PART 2: The nurse who refused to leave Dominic Rossi discovered why every secret in his house led back to one name 11025
PART 2: The nurse who refused to leave Dominic Rossi discovered why every secret in his house led back to one name 11025
His expression suggested he wasn’t accustomed to being corrected about time either.
I pulled out my thermometer, blood pressure cuff, gloves, and a small notebook.
“I’m not touching you without permission,” I said. “I’m not changing anything while you’re asleep. I’m not going to surprise you, argue with you about every little thing, or pretend you aren’t capable of making your own decisions.”
That got his attention.
I nodded toward the bandage covering his shoulder.
“But you’re bleeding through a dressing that should not look like that, and you’re running a fever I can feel from six feet away.”
“You can feel my fever?”
“The entire room feels like July.”
“I like it warm.”
“Then you have terrible taste.”
For the first time, something shifted in his face.
Not amusement exactly.
More like surprise that I was still standing there.
He looked toward the door.
“You know what happened to the last nurse?”
“I’ve heard several versions.”
That was true.
Leo’s had been the least colorful.
The employment agency had told me only that the assignment had experienced “staffing difficulties.” The woman who interviewed me had paused long enough afterward to make the phrase sound almost comical.
Dominic looked back at me.
“And you came anyway.”
“My landlord is considerably more frightening than you.”
That almost did it.
One corner of his mouth moved.
Then pain tightened his face, and he closed his eyes.
My humor vanished.
“Mr. Rossi.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I’ve been worse.”
“That doesn’t make this good.”
His breathing had become shallow.
I stayed where I was.
That mattered.
Everything I had learned in emergency nursing told me to move quickly, but something about the rigid set of his jaw told me urgency would feel like invasion to him.
So I slowed down.
“Ten minutes,” I said.
His eyes opened.
“What?”
“Give me ten minutes to examine you properly. You stay awake. I explain everything before I do it. You can stop me whenever you want.”
“And after ten minutes?”
“If I think you need a hospital, I tell you.”
“I’m not going.”
“Then we argue after the ten minutes.”
His stare was almost impressive.
“Do you bargain with every patient?”
“Only the difficult ones.”
“I’m not difficult.”
I glanced at the bloodstained dressing.
“That’s encouraging.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Ten minutes.”
It was the first victory I had had in weeks.
I tried not to look too pleased about it.
His temperature was 102.8.
His pulse was too fast.
The wound itself looked less catastrophic once I carefully removed the outer dressing, but the surrounding skin was inflamed and hot. Some of the bleeding appeared to have come from a partially reopened edge after too much movement.
I kept my voice calm.
“When did you last take the antibiotic?”
Silence.
I looked up.
“Dominic.”
His eyes sharpened at the use of his first name.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“What time?”
Another silence.
“You don’t remember.”
“I remember.”
“Wonderful. What time?”
His jaw tightened.
I waited.
“Yesterday evening.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
“That was not this morning.”
“I was asleep this morning.”
“The medication does not care.”
“I hate the way it makes me feel.”
“Nauseated?”
“Tired.”
“You were shot. You have an infection. You’re going to feel tired.”
“I have work.”
“You have a bed.”
He looked genuinely offended.
I cleaned the area carefully, talking him through each movement before I made it.
He never flinched away, but his entire body remained tense.
There was something strange about that tension.
It wasn’t fear of pain.
It was the anticipation of losing control.
I had seen it before.
Patients who had been helpless for too long sometimes guarded the smallest choices fiercely afterward.
I did not know what had happened to Dominic Rossi before I entered that bedroom.
But I was beginning to understand that commanding him would get me nowhere.
When I finished, the new dressing was clean and secure.
I checked the time.
“Nine minutes.”
He looked down.
“That’s it?”
“For now.”
His suspicion was almost funny.
“You’re not going to lecture me?”
“I’m saving it.”
“For what?”
“When you refuse the antibiotic again.”
He looked toward the window.
“I didn’t refuse it.”
“You simply failed to take it?”
“That sounds less deliberate.”
“It also sounds less intelligent.”
He turned his head slowly.
“You speak to all your employers like this?”
“You’re not my employer when I’m treating you.”
“What am I?”
“A patient with poor judgment.”
This time I definitely saw it.
A brief, reluctant smile.
It disappeared almost immediately, but it had been there.
Then I called the physician listed in the care plan.
Dominic objected.
I ignored him.
