Grace believed him, though she lacked a reason why.
Dominic glanced toward the fireplace, and the severe lines of his face softened. “My wife, Elena, died in a car fire two years ago. Sophie was in the rear seat. She survived because Elena shoved her through a smashed window before the fuel tank ignited.”
Grace’s throat constricted.
“Sophie remembers fragments,” he went on. “Smoke. Heat. Her mother screaming. Since then, every form of solace has failed her.”
“What version did you try?”
He turned back.
Grace regretted the inquiry before he spoke, because the sorrow in his eyes was too exposed for a man of his stature.
“Distance,” he admitted. “Control. Security. Money.”
“And none of that held her when thunder sounded like fire.”
Dominic’s jaw tensed.
“No.”
The room settled into a new kind of silence. Not safe, but sincere.
“What are the terms?” Grace asked.
“You live here. You become Sophie’s full-time caregiver. You will not answer to household staff. You will answer to me. Salary is thirty thousand dollars a month. Medical coverage. A private suite. Any debts you have will be cleared.”
Grace laughed once, devoid of humor.
“That is not a job offer. That is a golden cage.”
“Yes.”
At least he didn’t insult her intelligence by lying.
She crossed her arms. “I have conditions.”
Dominic arched an eyebrow.
Grace took a step closer. “No one puts hands on Sophie unless she is in immediate danger. No bodyguard drags her, grabs her, or corners her. No one calls her crazy, monster, beast, or any other word adults use when they’re too lazy to understand a child. Her room becomes hers, not a showroom. She gets choices. Real ones. And you eat dinner with her three nights a week.”
His look darkened. “My schedule is not negotiable.”
“Then neither am I.”
“You need money.”
“Yes,” Grace said. “But she needs a father. That matters more.”
Dominic stared at her for so long that the logs popped twice before he spoke.
“Three nights,” he said.
“And one afternoon outside the house every week. Park, museum, bookstore, anything normal.”
“My daughter has enemies.”
“Your daughter has a prison.”
He flinched.
It was slight, but Grace caught it.
Finally, Dominic nodded once. “Done.”
Grace should have felt a sense of triumph.
Instead, she felt the gravity of what she had signed up for.
A child’s sorrow.
A crime boss’s mansion.
A secret regarding mint.
And a family constructed around a void no one knew how to address.
Her first morning started with a scream.
Not Sophie’s.
A housekeeper named Mrs. Donnelly came sprinting down the east wing corridor with flour in her hair and pancake mix across her cardigan.
“She put salt in the batter, hot sauce in the coffee, and a dead mouse in Mr. Hale’s chair!”
Grace sat up in bed, still groggy.
“A real dead mouse?”
Mrs. Donnelly looked insulted. “I did not inspect it for authenticity.”
Grace dressed swiftly and found Sophie seated in the breakfast nook wearing a soft yellow dress, kicking her legs under the table with the look of a general awaiting a surrender.
Dominic’s chair had been nudged back. On the seat lay a small gray object.
Grace leaned in.
Rubber.
She picked up the imitation mouse and inspected it.
“Good craftsmanship.”
Sophie narrowed her gaze.
Mrs. Donnelly breathed, “Miss Bennett, don’t encourage—”
“I’m not encouraging,” Grace said. “I’m assessing. There’s a difference.”
Sophie folded her arms. “Are you going to yell?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell my dad?”
“He probably already knows. There are cameras everywhere.”
Sophie’s gaze flicked to the ceiling.
Grace sat across from her. “But there will be consequences.”
Sophie’s chin came up. “I don’t care.”
“That’s okay. Consequences don’t need your emotional approval.”
Mrs. Donnelly made a small wheezing sound.
Grace interlaced her fingers. “You ruined breakfast. So you will help Mrs. Donnelly make a new one.”
“I don’t cook.”
“You do now.”
“I hate you.”
“Probably.”
Sophie shoved her chair out. “You can’t make me.”
Grace leaned back. “True. I can’t make you do anything. But I can sit here, and you can sit there, and breakfast can continue not existing until your stomach starts negotiating with your pride.”
Sophie glared.
Grace waited.
Ten minutes ticked by.
Then twenty.
Dominic appeared in the doorway, clad in a charcoal suit, phone in hand. He paused when he observed Grace sitting calmly across from his enraged daughter while Mrs. Donnelly lingered near the kitchen.
“Why is no one eating?” he asked.
“Sophie is deciding whether she wants to learn pancake repair.”
“I’m not deciding,” Sophie snapped. “I’m refusing.”
Grace nodded. “She is refusing with impressive stamina.”
Dominic looked at his daughter. “Sophie, apologize to Mrs. Donnelly.”
Sophie’s face hardened instantly. “No.”
Dominic’s voice turned cold. “Now.”
Grace stood up.
Both of them focused on her.
“Mr. Hale,” she said cautiously, “this is not one of your meetings.”
His eyes narrowed.
Grace held her ground. “Ordering an apology teaches obedience, not remorse. Give us the room.”
Mrs. Donnelly’s eyes went wide.
Dominic looked like no one had ever evicted him from a room in his own home.
For a second, Grace thought he would override her and terminate the whole arrangement before breakfast.
Then Sophie grumbled, “See? He never stays anyway.”
Dominic caught the remark.
The hostility drained out of his expression.
He put his phone away.
“No,” he said softly. “I’ll stay.”
Sophie looked surprised.
Grace recognized the opportunity and pivoted quickly.
“Good. Then all three of us will fix breakfast.”
Dominic blinked. “I don’t cook.”
Grace pointed toward the kitchen. “You do now.”
That was how the most feared man in Boston ended up fracturing eggs poorly into a ceramic bowl while his daughter watched in wary silence.
He got shells in the batter.
Sophie snorted.
Dominic looked at the bowl as if it had betrayed his trust. “That was defective.”
Grace passed him another egg. “Try again.”
By the time pancakes hit the table, they were lumpy, slightly charred, and too saline to be pleasant.
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