Chapter 3: "The bond between a mother and her child isn't something you can write into a contract."

Amanda's POV

"On what grounds?" The voice came from somewhere behind my left shoulder, heavy with poorly disguised resentment. "Her? They actually picked her over us?"

A few others murmured their agreement. I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable.

The housekeeper didn't turn around or offer any explanation. He simply angled himself toward the staff behind him and gave a quiet nod. Someone stepped forward—polite, but leaving no room for argument. The voices were escorted away, growing fainter until the courtyard fell silent.

The housekeeper turned back to me with a measured smile. "Please don't be nervous, Ms. Moore," he said. "Mr. Morrison simply wishes to speak with you privately."

I let out a slow breath. Not a decision yet. There was still the interview to survive.

I followed him inside. The hallway was long, the floorboards a deep, dark wood that swallowed the sound of our footsteps. He stopped at a door near the end, pushed it open, and stepped aside.

"Please, go in."

The room was large, one entire wall given over to floor-to-ceiling glass that looked out onto the estate's rear garden. Afternoon light poured through, splitting the room into clean halves of brightness and shadow.

Charles Morrison was standing at the window.

Not seated—standing, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, angled slightly away from the door, as though he'd been watching the garden or turning something over in his mind. He heard me enter and turned around slowly.

I'd like to say I didn't notice what he looked like. That would be a lie.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit immaculately fitted—every button in place, his tie straight and precise at his collar, not a crease out of line. The suit jacket pulled slightly across his chest and shoulders when he moved, the kind of fit that made it clear the tailor had been working with serious material. His hair was dark brown, swept cleanly back from his face without a strand out of place. His eyes were a dark shade of gray, and the moment that gaze landed on me, I felt myself go still without meaning to.

He looked me over from head to toe—unhurried, unapologetic, the look of a man weighing whether she was worth his time.

Then he crossed to the table, sat down, and made a brief, casual gesture.

"Sit."

I sat across from him and pressed my hands flat against my knees, running through every possible question in my head. What would he ask? My experience caring for children with special needs? Why I'd applied for this contract? Something about me, about Jason, about how I'd spent the last thirty-one years? I had a dozen answers ready.

He spoke. "Are you prepared to give up contact with your daughter entirely?"

I went still. "I'm sorry?"

"The Morrison family," he said, "does not need a distracted, part-time mother. If you sign this contract, your responsibility is to care for my son, Ethan. Not your daughter."

His eyes hadn't moved from my face.

Ten million dollars—and I already knew what that number meant. Emma's surgery. Her follow-up care. The best schools, the best doctors. A life where she'd never have to count every dollar the way I had—standing on swollen feet through a double shift because rent was due, watching her body hold on from one month to the next, then the next. With that money, all of it would be over. All I had to do was nod.

I curled my hands into fists, drew a slow breath, and opened my mouth—and the words died before they reached my lips. Emma had nearly taken me with her when she was born—amniotic embolism, the doctors called it—and they later said it was the sound of her crying that pulled me back. For five years, she hadn't spent a single day without me. Her heart had never been strong. If I disappeared, would she think I'd stopped wanting her?

"I'm sorry." I heard the words leave my mouth. "Mr. Morrison, I can't agree to that condition."

Charles raised one eyebrow—the first crack in his expression, though only barely.

"Ten million," he said. "Or twenty."

"I understand." I took a breath. "But Emma is only five. She won't understand why her mother suddenly vanished." He said nothing. Just watched me. I knew this was probably my exit cue. I kept going anyway.

"I could see her less often," I said, the words coming faster now. "It wouldn't interfere with my work—just occasional visits, enough for her to see my face. One hug. That's all. She can't function without me, and honestly, I can't without her either."

"I nearly died the day Emma was born. It was her cry that kept me here. We haven't been apart for a single day in five years." I paused. "That's not something you can put in a contract. I think you know that."

"I could tell you it's fine. I could do exactly that. But it would be a lie, and I don't want to deceive you."

He still said nothing.

"I can promise you this." My voice slowed. "I will give everything I have to caring for Ethan. Whatever he needs, I'll provide it. I won't let thoughts of Emma make me neglect him. That's not who I am." I stopped. That was everything.

Charles was quiet for a few seconds. "Fine. You can go."

I blinked, then stood. "Thank you for your time."

I turned toward the door. A voice in my head cut in: you should have said yes and figured it out after. Maybe I shouldn't have hoped for anything from the start. This contract was the kind of thing that didn't happen to people like me. I'd spent thirty-one years being no one's first choice. If that kind of luck had ever found me, my life would look nothing like this.

My fingers closed around the door handle.

"Amanda."

I turned back.

Charles was still seated, leaning back in his chair, one hand resting on the edge of the table, like a man making a decision he'd already half-made.

"The housekeeper will take you to the sitting room." His tone was even. "I'll have the lawyer draft a new contract. Twenty million a year. You can see your daughter once a week." He paused. "But there's one thing."

He rose from his chair.

I hadn't expected him to walk toward me. By the time I registered it, he was already there—close enough that I could smell him, cedar and leather, cool and faint, not the kind of scent that hit you, but the kind that stayed, and somehow that nearness carried a weight that made every instinct in me want to take a step back.

He was much taller than me. He looked down, and his gaze was that same unhurried, dissecting kind—the look of someone who had made a habit of seeing through people without much effort.

"Keep your head where it belongs." His voice dropped low. "Don't mistake this for something it isn't."

I didn't quite follow. I looked up at him. "What things I shouldn't?"

Charles didn't answer. He smiled—barely, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly, like a thought had crossed his mind and briefly amused him, or like he was acknowledging something he'd already seen coming. Then he stepped around me, pushed the door open, and walked out. His footsteps faded down the corridor.

I stood there for two full seconds before I could move.

The housekeeper brought me to a small sitting room nearby. The sofa was deep and soft, and there was hot tea on the side table. I sat down, wrapped both hands around the cup, and turned his words over in my mind. Keep your head where it belongs. Don't mistake this for something it isn't. I sat with that for a moment. And then it landed. He thought I might develop feelings for him.

I set the cup down on the table and sank back into the cushions, staring at the ceiling. Charles Morrison was ranked in the top ten on the Forbes list, and—yes, objectively—he wasn't hard to look at. But I had come here for Emma. My head was full of Emma. There was no room left for anything else. Apparently, he wasn't so sure about that.

I stared at the ceiling for another moment, then sat up straight. If that was his concern, I could clear it up easily enough.

The housekeeper returned shortly and told me Mr. Morrison was ready for me in the meeting room to sign the agreement. I followed him back.

Charles was already seated, the lawyer beside him, a new contract laid out on the table between them. One look when I walked in said it all—sit, sign, and don't waste his time.

I sat across from him, looked down at the contract, and left it where it was.

A change moved through Charles's expression.

"Mr. Morrison," I said, "I have one condition I need added to the agreement."

He didn't speak. But the silence itself had weight—like the air in the room had quietly rearranged itself. Then he leaned back slowly, crossed one leg over the other, and let one corner of his mouth pull into a curve. Not a smile. Something closer to a smirk—the look of a man who'd seen this coming and was giving himself credit for it. His gaze settled on me, cool and heavy, with the particular brand of patience that belongs to people who have been disappointed so many times they've stopped being surprised by it.

"Go ahead," he said.