Alistair's POV
The quietness of my house was disrupted by an unexpected sound: Liam's clear, serious voice, and another, softer one I recognized with a jolt. I descended the staircase, my steps silent, and the scene in the foyer halted me mid-stride.
There was Mitchell, looking both fragile and resolute in her simple white gown. And beside her, holding her hand with a possessive solemnity, was my son, Liam.
My surprise was quickly overridden by a flicker of cold suspicion when my eyes landed on the small, worn suitcase at her feet. Here? She'd come directly to my home? Had the kindness Mike showed yesterday been misinterpreted as an invitation? Was this a calculated move, using my unexpectedly affectionate child as a pawn to get closer to the Wright fortune? A familiar, weary cynicism settled over me. Women and their schemes.
I was already formulating a polite but firm refusal. I could provide her with an apartment, a generous allowance—a solution that maintained distance. But before I could speak, Liam looked up at me, his emerald eyes, so unlike my own, wide and earnest.
"Dad," he stated, with the blunt authority only a five-year-old can muster. "Mitchell needs a place to stay."
Then, as if sensing my resistance, he deployed his secret weapon. His lower lip trembled just a fraction, and those brilliant green eyes softened into the most devastating, pleading puppy-dog look. "Please, Daddy. Let her stay with me."
Goodness. My internal sigh was a mixture of exasperation and utter capitulation. Where did he learn that? Certainly not from me. The Wright family genetics were all sharp angles and sharper tongues. This… this weaponized adorableness had to come from his mother's side. The mysterious, cruel woman who had given me this incredible child and then vanished, leaving him to fight for survival in an incubator and then an orphanage.
The thought of her, as it always did, sent a bolt of cold fury through my veins. I had promised myself that if I ever found her, I would make her existence a living hell for what she did to Liam. For robbing me of his first years, for leaving him to be bullied, for her sheer, unforgivable negligence.
My own story was a tangled one. Alistair Wright, 30, a title that came with more baggage than most could carry. The night Liam was conceived was a blur of drugged haze and a singular, overwhelming scent—jasmine and a herbal scent—that had cut through the chemical fog. She was the first, and only, woman whose touch hadn't made my skin crawl. I'd spent years half-looking for that scent, chasing a ghost.
Finding Liam had been fate's cruel joke. Seeing my own features mirrored in that small, serious face at the orphanage… it had been a shock. I'd visited him for months, bonding with a child I felt an inexplicable pull toward, all while my grandfather nagged me to secure the family line with a suitable marriage. The idea was repulsive. Then the DNA test, orchestrated by my meddling doctor and my traitorously hopeful assistant, Mike, had changed everything.
Boom. A son. My son.
To learn I'd known him for half a year without realizing he was my own flesh and blood… it was a pain and a joy so profound it still left me breathless. He'd missed so much. I'd missed so much.
And now, this woman from the Turnerstone mess was standing in my foyer, bringing with her a different kind of complication. Liam was attached. He, who was so wary of new people, who carried a mature solitude around him like a cloak, was holding her hand and begging for her to stay.
I looked from Liam's pleading face to Mitchell's. She wasn't looking at me with calculation or seduction. She looked… resigned, as if expecting my rejection. There was a bruise, faint but visible, on her cheekbone that hadn't been there yesterday. The sight of it extinguished the last of my suspicion, replacing it with something darker.
My gaze returned to Liam. His "puppy eyes" were winning. They always did.
"The guest suite next to Liam's room," I said, my voice sounding as indifferent as ever. "Mike will show you. Your presence is for Liam's benefit. Do not disturb my peace."
It wasn't a warm welcome. It was a transaction. She would be a companion for my lonely son, and in return, she would have sanctuary. But as I turned to go back to my study, the memory of her glassy eyes in the car, the doctor's mistaken word that had felt strangely right, and those dark green eyes… it all formed a puzzle couldn't grasp, but one I could no longer ignore. And Liam, my little miracle, had just firmly placed the first piece.
Mitchell's POV
I felt relief washed over me when Alistair granted me permission to stay at his place. My new room was a dream—spacious, elegantly furnished in soothing neutral tones, with a view of the city skyline that made my old attic space feel like a distant, sad memory. It was, without a doubt, more beautiful than Clara's opulent but tasteless bedroom. And this was just a guest room.
