“What’s her name?” Ethan asked. Maria swallowed hard, her hand tightening around her daughter’s fingers. “

“What’s her name?” Ethan asked.

Maria swallowed hard, her hand tightening around her daughter’s fingers. “This is Maya. She’s three. I swear she won’t make a sound, Mr. Cole. I brought her drawing pads and her books. I’ll keep her in the staff breakroom near the pantry until my sister can come pick her up at noon.”

Ethan looked down at the little girl. Maya tilted her head back, staring at his dark suit, his polished silver cuff links, and the stern line of his jaw. She didn't look afraid. She looked deeply, intensely curious, as if he were just another large, strange piece of furniture in this giant, quiet castle.

“She can stay in the sitting room,” Ethan said, his voice clipped and even. “As long as she doesn't mark the walls or touch the antique porcelain. Carol will show you where the extra linen supplies are.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cole,” Maria whispered, relief washing over her pale face. “Thank you so much.”

Ethan gave a single, dismissive nod and walked past them toward his private office. But as he sat at his mahogany desk, staring at three screen monitors displaying real estate market fluctuations across the country, his mind kept wandering back to the little girl in the yellow raincoat.

Ethan Cole did not believe in accidents. He did not believe in spontaneous bad luck. In his world, every sudden emergency was usually a prelude to a request for money, a push for a promotion, or a calculated test of boundaries.

What if Maria’s “babysitter emergency” was fake? What if she was seeing how soft he was? What if she was looking for an entry point into his private life?

At twenty-eight, Ethan had learned that even the most innocent-looking people had a price. His father had trusted everyone and died with a broken heart and a betrayed business. Ethan trusted no one and built an empire.

By eleven o'clock that morning, Ethan decided to set a trap.

It was a test he had used before on former drivers, personal assistants, and contractors. He took his vintage silver Rolex—a rare heirloom given to him by his father before his death, valued at over forty thousand dollars—and walked into the grand sitting room.

The room was bathed in the dim light of the rain falling outside. Maria was in the far conservatory, the soft hum of a vacuum cleaner echoing through the tall archways. Little Maya was sitting cross-legged on the thick cream rug near the sofa, quietly flipping through a picture book, a plastic set of washable watercolor paints sitting on a towel beside her.

Ethan walked to the center of the room. He took off the silver watch, laid it deliberately on the corner of the low glass coffee table—broad daylight, completely exposed, impossible to miss—and then lay down on the long leather sofa.

He closed his eyes. He slowed his breathing. He feigned sleep, keeping his ears sharp, waiting for the soft scrape of little shoes, the rustle of a jacket, or the quiet slip of silver metal being lifted off the glass.

If the mother saw it, she would take it or tell her daughter to leave it. If the child took it, Maria would hide it in her bag. That was how human nature worked. Everyone took when they thought the king was asleep.

Ten minutes passed. The rain tapped against the glass windows.

Then, Ethan heard soft, tiny footsteps approaching the couch.

Bare feet on the hardwood floor.

Ethan kept his breathing steady, his eyes closed to tiny slits behind his dark lashes. He felt the light shift as a small shadow fell over his face. He prepared himself for the familiar, cold sting of disappointment—the proof that once again, his cynicism was entirely justified.

He felt a soft tap on his cheek. Then a strange, cold, wet sensation on his skin.

Then another. And another.

Ethan didn't move. He kept pretending to be asleep, thoroughly confused. There was no metallic click of the watch moving. There was no opening of a bag zipper. Just the light, rhythmic dab of something wet being applied to his temples, his cheeks, and his nose.

After five agonizing minutes, a loud gasp echoed from the doorway.

"Maya! Dios mío! No!"

Ethan opened his eyes instantly.

The first thing he saw was Maria standing in the doorway, dropping her cleaning spray bottle to the floor, her hands pressed over her mouth in absolute, terrifying panic.

The second thing he saw was three-year-old Maya standing right beside the couch, holding a dripping plastic paintbrush dripping with bright, sky-blue paint. She looked up at Ethan with big, shining brown eyes, her little fingers covered in yellow and orange stains, smiling as if she had just painted the sun itself into existence.

And the third thing Ethan saw, when he slowly sat up and turned toward the massive antique mirror hanging across the sitting room wall, was his own reflection.

The formidable, cold, ruthless CEO of Colemark Properties was completely transformed.

His forehead bore a wobbly, bright blue butterfly. His cheeks were covered in lopsided yellow suns and crooked purple flowers. A row of vibrant orange painted freckles ran straight across his nose.

And on the glass coffee table, less than two inches away, sat the forty-thousand-dollar silver watch.

Untouched.