grabbing at any silver lining she could find.

So yeah, I got the job because I looked lucky. Go figure.

While everyone else showed off their culinary skills or medical know-how, my job was basically to sit on a tiny stool by Julian’s bed and be a living, breathing good luck charm. I felt ridiculous at first, but I figured—if they want luck, I’ll give them luck. I even made sure to wear my brightest smile every day, just in case it helped.

For that kind of money, you better believe I did everything by the book. I never slouched, kept my hair neat, my clothes spotless, and wore my lucky socks. Every little bit counts, right?

From day one, I sat there, wide-eyed, staring at the comatose Julian, silently willing some of my so-called "good luck" to rub off on him. Sometimes I’d whisper, "Come on, Julian. You got this," like he could actually hear me.

At least I was earning my paycheck. I mean, it was honest work—if you could call it that. No, really. My parents would think I was making it up.

Whether it worked or not, well, that was above my pay grade.

I figured, if nothing else, at least he’d wake up to a friendly face. That had to count for something, right?

Right now, Julian’s eyes were screwed shut, his face scraped up, his head wrapped in so much gauze he looked like a cartoon mummy. The room always smelled like antiseptic and lilies. Machines beeped, soft and steady, reminding me he was still here, still fighting.

But even all banged up, the guy was too good-looking. Unfair, really.

Long lashes, pale skin. Even with bruises and cracked lips, he looked more like a fallen angel than a patient. It was almost criminal.

He looked like he belonged on a billboard, not in a hospital bed. Sometimes I wondered if that was the real reason everyone was so desperate to save him.

Julian was the infamous wild child of Chicago’s elite—always getting into trouble, but the elders doted on him. Mostly, I figured, because of that face.

I’d heard stories from the staff—how he crashed a yacht at a summer party, got kicked out of boarding school for sneaking into the girls’ dorm. But at home, he was always forgiven. Always loved.

Beautiful things just make people happy, you know? There was something about him—angelic, even when he was causing chaos. People couldn’t help but let him off the hook.

Looking at that face, I felt a weird kind of pity. He was always unconscious, stuck in limbo. Sometimes I wondered—what’s going on in his head? Does he know how much everyone misses him?

Desire is a sharp knife. I’d catch myself resting my chin in my hand, just staring at Julian. If the doctors weren’t around, I probably wouldn’t have been able to resist touching his face.

It was my own little secret. Sometimes I’d reach out to brush a stray hair from his forehead, my heart pounding like I was about to get caught doing something illegal.

The doctor would finish his checkup and turn to me, saying, "If anything changes, hit the call button." His white coat was rumpled, his eyes rimmed red—he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

The house manager Mrs. Whitaker assigned stood nearby, clutching the medical chart, always ready to report back to her. The guy was tall, stiff-backed, always in a navy suit, and never cracked a smile. In my head, I called him "the warden." Sometimes I wondered if he could actually blink.

I nodded, watched the doctor leave, and went back to being the official mascot. I settled onto my stool, legs tucked under me, and stared at Julian. It was a weird kind of peace, if you could call it that.

So, according to rumors—this mansion was a breeding ground for whispers. The staff swapped stories in the kitchen, but nobody really knew what happened upstairs behind those locked doors.

Julian was the favorite son, and in a family like the Whitakers, everyone expected the elders to visit all the time, bring flowers, show concern. But in real life, things are always messier than they look.

But after a full week on the job, I realized something was off.

Except for one early morning—when I was dozing by his bed and heard a noise. I looked up and saw this huge shadow looming over me. My heart jumped into my throat. I grabbed the baseball bat I’d hidden under the bed, just in case. This house was too big and too empty at night for my comfort.

But it was just Julian’s father. The real boss of Chicago’s elite, Richard Whitaker. He was tall, silver-haired, and had the kind of presence that made you straighten up just by being in the same room. Even in sweatpants, he looked like he could buy the whole city if he felt like it.

He looked travel-worn, a giant suitcase by the door. He must’ve just flown in, because his coat was dusted with snow and his shoes left wet prints on the hardwood. I could still smell the cold clinging to him.

My legs nearly gave out—I’d almost clocked him with the bat. I set it down, hands shaking, and tried to stammer out an apology. He just smiled, patted my shoulder, and said, "Take good care of my boy, okay?" His voice was deep and warm, and for a second, I got why Julian was so fearless.