Later, a formal document—not a note, a properly typed list—appeared via a silent housekeeper probably a gardener. Liam's Preferences: Dietary, Educational, and Behavioral. It was detailed, and made my role clear: I was the new nanny. Well, nothing in this world comes for free, especially not sanctuary in a penthouse owned by a man like Alistair Wright. The thought was sobering, but not unwelcome. I needed purpose.
And the salary he'd outlined… it was staggering. For a moment, I was tempted to abandon my career plans entirely. Financial independence, real independence, was within reach.
Then there was the other, less practical perk: seeing that face every day. The man was a sculpture come to life. I did a quick search on his social media and it showed only him and Liam. No wife. No female companion in any picture. Just a fierce, protective father and his solemn, beautiful son. The mystery of "his moonshine" deepened.
Tomorrow, I had an interview for a part-time designer position. It felt important to keep that thread of my own ambition alive, even with Alistair's generous pay.
After settling in, I spent the afternoon with Liam. He was a quiet, observant child, more interested in building intricate block structures than running around. Playing with him felt less like babysitting and more like collaborating with a tiny, brilliant architect. When I gently suggested a nap, he simply nodded and went to his room without protest.
As evening fell, I ventured downstairs to see about dinner. The kitchen was a masterpiece of of wealth and in its center stood a woman with kind eyes and flour-dusted hands. She looked up, startled.
"Oh! Hello, dear."
"Hi, I'm Mitchell. Mr. Wright has… hired me to help with Liam."
Her face broke into a warm smile. "Mrs. Rosie. I handle the house and the little master's meals. It's a pleasure to have another soul in this big, quiet place." We chatted easily as she showed me where everything was.
I helped her set the table in the dining room, the china impossibly delicate. Just as we finished setting everything up, the front door opened.
Alistair entered, his body clinging to his tailored suit. He shrugged it off, and my breath caught. The crisp white shirt beneath was open at the collar, three buttons undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. He looked devastatingly powerful, and a little tired.
"Sir," I murmured, stepping forward instinctively to take his jacket and briefcase.
He handed them over, our fingers brushing. For a fleeting second, his garnet eyes met mine, and a smile touched his lips—not the cold, dismissive one from before, but something quieter, almost… appreciative. A strange sense of sync hummed between us, a silent understanding that vanished as quickly as it came.
"Dinner in twenty minutes, Mr. Wright," Rosie called from the kitchen doorway.
He gave a slight nod, his gaze lingering on me for a heartbeat longer before he headed for the stairs. Remembering Rosie's earlier directions, I took his briefcase up to his room.
His bedroom was a reflection of the man: imposing, impeccably ordered, and intensely masculine. Dark woods, clean lines. A large portrait of him and Liam hung on one wall, the only softness in the room. On his desk was a simpler frame holding a picture of Liam alone, looking serious. The evidence of his love for his son was everywhere, a vulnerable contrast to his otherwise steely exterior.
I placed the briefcase neatly by his desk and turned to leave, eager to escape the intimate space.
I didn't make it to the door. I walked straight into a solid, warm wall of chest.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, I—" I tried to step back, but his hands came up, resting lightly on my arms, not to steady me, but to stop me.
Then he did something utterly inexplicable. His head bowed, his nose brushing the sensitive skin where my neck met my shoulder. He inhaled, deeply, as if trying to capture my scent. A jolt of electricity shot straight through me.
"W-What are you doing?" I stammered, my voice shaky.
He pulled back, and when I looked up, his eyes were stormy, a turbulent sea of garnet and shadow. The intensity was terrifying, intoxicating. Mood swings? My mind scrambled for an explanation. Good grief, is he the one with a period?
Before I could process another thought, the storm in his eyes shuttered closed, replaced by that familiar, impenetrable mask. He released me as suddenly as he'd held me.
"Dinner," he stated flatly, then turned and walked into his adjoining bathroom, closing the door with a soft but definitive click.
I fled, my heart hammering against my ribs, the feel of his breath on my neck burning like a brand.
Dinner was very quiet. Liam ate with quiet focus, Rosie bustled in and out, and Alistair… Alistair's gaze was constantly assessing me. It followed my every move—the way I cut my food, how I gently reminded Liam to use his napkin, the sip of water I took. It wasn't the predatory heat from his bedroom; it was probing.
What the hell have I done wrong? I replayed the strange encounter in my head, searching for a misstep. Had I overstepped by going into his room? Used the wrong soap? Offended him by existing?