Dr. Elena Velez arrived forty minutes later carrying the calm authority of a woman who had known Dominic long enough to be unimpressed by him.
She was in her early fifties, silver threading through her dark hair, her wool coat still damp from the rain.
She looked at the clean dressing.
Then at me.
“New nurse?”
“Nora Hayes.”
“Elena Velez.”
Dominic muttered, “You can introduce yourselves downstairs.”
Elena smiled sweetly.
“No.”
I liked her immediately.
She examined him while I gave her his vitals and medication history.
When I mentioned the missed doses, she took off her glasses and stared at him.
Dominic stared back.
Neither spoke.
Apparently, this was an established language between them.
Finally, Elena said, “If the fever rises again tonight, you’re going to the hospital.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She turned to me.
“Call me if it reaches 103.”
“I will.”
Dominic frowned.
“I’m in the room.”
Elena put her glasses back on. “We know.”
Before leaving, she adjusted his antibiotic schedule, prescribed something to help with the nausea, and ordered fluids, rest, and repeat blood work in the morning.
At the door, she stopped beside me.
“You got him to let you change the dressing.”
“He agreed.”
She studied me.
“That distinction may be why you’re still here.”
Then she left.
Dominic heard her.
“Don’t look pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Maybe a little.”
By early evening, the rain had softened.
His fever had dropped slightly.
I persuaded him to drink broth, take the antibiotic, and move from flat refusal to irritated cooperation.
It was progress.
At seven, Leo appeared in the doorway.
He looked first at Dominic, then at me, then at the untouched lamp sitting safely on the side table.
“You’re still here.”
“So are you.”
“I live here.”
“That explains it.”
Leo’s mouth tightened, although I suspected he was hiding a smile.
Dominic pointed toward the hall.
“Take her downstairs.”
“I’m not a package,” I said.
“I need to sleep.”
“That’s an excellent medical decision.”
He closed his eyes.
“Leave.”
I gathered my notebook.
At the door, I looked back.
“If you wake up feeling worse, use the call button.”
No response.
“Dominic.”
One eye opened.
“I heard you.”
“Good.”
I stepped into the hall.
Leo waited until the door was closed.
Then he stared at me.
“What did you do?”
“Changed a dressing.”
“No. What did you do?”
“I asked permission.”
Something unreadable crossed his face.
The hallway suddenly seemed quieter.
“None of the others did?”
“Not exactly.”
That surprised me.
“What does that mean?”
Leo looked toward Dominic’s door.
“It means this house is very good at giving orders and very bad at asking questions.”
He turned away.
“Come. Mrs. Bellini saved dinner for you.”
Mrs. Bellini turned out to be Rosa, a round-faced woman in her sixties who had worked for the Rossi family since Dominic was a teenager.
She put enough pasta in front of me to feed an entire nursing unit.
“You are too thin,” she announced.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I decided I had argued enough for one day.
The kitchen was the only room in the mansion that felt lived in.
Copper pots hung over a wide island. A loaf of bread cooled beneath a white cloth. Family photographs covered one wall beside a cluttered bulletin board.
Dominic appeared in surprisingly few of them.
There were photographs of Rosa with three generations of Rossis.
Leo at Christmas.
A dark-haired woman laughing beside a lake.
A younger Dominic beside her, perhaps twenty years old, smiling in a way that looked almost unrecognizable.
I pointed to the woman.
“His mother?”
Rosa followed my gaze.
“Lucia.”
“She looks happy.”
“She made people happy.”
Rosa’s expression softened.
“She planted flowers everywhere. Dominic’s father complained that the garden looked like a wedding cake.”
I remembered the bare hedges outside.
“What happened to them?”
Rosa became quiet.
“After she died, Dominic had most of them removed.”
“Why?”
“Some people keep memories close. Dominic tries to make them disappear.”
She set bread beside my plate.
“It never works.”
I didn’t ask how Lucia Rossi had died.
I had already learned that this house contained more silences than rooms.
After dinner, Leo showed me the guest suite assigned to me during the twenty-four-hour observation period.
It was larger than my apartment.
I stood in the center of the room feeling absurd in my damp sneakers.
“There’s a uniform in the wardrobe,” Leo said.
“I have scrubs.”
“Mr. Rossi prefers household staff to dress formally.”
“I’m medical staff.”
Leo considered that.
“Wear your scrubs.”
“Thank you.”
He reached the door.
“Leo.”
He turned.
“Why did six nurses really leave?”
