Rain tapped gently against the windows of the Reed mansion the next morning, casting the house in a soft gray light. The usual sharpness of the place felt muted—quieter somehow. Like the world was slowing down for a breath.
Emma Carter sat on the nursery floor with Emily nestled in her lap, flipping through a board book filled with animals and bright colors. The baby giggled when Emma imitated the sound of a cow.
Emma (mimicking): "Moo!"
Emily (clapping): "Moo!"
Emma laughed.
Emma: "That's right, genius girl! I think you're smarter than half the people in this house."
As if on cue, the door creaked open.
Alexander Reed stepped in, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit and pale blue tie, his eyes immediately landing on the small, cozy scene before him. Emma, cross-legged on the floor. Emily, sprawled in her lap with a wide grin. The contrast between the warmth of the nursery and his tailored coldness was stark.
Alexander (calmly): "Good morning."
Emma (looking up, surprised): "Oh—good morning, Mr. Reed. I didn't expect you to stop by."
Alexander: "I had a few minutes. Wanted to see how she was doing before I left for the office."
Emma stood slowly, adjusting Emily on her hip. She noticed how his eyes softened—just a fraction—when he looked at his daughter.
Emma (gently): "She slept through the night. We did some reading this morning. She tried to eat a lion."
Alexander (raising a brow): "A real one?"
Emma (smiling): "Cardboard. Though I'm not ruling anything out. She's determined."
A breath of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. He stepped forward and brushed a strand of Emily's hair back from her face.
Alexander (quietly): "I'll be late tonight. A dinner meeting. Let Mrs. Hopkins know if you need anything."
Emma (nodding): "Of course."
He looked at her for a moment—longer than usual. Like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.
Then, without another word, he turned and left.
---
By afternoon, the rain had turned into a soft drizzle. Emma sat at the kitchen island with a cup of tea while Emily napped upstairs. Mrs. Hopkins joined her, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
Mrs. Hopkins (curiously): "You seem comfortable here now."
Emma (smiling): "It's still intimidating. But Emily makes it feel less… cold."
Mrs. Hopkins: "And Mr. Reed?"
Emma paused, fingers wrapping tighter around her mug.
Emma: "He's… complicated."
Mrs. Hopkins chuckled.
Mrs. Hopkins: "That's one word for it."
Emma tilted her head, curious.
Emma: "What's your word?"
Mrs. Hopkins (thoughtfully): "Lonely."
Emma looked down at her tea.
Emma (softly): "He doesn't seem the type."
Mrs. Hopkins: "He doesn't allow himself to be."
Emma didn't reply. She wasn't sure she should. The more she got to know Alexander Reed, the more she realized how carefully he built his walls. Every word he spoke was measured. Every glance, guarded.
And yet, there were moments—brief flickers—when those walls cracked.
---
That evening, Emma found herself in the grand hallway near the study. Emily was asleep, the monitors on, and the house was unnervingly quiet.
She had just finished folding laundry and was returning to her room when she heard something.
Piano.
She stopped.
The sound was faint but unmistakable. A slow, mournful melody echoing from the far end of the house. Emma followed the sound, barefoot on the marble, drawn by pure instinct.
She found the door slightly ajar.
Inside was a large music room—one she hadn't dared explore. A grand piano stood at the center, its black surface gleaming under dim lights.
And there he was.
Alexander Reed, seated at the keys, sleeves rolled up, tie discarded. His fingers moved with practiced grace over the piano, the melody rich and aching with emotion. He didn't notice her right away.
Emma stood frozen, watching a man she barely recognized. Gone was the cold CEO. In his place was someone else entirely. Someone raw. Vulnerable.
When the final note faded, he exhaled deeply—and then turned his head.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Emma (quietly): "I didn't know you played."
He blinked, clearly startled.
Alexander (coolly): "I don't. Anymore."
Emma (softly): "Then what was that?"
He stood, slowly, closing the piano lid with a soft click.
Alexander: "Habit. Nothing more."
She didn't believe him, but she didn't push.
Emma: "It was beautiful."
Alexander: "This room is off-limits, Miss Carter."
The words weren't cruel, but they were firm. A reminder. A line.
Emma nodded, stepping back.
Emma: "Understood."
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
Alexander (hesitating): "I used to play for my wife."
Emma froze.
He rarely mentioned her. This was the first time he had offered anything personal without being asked.
Alexander (quietly): "She loved music. Said it was the only time she saw my soul."
Emma's heart squeezed.
Emma (gently): "She must've loved you very much."
He didn't answer.
She left before the silence became something too heavy to bear.
---
Later that night, Emma sat on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The rain had returned, tapping softly against her window. She should've been asleep, but her thoughts wouldn't stop circling.
What was she doing here?
Not just in this house—but in this... situation.
She'd come for a job. A paycheck. A roof over her head.
But somewhere between bedtime stories and breakfast smiles, between piano melodies and quiet confessions, she had crossed a line. Not physically. Not even romantically. But emotionally.
And that was more dangerous than anything else.
She rolled over and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow would come, and with it, another carefully drawn line.
She just had to remember not to cross it.