No Assistant Ever Lasted a Week Working for the Paralyzed Millionaire — Until a Single Dad Showed Up

By Tuesday afternoon, Eric realized Victoria Ashworth’s rage wasn’t just personality—it was armor.

She was fighting a two-front war: one against her own failing physical autonomy, and another against the predators circling her company.

While pushing Eric through an exhausted fourteen-hour shift of document reviews and intense physical transfer assists—helping Martha safely shift Victoria from her daytime chair to her specialized physical therapy apparatus—Eric kept his ears open.

He noticed a recurring name on the internal private line: Derek Langston.

Langston was Ashworth Financial’s Chief Operating Officer, a polished corporate veteran who had been running day-to-day operations at the Manhattan headquarters since Victoria’s accident.

On the surface, Langston sounded charming, deferential, and deeply concerned for Victoria’s health.

But Eric’s years in logistics had given him a sixth sense for systemic discrepancies.

At 11:00 PM on Tuesday night, while Eric was sitting at his designated desk in the outer executive study, he reviewed the schedule Langston’s office had synced to Victoria’s personal calendar.

Something felt off.

Eric pulled up the physical therapy logs sent by Dr. Alistair Finch, Victoria’s private neurologist.

Dr. Finch had explicitly scheduled a mandatory two-hour autonomic nervous system recovery session for Thursday at 1:00 PM.

Yet, on the synchronized corporate calendar, Langston’s assistant had booked a high-stress, mandatory emergency video conference with the board’s auditing committee at that exact same time.

It wasn’t an isolated mistake.

Eric pulled three months of historical calendars from the server logs.

Every time Dr. Finch scheduled a critical physical rehabilitation therapy session or a pain-management consultation, Langston’s office quietly slipped an urgent, high-stakes financial briefing into the exact same slot twenty-four hours prior.

When Victoria inevitably skipped her medical therapies to attend the meetings, her chronic neuropathic pain spiked, leading to visible fatigue and short-tempered outbursts during the calls.

*They’re baiting her,* Eric realized, a chill creeping up his neck.

*Langston is intentionally engineering physical exhaustion to make her look mentally erratic in front of the board.*

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.

Martha stood in the doorway holding a tray of untouched broth.

Her face was lined with deep exhaustion.

“She refused to eat again,” Martha quietly sighed, setting the tray down.

“She thinks the kitchen is putting sedatives in her food because she felt drowsy during the London call yesterday.”

Eric turned the monitor toward Martha.

“Martha, take a look at this. The kitchen isn’t sedating her. Her pain management patches last twelve hours. When she misses her 1:00 PM physical stretch sessions because Langston books these emergency board calls, her nerve compression acts up. She takes an extra breakthrough pain pill just to get through the meetings. That’s what’s causing the drowsiness.”

Martha leaned over the desk, her eyes scanning the data trails Eric had highlighted.

Her breath hitched.

“My God. If Derek Langston can prove to the board of directors that Victoria is medically incompetent and emotionally unstable, the bylaws allow a vote of no confidence. He becomes acting CEO and triggers a mandatory buyout of her founder shares at half value.”

“How close is he to getting that vote?” Eric asked.

“Very close,” Martha whispered grimly.

“There is a quarterly performance assessment this Friday. If she falters during that presentation, Langston has the votes lined up to strip her of operational control.”

Eric looked toward the heavy oak doors of Victoria’s quarters.

Behind all that vicious sarcasm and demands for absolute perfection was a woman terrified of losing the only thing she had left in the world: the company she built from nothing.

“Martha,” Eric said gently, shifting the topic to his own precarious reality.

“Is Mia still asleep in the staff suite?”

Martha softened slightly, nodding.

“She went out like a light around eight. I sneaked her some warm milk and toast. Eric, you are playing a terrifying game here. If Victoria finds out you smuggled your daughter into the east wing guest quarters because you lost your apartment, she won’t just fire you—she will blacklist you across every industry in New York. She despises unauthorized personnel on the grounds.”

“I know,” Eric murmured, rubbing his face.

He had taken his first paycheck advance on Monday evening to secure a clean, safe two-bedroom apartment in White Plains, but the lease didn’t finalize until Saturday morning.

Until then, the Ashworth estate was the only roof over Mia’s head.

“Just give me until Friday night. Once I get through this board meeting and secure my first full week’s pay, we’ll be out of the staff quarters.”

“Just keep her invisible, Eric,” Martha warned.