His face changed slightly.
“The stories you heard are exaggerated.”
“How exaggerated?”
“The first nurse startled him awake while leaning over him. He knocked a lamp from the table. It broke, and she cut her arm picking it up despite being told not to.”
“And the broken wrist?”
“She slipped on the stairs after leaving his room.”
“So he didn’t break it.”
“No.”
“The crying nurse?”
“Dominic told her she talked too much.”
I stared at him.
“That was enough?”
“She agreed.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
Leo did too, quietly.
Then his expression became serious.
“He can be impossible, Nora. He has been angry since the injury. At himself more than anyone.”
“What happened?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“Yes.”
At least he was honest.
He left.
At half past midnight, the call button sounded.
I woke instantly.
Years of night shifts had trained my body to move before my mind caught up.
I hurried down the hall and entered Dominic’s room.
The lamp beside the bed was on.
He was sitting upright, breathing carefully.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You pressed the button.”
“I need water.”
I looked at the glass sitting six inches from his left hand.
Then at him.
He looked almost embarrassed.
I walked closer.
“Is the pain worse?”
“No.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Chills?”
“No.”
I touched the thermometer to his forehead after receiving a reluctant nod.
101.9.
Better.
I handed him the glass.
He drank.
I waited.
Finally, he said, “I couldn’t sleep.”
“That isn’t an emergency.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why call me?”
His gaze settled somewhere past my shoulder.
For the first time since I met him, Dominic Rossi looked uncertain.
“I woke up,” he said slowly, “and didn’t know where I was.”
The confession cost him something.
I could see it.
I pulled the chair closer but did not sit until he nodded.
“Medication can do that. So can fever.”
“It lasted maybe ten seconds.”
“Ten frightening seconds?”
His mouth tightened.
“I didn’t say frightening.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He looked annoyed, but not angry.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
Water moved through the gutters in a soft, steady rhythm.
“Do you want the curtains open?” I asked.
“No.”
“Door open?”
“No.”
“Lamp on?”
He looked at it.
“Yes.”
“Then leave it on.”
He frowned.
“You’re not going to tell me darkness helps sleep?”
“You already know that.”
“So what are you going to tell me?”
“That one bad night does not require turning everything into a battle.”
His gaze returned to me.
“You always talk like you know people.”
“I worked in an emergency room. People tell nurses things they would never tell their families.”
“Why?”
“Because they think they’ll never see us again.”
“And then?”
“Sometimes they do.”
He was quiet.
“Why did you leave the hospital?”
“My position was eliminated.”
“And they couldn’t find you another?”
“They could have if budgets worked the way human beings did.”
“That sounds bitter.”
“It’s expensive to be philosophical when you’re unemployed.”
He glanced at my worn sneakers.
I tucked my feet beneath the chair.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Look at my shoes like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re calculating their remaining life expectancy.”
“They’re losing.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They’re separating at the sole.”
“I have glue.”
He actually laughed.
It was brief, rough from fever, but unmistakably real.
Then pain tugged at his shoulder, and he stopped.
“You should sleep,” I said.
“So should you.”
“I’m being paid not to.”
“That’s depressing.”
“Less depressing than eviction.”
His expression changed.
I immediately regretted saying it.
Not because it was shameful.
Because I did not want pity.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my problem.”
He studied me.
“Is your rent really due Monday?”
“Yes.”
“And you took this assignment because of it.”
“Partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
I considered lying.
Instead I said, “I miss being useful.”
Something in his face softened.
I stood.
“Try sleeping again.”
“Nora.”
I paused.
“Thank you.”
The words were quiet.
As if he didn’t use them often.
“You’re welcome.”
The next morning his temperature was 100.7.
By noon, it was below one hundred.
Dr. Velez looked almost cheerful when she returned for blood work.
“Congratulations,” she told Dominic. “You appear determined to remain among us.”
He glared at her.
She winked at me.
The household changed around me over the next two days.
Or maybe I simply started noticing things.
Leo, despite his formality, brought coffee exactly the way everyone liked it.
Rosa secretly fed a stray orange cat by the back door while insisting she did not like cats.
A gardener named Miguel arrived every morning before sunrise and maintained acres of grounds Dominic barely looked at.
And Dominic himself was not the man everyone had described.
He was impatient.
Private.
Used to control.
Sometimes infuriating.
But he never raised his voice at me.
He asked about medication before taking it.
He apologized once when exhaustion made him sharp.
