CHAPTER 3: MARK MATTHEWS

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We hope you've had a pleasant journey aboard TransAtlantic Airlines flight 272 from London Heathrow to Los Angeles International Airport. As we approach our final destination, I'd like to provide you with some important information…"

The announcement continued as Mark woke up groggily from his short sleep. He had been awake for most of the eleven hours nonstop flight from London, mulling over the result of his recent diagnosis before dozing off. 

"…The local time in Los Angeles is 7:15 AM. Please ensure that your seat belts are securely fastened…" The captain's announcement continued.

7:15 AM? Mark wondered. He had slept for about two hours but that did nothing to clear his mind or improve his nasty mood.

Thirty minutes later, as he was boarding a taxi to Malibu, the rain started. Home soon, he thought. It would be great to be back in his private space after two weeks.

He had flown to London in the hope of getting a new diagnosis of his ailment but he was returning with even grimmer news. It was his fourth international trip in the last four months, seeking answers from renowned physicians who, so far, had failed to unravel the mystery shrouding his blinding headaches and seizures.

Dr. Thompson had sat across from him, his expression grave as he delivered the news. "I'm afraid I have to be honest with you, Mark. The results of your latest medical examination show that there has been no improvement since your last visit. If the issue persists, it's likely to worsen soon."

His heart sank at the oncologist's words, a heavy weight settling in the pit of his stomach. He had hoped for some sign of progress, some glimmer of hope to hold onto, but it seemed that his situation was only growing direr by the day.

I don't understand," Mark murmured, his voice tinged with frustration and fear. "I've been following your recommendations to the letter. I've been taking medication, I barely drink anymore and I am doing everything you told me to do. Why isn't it working?"

Dr. Thompson sighed sympathetically, his gaze full of empathy as he reached out to place a reassuring hand on Mark's shoulder. "Sometimes, despite our best efforts, our bodies simply don't respond the way we hope they will. Until we are sure what exactly is causing these issues, we can only hope."

"What do we do now?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dr. Thompson leaned forward, his eyes filled with determination. "We keep fighting, Mark. We explore every possible option, leaving no stone unturned in our quest for a solution. We may not be able to cure you, but we can still manage your symptoms, improve your quality of life, and give you the support you need to face whatever lies ahead."

And so, he had taken the next plane back to LAX. He was back the way he had left, broken. He looked at his image through the window of the taxi and he couldn't recognize himself much. He had left his beard to grow out and it now covered half his face, his eyes were sunken and red, a result of his lack of sleep and even his usually well-trimmed dark hair was now threatening to reach his shoulder.

The taxi parked in front of his house in Malibu, and Mark emerged, the chill raindrops merging with the moisture on his furrowed brow.

He despised the rain, a cruel accomplice that exacerbated his suffering even now as he journeyed up the paved road from his mansion's gate to the house.

The weight of the past for months bore down on him. His mind involuntarily rewound to that fateful day when the trajectory of his life took an unforeseen turn.

The memory was vivid—a video meeting with prospective clients in Quebec. The air in his office was charged with anticipation, and then, without warning, a blinding headache struck. Mark, ever the master of composure, managed to mask his discomfort and swiftly rescheduled the meeting, offering a flimsy excuse for his sudden departure.

However, the pain persisted, an unwelcome companion that refused to be ignored. The subsequent days unraveled with a disconcerting rhythm—episodes of blinding headaches followed by an unsettling dance with seizures. The second incident occurred not in the solitude of his office but in the presence of his chauffeur, stripping away the veneer of invincibility that had defined Mark Matthews.

Elizabeth's voice echoed in his memory—"Dismiss the staff; keep the rumors at bay.". Yet, the city's gossip mill buzzed with conjectures about his sudden disappearance.

He shook his head, dismissing the intrusive thoughts that sought to invade his solitude.

The mansion loomed ahead, a sanctuary awaiting his return.

The glass front door, a portal to the fortress of solitude, sensed his biometric touch. It slid open, revealing the opulence that had become a cocoon for his suffering.

Relieved to find the house empty, Mark staggered through the foyer, water droplets leaving a trail in his wake. The rain had awakened a sudden thirst in him, so he headed to the kitchen, hoping to drown his thoughts in a glass of liquor.

As he got closer to the kitchen, the sudden sound of running water coming from the kitchen caught his attention. Did someone leave the water running? he wondered. He was going to have a word with Elizabeth about this later on.

The sound of running water assaulted Mark's ears as he strode into the kitchen before he grounded to a halt.

His eyes widened in surprise as he took in the scene before him: a figure, barefoot and draped in a silk white nightgown that flirted gracefully with her knees was standing in front of the sink, her hands frantically trying to stem the flow from a broken faucet.

