The scarred billionaire's healer

"You may enter, but he won't speak. He won't look at you. And whatever you do... don't touch him."

That was the final warning Elena Hart received before being escorted into the mansion that looked more like a forgotten museum than a home.

She clutched her folder tighter, the medical file pressed against her chest like a shield. The marble floors beneath her echoed each step, polished to perfection, but somehow lifeless. The air was cold. The chandeliers hung above like ghostly watchers, and every painting on the wall turned its face toward the windows, as if even they couldn't bear to look inward anymore.

"Dr. Hart," said the butler, an older man in a perfectly ironed uniform who had introduced himself only as "Morris." "This way, please. He's expecting you. In his own way."

Elena gave a small nod, masking her nerves behind years of professionalism. She had worked with trauma patients before. Ex-military, burn survivors, even children who had lost limbs. But never like this. Never a billionaire who had vanished from the world and let silence be his only company.

Adrian Cross.

Even his name carried weight.

He used to be on the cover of tech magazines, a golden boy of innovation. CrossTech International had built satellites, communication systems, even government contracts. Elena remembered seeing him once, years ago, in a press photo. Tall, handsome, grinning like a man who knew the world was his. Women loved him. Men wanted to be him.

And then came the accident.

A fire. A crash. A body pulled from the wreckage and rumors of disfigurement so brutal, no one could recognize him.

The world assumed he died. The company was handed over to his board. The media eventually forgot.

But he was alive. Hidden. And he'd requested a therapist.

No. His doctor had requested her.

They stopped at a double door made of black wood and gold handles. Morris knocked once, paused, then opened it.

"He's inside. Please don't be alarmed if he doesn't engage," Morris whispered. "He hasn't allowed a soul in this room for more than ten minutes in months."

Elena stepped in.

And the first thing she noticed was the light.

The room was dim, but not from lack of electricity. Heavy blackout curtains kept the sun out. A single floor lamp illuminated one side of a leather chair, where a man sat in silence.

He didn't look up.

His head was tilted slightly down, half in the shadows. The side of his face that caught the light looked untouched, handsome, strong-jawed, with slight stubble. But the other side remained cloaked in darkness.

Elena stood still for a long second, letting her eyes adjust.

The file in her hands said Adrian had limited mobility in his legs, scars across 45% of his upper torso and face, and post-traumatic symptoms including rage outbursts, insomnia, and complete emotional withdrawal.

She took a breath. "Mr. Cross? I'm Dr. Elena Hart. I was asked to"

"You're wasting your time."

His voice came out low, coarse like gravel. It wasn't a shout, but it stopped her cold.

"I'm just here to observe for now," Elena said softly, stepping closer. "No touching. No therapy. No expectations."

Silence.

She dared another step. His head didn't move.

"I read your file," she continued. "There's still nerve activity in your legs. With the right training, you could"

"I said you're wasting your time."

This time, there was sharpness behind the voice. But still, he didn't look at her.

Elena set the file down gently on the table beside him and crouched down, carefully, across from his chair.

"I've worked with men who begged for death because they couldn't walk again," she said, her voice steady. "But they didn't give up. And some of them are running marathons today."

He laughed. It wasn't kind. It wasn't amusing. It was bitter. Hollow.

"You think this is about walking?"

He turned his head slowly.

And for the first time, she saw the other side of his face.

The scars were brutal.

They ran from the corner of his eye down to his jawline, twisting the skin in a map of old pain. It wasn't grotesque, but it was enough to see why he never stepped out. Enough to understand the whispers. The rumors.

She didn't flinch.

That surprised him.

Most people did.

He held her gaze for a moment, eyes sharp and assessing. Like he was waiting for her to turn away. To show pity. Or fear. Or disgust.

She gave him none of it.

"You don't need to let me in," she said calmly. "But don't pretend you've already won the battle just because you're still breathing."

His jaw clenched. "You have no idea what I've lost."

"Maybe not. But I know what people lose when they stop trying."

That landed.

She could see it in the flicker of his eyes.

For a moment, she thought he might stand or shout or demand she leave.

Instead, he looked away.

"I don't want your sympathy," he muttered.

"You won't get it. I'm not here to feel sorry for you, Mr. Cross. I'm here because something in you still wants to live. Otherwise, you wouldn't have agreed to see me, even if you want to pretend you didn't."

Another beat of silence.

Then:

"You have three days."

Elena tilted her head. "Excuse me?"

"That's how long you'll last," he said, folding his arms. "No one makes it past three days in this house. Not the cooks. Not the nurses. Not the shrinks."

"And what happens after three days?" she asked.

He finally looked at her again. Dead in the eyes.

"You leave. Or I will make you."

Elena stood slowly, unshaken.

"We'll see," she said simply.

She turned, walking toward the door. But before she opened it, she paused and looked back over her shoulder.

"I don't know what burned you worse, Mr. Cross, the fire or what came after it. But scars don't scare me. Silence doesn't scare me. You want to test me? Fine. But I don't leave until the job is done. And right now, your legs are waiting to move."

He didn't answer.

But as she left the room, she could feel his eyes on her back.

And for the first time in a very long time, Adrian Cross blinked. Not from pain.

But from the beginning... of curiosity.