And after I caught him trying to answer emails at three in the morning, he allowed me to confiscate his laptop for four hours without declaring war.
On my third afternoon, a woman arrived carrying a white bakery box.
She walked into Dominic’s room without knocking.
“Sofia.”
Dominic’s tone contained more exhaustion than greeting.
She was perhaps thirty-five, elegant without appearing to try, with Dominic’s dark eyes and Lucia’s open smile.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Nice to see you too.”
Sofia placed the box on the table.
“I brought cannoli.”
“I don’t want cannoli.”
“They aren’t for you.”
She looked at me.
“You must be Nora.”
“I am.”
“I’m Sofia Moretti. Dominic’s sister.”
“Half-sister,” Dominic corrected.
Sofia rolled her eyes.
“We had the same mother, shared a bathroom for twelve years, and he ruined three of my birthdays. He only says half-sister when he’s being dramatic.”
“I didn’t ruin your birthdays.”
“You told everyone Santa wasn’t real when I turned six.”
“You asked.”
“I asked if reindeer could fly.”
“You received a comprehensive answer.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Sofia caught me.
“See? Even your nurse thinks you were unbearable.”
“She’s easily influenced.”
“I am standing right here,” I said.
Sofia smiled.
For a few minutes, Dominic seemed different.
Not softer exactly.
Younger.
Sofia teased him about childhood arguments, and for once he did not seem interested in winning.
Then she mentioned the warehouse.
Everything changed.
“Leo told me you were at Bell Street that night.”
Dominic’s face went still.
“Sofia.”
“You promised me you wouldn’t go back there alone.”
“This is not the time.”
“You’ve been saying that for twelve years.”
I pretended to organize supplies.
Neither of them was fooled.
Sofia lowered her voice.
“What were you looking for?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why were you there?”
Dominic looked toward me.
“Nora.”
I understood.
“I’ll check back in fifteen minutes.”
As I stepped into the hall, Sofia spoke behind me.
“You can keep shutting doors, Dominic. That doesn’t make what’s behind them disappear.”
The door closed.
The words stayed with me.
Bell Street.
I filed the name away without meaning to.
That evening, Sofia found me in the kitchen.
She had removed her heels and was eating cannoli over the sink while Rosa complained about crumbs.
“He hates being sick,” Sofia said.
“Most people do.”
“No. Dominic hates needing anyone.”
“That I noticed.”
She smiled faintly.
“You’re doing better than the others.”
“I’m not trying to win.”
“That may be why.”
She licked powdered sugar from her thumb.
“Did he tell you what happened at Bell Street?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I raised an eyebrow.
She sighed.
“Not because you shouldn’t know. Because if he tells anyone, it should be because he chose to.”
That answer surprised me.
“You’re not going to tell me either?”
“No.”
The Rossi family was remarkably united in withholding information.
Sofia watched me a moment.
“Has he asked your last name?”
“He knows my last name.”
“Does he?”
Something in her expression made my stomach tighten.
“What does that mean?”
Before she could answer, Leo entered.
“Sofia, your car is ready.”
Her eyes moved toward him.
Some silent message passed between them.
I noticed.
So did Leo.
Neither explained it.
Sofia picked up her coat.
“It was nice meeting you, Nora.”
“You too.”
At the doorway, she stopped.
“Ask him about Daniel Hayes.”
My hand froze around my coffee cup.
Sofia walked out before I could answer.
Daniel Hayes.
My father’s name.
I stood in the kitchen listening to the front door close somewhere beyond the hall.
Leo remained beside the island.
“What did she mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“That wasn’t convincing.”
“I’m not attempting to convince you.”
“Did Dominic know my father?”
Leo’s expression gave me the answer before he spoke.
“Nora—”
“He did.”
“You should ask Dominic.”
“I am asking you.”
“And I’m telling you it isn’t my story.”
Anger moved through me then.
Not explosive anger.
The colder kind.
The kind born from discovering everyone in a room has information about your life except you.
“You interviewed me.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my full name.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Daniel Hayes was my father.”
Leo hesitated.
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“Was this assignment really random?”
Leo looked toward the upstairs hall.
“No.”
For a moment, the warm kitchen seemed to tilt.
“Did Dominic request me?”
“He saw the agency list.”
“And picked me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That is what you need to ask him.”
I went upstairs.
Dominic was sitting in the armchair beside the window, his injured arm supported, reading through papers.
His color had improved considerably.
