“Why did you accept this job?” Adrian Vale asked. His voice was low, smooth, and laced with an edge that could slice through granite.

At two o'clock in the morning, the mansion was buried in deep, suffocating darkness.

Nia lay awake in her guest room on the first floor, staring at the ceiling. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was running through medical bills, treatment schedules, and Maya’s faint, tired voice on the phone earlier that night. “I miss you, Nia. Don't let those rich people push you around.”

A soft, muffled noise broke the silence of the house.

It wasn't a crash or a scream. It was a low, ragged whimpering coming from the second floor.

Nia immediately swung her legs out of bed, pulled on her robe, and slipped out into the cold hallway. She navigated the grand staircase without making a sound, following the noise down the long, portrait-lined corridor until she reached the smallest bedroom.

Luke’s room.

She pushed the door open gently. The room was decorated with expensive, high-end furniture, but it was cold and devoid of personal touches—no drawings on the walls, no soft blankets, just sterile luxury. Six-year-old Luke was curled into a tight ball under a heavy duvet, shivering violently, his small face flushed bright red.

Nia rushed to the bedside and placed her palm against his forehead. He was burning up.

“Luke, sweetie,” she whispered softly, tucking his sweaty hair away from his face. “Can you hear me?”

Luke let out a tiny, pathetic sob. “Mommy… my throat hurts…”

Nia’s heart twinged with unbearable sorrow. She stood up to search the adjoining bathroom for a thermometer or medicine, but the drawers were empty—completely wiped clean of standard medical supplies as part of some rigid house protocol.

She turned and sprinted down the hall toward Adrian’s private wing.

She didn't knock politely. She pounded four times on his double oak doors.

A second later, the door swung open. Adrian Vale stood there, wearing black trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt, a heavy silver pistol held low and discreetly at his side. His eyes were cold, razor-sharp, ready for an attack.

When he saw Nia, his grip on the weapon loosened slightly, but his tone remained sharp. “What happened?”

“Luke has a high fever,” Nia said, her voice commanding and urgent. “His skin is burning, and his throat is inflamed. Where is the first-aid kit?”

Adrian’s expression shifted from guarded lethal force to sudden, stark vulnerability. “I… the house manager keeps all pharmaceuticals in the security office downstairs.”

“Then get them now,” Nia demanded, stepping right past him into his personal room. “I need children’s acetaminophen, a digital thermometer, cool damp washcloths, and a bowl of lukewarm water. Now, Mr. Vale!”

Adrian froze for half a second, unaccustomed to anyone shouting orders at him in his own home. But seeing the fierce, unyielding light of genuine care in Nia’s eyes, he lowered his gun, placed it on his nightstand, and turned toward the stairs without a word.

By the time Adrian returned to Luke’s bedroom, Nia was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding the terrified six-year-old in her arms, rocking him gently while singing a soft, quiet lullaby.

Luke was sobbing softly into her shoulder, his small hands clutching the lapels of her robe as if she were his only lifeline in the dark.

Adrian stood in the doorway, holding the medical tray, frozen in place. He hadn't seen his youngest son hold anyone like that since his wife, Elena, had passed away in a tragic car accident four years ago.

“Here,” Adrian said softly, setting the tray down on the nightstand.

Nia didn't waste a second. She checked Luke’s temperature—103.2 degrees. She measured the correct dosage of medicine, coaxed him to drink a few sips of water, and began placing cool cloths on his forehead and wrists.

For two hours, Nia didn't leave the bed. She stayed right there, cradling Luke until his breathing slowed, his skin cooled, and his small body relaxed into deep, restful sleep.

When she finally looked up, she realized Adrian hadn't left either. He had been sitting in the wooden armchair in the corner of the room the entire time, watching her in absolute silence.

“You should get some sleep,” Nia whispered, carefully extricating herself from Luke’s grasp and tucking the blanket around his shoulders.

Adrian stood up slowly. His massive frame dominated the dim room, but his presence no longer felt terrifying—it felt protective.

“No caregiver has ever stayed through the night when one of them was sick,” Adrian said quietly, his dark eyes searching her face. “They usually called the private doctor and waited in their rooms.”

“Then they weren't caregivers,” Nia replied softly, stepping out into the hallway. “They were just employees.”

Adrian followed her into the quiet corridor. The moonlight streamed through the tall stained-glass windows, painting the cold stone floor in shades of blue and gold.