Half the kitchen floor was already submerged, and water was spilling onto the tiles with every passing second.

"Jesus, what happened here?" Mark's voice boomed over the cacophony of the gushing water and the relentless drumming of rain outside. He saw her jump in fright at the sudden sound, her eyes wide with alarm as she turned to face him. She didn't hear me enter, he realized.

She let out a startled shriek, her hand flying to her chest as she struggled to regain her composure. His next words froze in his mouth as his eyes took in the new scene before him.

Her silk nightgown was soaking wet from top to bottom and was a bit transparent as it clung desperately to her skin.

Mark's gaze lingered on her features—nose and mouth sculpted to compliment her beauty. The room seemed to hold its breath as Mark's attention unintentionally fixated on her breasts, the wet cloth accentuating both breasts and leaving little to the imagination.

The subtle response of her body to the silk created an unexpected desire within him as his gaze went lower where he caught a glimpse of pink underwear.

He felt a stirring within him, an awakening of sudden desire he hadn't felt in a long while— at least not in recent months. 

The seconds stretched into an eternity as they stood frozen, suspended in the unexpected encounter until she finally spoke. "Who are you? I—I didn't hear you come in," she stammered, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"I should ask you that," he countered. "You are in my kitchen," he said with calm assertion.

Her eyes widened at that moment and for a minute she seemed to be scanning his face in the hope of recognition before she said in an uncertain voice, "Mr Matthews?"

"Yes?" He answered, confirming her suspicions. "… and you are?"

 "My name is Isabella. I am the new housekeeper," she offered as if the title could explain the incongruity of her presence.

"You don't look like a housekeeper. Is this some kind of joke?" He asked incredulously, casting a look over her once again.

"No." She suddenly appeared uncomfortable, realizing how her damp nightgown may have exposed more than intended.

Mark's thoughts raced, skepticism coloring his perception. "The new housekeeper?" he mused inwardly, surveying the silk-clad vision before him.

He was aware Elizabeth had hired a new housekeeper but even in his wildest imaginations, he never expected someone like her. All that didn't matter now though considering the flooded kitchen.

Mark hurried over to her side, his heart racing with concern. "What did you do?"

Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she gestured helplessly at the broken fixture. "I-I'm not sure, sir. It just… it started leaking, and then it burst, and I couldn't stop it."

Jack took in the scene with a mixture of frustration and annoyance. He could see the panic in her eyes, and he knew he had to act quickly to prevent any further damage.

Without hesitation, he rolled up his sleeves and waded into the water, joining her in her frantic efforts to contain the flood.

They finally managed to get the broken faucet under control, after he had taken off his shirt for her to use in soaking the water pressure while he battled to turn off the main water control under the sink. After which together they cleared and mopped the flooded floor.

As the last of the water was mopped up from the flooded kitchen floor, Mark's frustration simmered beneath the surface like a dormant volcano ready to erupt. He watched her every move with a critical eye, his jaw clenched tightly as he fought to contain his temper.

"First day on the job, and you already flooded my kitchen and ruined a $2000 shirt… it took the last housekeeper two years to manage that feat," he said dryly.

She seemed to recoil at his words, her face downcast at the harshness of his tone. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Matthews," she stammered, her hands trembling as she wrung out the mop. "I didn't mean for this to happen. The faucet just… it broke so suddenly." 

He waved away her apologies with a dismissive gesture, his eyes narrowing with disdain. "Save it. I don't care about your excuses, you should be better at your job… how long have you been housekeeping" 

"Erm, it's my first time actually," she said in a low voice. 

"Wow, this just keeps getting better. And where did you work before" 

"At a restaurant," she answered. 

"Well, I wouldn't call it their loss. You should call them to keep your old job open, you might need it back soon" he said as he headed towards the door.

"I don't know how you got this job, but if something like this happens again… you will be back waiting tables. See to it that you clean up here, I will be in my room." And with that he walked out, leaving her alone in the middle of the kitchen. 

He had protested the need to hire a new housekeeper, but Elizabeth had insisted. Since his predicament started, he had learned to rely on her decision-making a lot, so he agreed to let her handle it. 

When she told him she finally got one, "She is an immigrant, someone we can be sure would keep her mouth shut!" she had told him. Mark was expecting a middle-aged Spanish woman who barely spoke English, but not this.

She was pretty, he would give her that but she seemed to be way over her head with this job. How she had managed to convince Elizabeth, he could only guess, But that was a conversation for another day. He had no use for incompetence around him right now. 

He picked up his luggage and headed up the stairs to his room, where he had a quick shower, and before long, he dozed off.