I closed the door behind me.
He looked up.
“Sofia said something.”
His expression changed.
That was enough.
“You knew my father.”
He set the papers down.
“Nora—”
“How?”
Silence.
“Why did you request me?”
“I recognized your name.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
It was remarkable how infuriating one syllable could be.
“Did my father work for you?”
“No.”
“For your family?”
Dominic looked away.
“Sometimes.”
“My father was an accountant for the city.”
“He was more than that.”
“What does that mean?”
“I need to explain it properly.”
“Then explain it.”
He glanced at the clock.
“Not tonight.”
I laughed once, without humor.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“You bring me into your house because you recognize my father’s name, you let everyone else know something I don’t, and now you’re telling me to wait?”
“There are documents you need to see.”
“What documents?”
“At Bell Street.”
The warehouse.
I folded my arms.
“Is that why you were there when you were injured?”
His silence answered that too.
My anger drained into confusion.
“What does my father have to do with a warehouse owned by your family?”
Dominic stood too quickly.
Pain crossed his face.
I instinctively moved forward.
He lifted his hand.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re still recovering.”
“And you’re still my nurse.”
“Right now I’m Daniel Hayes’s daughter.”
Something softened in his eyes.
“Yes.”
The way he said it stopped me.
Not with irritation.
With recognition.
Almost respect.
“My father died nine years ago,” I said. “If you knew something about him, you’ve had nine years to tell me.”
“I made him a promise.”
“What promise?”
“That I would not interfere in your life.”
I stared at him.
“You requested me for this job.”
“You came to my house under your own name. I thought that changed the circumstances.”
“That is an incredibly convenient interpretation.”
“I know.”
At least he had the decency to look uncomfortable.
I wanted to leave.
For about ten seconds, I seriously considered packing my bag, collecting whatever hours I had earned, and never seeing Dominic Rossi again.
Then he said, “Your father was one of the few men who ever told mine no.”
I stopped.
Dominic walked slowly to the desk.
“He came into this house twenty years ago with a briefcase full of numbers and told my father that someone inside Rossi Holdings was stealing from people who trusted us.”
“My father investigated your company?”
“Not officially.”
“Then why?”
“Because my mother asked him.”
Lucia.
I remembered Rosa describing the flowers.
“How did she know him?”
“They grew up three streets apart.”
My heart beat faster.
My father had never mentioned Lucia Rossi.
Not once.
Dominic opened a desk drawer.
“I thought the papers were here.”
He searched carefully.
“What papers?”
“A copy of his notes.”
“About what?”
“The employee trust.”
I moved closer despite myself.
Dominic shifted a stack of envelopes.
“There was a fund established for factory workers—retirement accounts, medical assistance, education grants for their families. My grandfather created it. After he died, money began disappearing.”
“And my father found it?”
“He found enough to know something was wrong.”
“Who took it?”
Dominic looked at me.
“That is part of what I was trying to establish at Bell Street.”
I suddenly understood why Sofia had been angry.
“You went searching for old records.”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“Yes.”
“You really do have terrible judgment.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He reached deeper into the drawer.
Then stopped.
His face changed.
“What?”
He pulled out an old photograph.
The edges were bent.
The image had faded.
A much younger Dominic stood outside a brick building beside another man.
My lungs forgot how to work.
I knew that man.
His hair had been darker then.
His shoulders broader.
But I knew the slight tilt of his smile and the old brown jacket he had refused to throw away for twenty years.
My father.
Daniel Hayes stood beside Dominic Rossi.
They were both smiling.
Dominic handed me the photograph.
My fingers trembled.
I turned it over.
There was handwriting on the back.
My father’s handwriting.
To Dominic—
A promise is a promise. Finish what your mother started.
D.H.
October 2008.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
“What did he mean?”
Dominic was silent.
I looked up.
“What did my father ask you to finish?”
Dominic sat carefully on the edge of the desk.
“The night before your father left this city for the last time, he gave me a file.”
My throat tightened.
“What file?”
“A record of every worker he believed had lost money from the trust.”
I stared at him.
“He made me promise two things. First, that if I ever gained enough control of the company, I would find out what happened and repay what could be repaid.”
“And the second?”
Dominic looked directly at me.
“That I would never involve you unless you came looking for the truth yourself.”
“I wasn’t looking.”
“No.”
“I came here because I needed a job.”
“I know.”
“Then why tell me now?”
His gaze dropped to the photograph in my hand.
