Mitchell's POV
The morning light filtering through my small, high window felt different. Lighter. Today held a new, refreshing feel, like the air after a brutal storm. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, a sly smile playing on my lips. Clara's wedding was hurtling toward her, and I had the perfect gift waiting for them. A gift that would shatter her carefully crafted porcelain world.
I dressed simply in a soft, floral-print skirt and a cozy cream sweater, adding the small almond-shaped earrings—a gift from Mrs. Turnerstone on a long-ago birthday, before Clara returned. They were simple, but they were mine. I made my small bed with military neatness, a tiny act of order in my corner of chaos.
Downstairs, the Williams family was taking their leave, basking in the glow of their new, "rightful" daughter-in-law. Clara was the centerpiece, draped in a tight, extravagant red gown that seemed better suited for a cocktail party than a morning send-off. She doled out hugs like prizes.
Mrs. Williams, her face a mask of matronly approval, gave Clara's arm a soft pat. "Such a pretty girl," she cooed. "The very best daughter-in-law I could ever hope for."
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing aloud. If Clara is the best you can get, Mrs. Williams, then your son truly deserves nothing better. The irony was perfect. A scum for a scum. A perfect, poisonous match.
I didn't linger or offer goodbyes. Their performance wasn't for my benefit. Slipping out the side door, I breathed in the free air. My priorities were clear: find a job. I pulled out my new phone—its sleek, powerful presence still a shock—and began submitting my CV to various companies, the process feeling strangely empowering with this tool in my hand.
But first, I needed a dose of pure, uncomplicated joy. I found myself drawn to the city's large amusement park. Not to ride, but to watch. To see the unfiltered delight on children's faces, a reminder of a simpler time I could barely recall.
I bought a coffee and found a bench near the towering Ferris wheel. That's where I saw him. A little boy, no more than five, with a head of hair so dark it was almost blue-black, and the most startling, intelligent emerald eyes. He wasn't running with the other children. He stood by the entrance to the Ferris wheel, waiting his turn with a quiet, unnerving patience. When he finally boarded a carriage alone (the attendant, after a brief, puzzled conversation with someone via his earpiece, allowed it), he didn't press his face to the glass or squeal with excitement. He sat perfectly upright, hands in his lap, gazing out at the sprawling city vista as if surveying his domain.
Even the whirl of colorful lights and the cacophony of joyful screams couldn't dent his serene, oddly mature aura. He seemed both a part of the scene and completely separate from it, a miniature king observing his playground. I found myself captivated, my own worries momentarily forgotten as I watched this enigmatic little person. Who was he? And why did he seem so profoundly, beautifully alone?
ALISTAIR'S POV
The stack of files on my desk was much and I had little patience for today. I massaged my temple, the dull throb constant for a while now. Signing the last one with a swift, slashing stroke, I turned to my emails—a more digital form of the same workload.
Mike entered without his usual crisp knock, his posture stiff.
"How's the kid doing?" I asked, not looking up, rubbing the spot between my brows.
His hesitation was noticeable in the room. "Sir, he's… fine. He just… insisted on following Ms. Turnerstone."
My head snapped up. "What? You left my kid with a stranger?" The words were out, half a yell, before I could temper them. But then I reasoned, that woman, Mitchell… she looked like she wouldn't harm a fly. The thought of her gentle face, that melodic voice, actually calmed the initial spike of alarm. She was an angel, not a threat.
But in the very next second, my thoughts froze. The door to my office, which Mike had left slightly ajar, was pushed open wider.
And there she stood.
The woman I'd been thinking of since the hospital. Dressed not in hospital linen, but in a soft floral skirt and a cream sweater that made her look heartbreakingly sweet and… homely. Like a vision of a peace I'd never known. Her green eyes were wide with surprise, but it was the bitter, wounded twist of her smile that lanced through me.
Why do I feel my words hurt her?
The realization was instant and unsettling. She'd heard me call her a stranger. Even though she was, it was not the best thing to term her. An unwelcome complication.
She recovered swiftly, her attention dropping to Liam, who was peeking from behind her skirt. Her expression softened into something genuine, warm. "See you later, kiddo. Always look where you're going so you won't trip, okay?" She patted his dark head. Liam is my son and he was usually reserve. He nodded up at her with blatant admiration.
Then, the little traitor did something he almost never does with anyone outside a select few. He wrapped his arms around her leg in a sudden, tight hug. She seemed startled, then her face melted into such tender affection it stole the air from my lungs. She bent down, enveloping him in a proper hug. Was Liam… sniffing her? This kid absolutely needs a lesson in boundaries.
After releasing Liam, she straightened. Her eyes met Mike's, and she gave him a polite, familiar nod. "Big brother." Then, without so much as a flicker of a glance in my direction, she turned and walked out. Since when did she start calling him big brother? My eyes darkened as I stared at Mike.
The dismissal was so complete, so effortless, it left me momentarily speechless. Women—and men, for that matter—usually stumbled over themselves for a fraction of my attention. They schemed for an audience. Yet she had just walked past the sun without feeling its heat, as if I were part of a furniture. An eyesore. A scowl settled on my face. Such audacity.
I turned my glare to Liam, who had now made himself comfortable on the sofa, looking utterly pleased with himself. "What happened?" My voice was strict, the one I used when he'd done something particularly cunning.
"I fell," he stated plainly, those emerald eyes far too knowing for a five-year-old. "And she caught me." He paused, a tiny, contemplative look crossing his features. "Her scent is so sweet." He gave a gap-toothed smile, as if he'd discovered a wonderful secret.
No wonder. He's always been oddly sensitive to scents. I couldn't very well ask a child to describe her perfume. And I certainly couldn't satisfy my own sudden, inexplicable curiosity by pulling her into a hug to find out.
"Go and complete the vocabulary words I assigned you," I said, my tone dismissive. He pouted but slid off the sofa, shuffling toward the adjoining playroom.
Sitting back down, I tried to reclaim my focus. I clicked open the next email in the queue. And there it was.
Subject: Application for Part-Time Administrative Assistant
From: Mitchell Turnerstone
Attached: CV_MitchellTurnerstone.pdf
A slow, predatory smile touched my lips. She'd applied to two of my subsidiary companies. Ambitious. Or perhaps desperate. She likely had no idea the labyrinthine corporate structure ultimately led right back to this desk. To me.
I leaned back in my chair, the earlier irritation replaced by a thrum of intense interest. She needed a job. I had many. She wanted to avoid me. I now held her application in my hands.