“Because I found something at Bell Street before I was injured.”
A chill moved through me.
“What?”
“An old ledger.”
He paused.
“It contained your father’s handwriting.”
I could barely speak.
“What did he write?”
Dominic’s expression was not frightened.
It was troubled.
“He wrote one name repeatedly in the margins.”
“Whose?”
Dominic held my gaze.
“Mine.”
The photograph shook slightly between my fingers.
“Why?”
“That,” Dominic said quietly, “is the part I still don’t understand.”
-END OF PART 2 –PRESS NEX PART IN BOTTOM OF PAGE TO READ NEXT PART
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Inaccurate information Copyright violation Spam / advertisement Offensive content Other '; footer.hidden = true; overlay.hidden = false; document.body.style.overflow = 'hidden'; } function hideSection() { if (section) section.hidden = true; } function openModal() { if (alreadyReported) { showSuccess(); return; } overlay.hidden = false; document.body.style.overflow = 'hidden'; } function closeModal() { overlay.hidden = true; document.body.style.overflow = ''; footer.hidden = false; overlay.querySelectorAll('input[name="report_reason"]').forEach(function(r) { r.checked = false; }); document.getElementById('reportMessage').value = ''; errorBox.hidden = true; submitBtn.disabled = false; submitBtn.textContent = 'Submit report'; imageItems = []; imgGrid.innerHTML = ''; updateAttachBtn(); } btn.addEventListener('click', openModal); closeBtn.addEventListener('click', closeModal); cancelBtn.addEventListener('click', closeModal); overlay.addEventListener('click', function(e) { if (e.target === overlay) closeModal(); }); document.addEventListener('keydown', function(e) { if (!overlay.hidden && e.key === 'Escape') closeModal(); }); // --- Error helper --- function showError(msg) { errorBox.textContent = msg; errorBox.hidden = false; } // --- Submit --- submitBtn.addEventListener('click', function() { var selected = overlay.querySelector('input[name="report_reason"]:checked'); if (!selected) { showError('Please select a reason.'); return; } errorBox.hidden = true; submitBtn.disabled = true; var itemsToUpload = imageItems.filter(function(it) { return !it.uploadedUrl; }); if (itemsToUpload.length === 0) { doSubmit(selected.value); return; } submitBtn.textContent = 'Uploading…'; var done = 0, failed = 0; itemsToUpload.forEach(function(entry) { entry.statusEl.textContent = '…'; entry.statusEl.className = 'report-img-item__status'; entry.statusEl.hidden = false; resizeImage(entry.file, MAX_LONG_PX, function(resized) { uploadFile(resized, currentSlug, function(err, url) { done++; if (err) { failed++; entry.statusEl.textContent = 'Failed'; entry.statusEl.className = 'report-img-item__status err'; } else { entry.uploadedUrl = url; entry.statusEl.textContent = '✓'; entry.statusEl.className = 'report-img-item__status done'; } if (done === itemsToUpload.length) { if (failed > 0) { showError('Could not upload ' + failed + ' image(s). Remove the failed ones (red) or submit without them.' ); submitBtn.disabled = false; submitBtn.textContent = 'Submit report'; } else { doSubmit(selected.value); } } }); }); }); }); function doSubmit(reason) { submitBtn.textContent = 'Sending…'; var uploadedUrls = imageItems .map(function(it) { return it.uploadedUrl; }) .filter(Boolean); var payload = { reason: reason, message: document.getElementById('reportMessage').value.trim(), post_slug: currentSlug, post_url: window.location.href }; if (uploadedUrls.length) payload.image_urls = uploadedUrls; fetch('/api/post-report', { method: 'POST', headers: { 'Content-Type': 'application/json', 'X-Requested-With': 'XMLHttpRequest' }, body: JSON.stringify(payload) }) .then(function(r) { return r.json(); }) .then(function(data) { if (data && data.ok) { markReported(currentSlug); alreadyReported = true; bodyEl.innerHTML = '✓ Thank you for your report.'; footer.hidden = true; setTimeout(function() { closeModal(); footer.hidden = false; hideSection(); }, 2000); } else { showError((data && data.message) ? data.message : 'Something went wrong. Please try again.'); submitBtn.disabled = false; submitBtn.textContent = 'Submit report'; } }) .catch(function() { showError('Connection failed. Please try again.'); submitBtn.disabled = false; submitBtn.textContent = 'Submit report'; }); } })();
