The maid dropped to her knees and begged me not to kill her three-year-old daughter after finding the child inside the one room no one in my estate was allowed to enter. But when I looked down at the little girl who had covered Chicago’s most feared man with a blanket, I realized she had already done something no gun, threat, or prayer had managed in three years.

By 3:00 AM, the estate was bathed in a quiet, amber light. Security patrols roamed the perimeter, their flashlights cutting through the thick fog drifting off the gardens.

I couldn't sleep. The encounter with Joey Donati had settled the business side of my life, but my mind kept drifting back to the third floor—to the small girl who had dared to warm a ghost.

I walked down the grand marble staircase in a soft black cashmere sweater and dark trousers, my footsteps echoing faintly. The house was usually empty at this hour, but as I approached the kitchen wing, a faint flicker of light caught my eye.

I stepped quietly into the archway.

Sitting at the large stainless-steel prep table was Allie Carter. A single overhead bulb illuminated her exhausted face. She was surrounded by stacks of official estate paperwork, a cup of lukewarm tea, and a small, worn calculator. Tears glistened in her eyes as she frantically scribbled numbers on a notepad.

Beside her, fast asleep on a folded pile of restaurant aprons, lay Lily. She was still wearing her yellow dress, clutching her coverless fairy-tale book like a shield.

I leaned against the doorframe. “You’re up late, Miss Carter.”

Allie gasped, jumping out of her chair so fast she nearly knocked over her tea. She slammed her notebook shut, her face draining of color all over again.

“Mr. Moretti!” she breathed, clutching her chest. “I… I’m sorry. I was just catching up on the inventory logs. I didn't mean to occupy the kitchen—”

“Relax,” I said, stepping into the room. I looked down at the scribbled numbers on her notepad before she could hide it. I recognized the layout—it was a personal ledger. Medical bills, utility notices, and red overdue stamps from a local children’s hospital.

Allie noticed my line of sight and quickly slid the paper under her elbow, her cheeks flushing with shame.

“Is she sick?” I asked, gesturing toward Lily.

Allie bit her lower lip, fighting to keep her voice steady. “She… she has a heart condition, sir. Congenital septum defect. The doctors said she needs corrective surgery before her fourth birthday, or…” She couldn't finish the sentence. She pressed her hand over her mouth, a silent sob wracking her thin frame.

“Why didn't you request an advance on your salary?” I asked, my brow furrowing. “My estate managers handle employee medical funds.”

Allie wiped her eyes hastily, shaking her head. “I applied twice, Mr. Moretti. The head house manager, Mr. Vance, told me the company policy doesn't cover pre-existing conditions for probationary staff. He said… he said if I took time off for her appointments, I’d be fired.”

My eyes narrowed. Thomas Vance was a bureaucrat I had hired two years ago to manage the estate’s domestic staff. I paid him handsomely to keep the estate running smoothly, but I had never looked closely at how he treated the people beneath him.

“Vance said that?” I asked, my voice dropping into a dangerous register.

“Please don't tell him I said anything,” Allie pleaded, her eyes wide with fresh fear. “This job pays double what I can make anywhere else. If I lose it, I won't even be able to afford her medication.”

I stared at the woman. She worked sixteen-hour shifts cleaning marble floors for a man who barely acknowledged her existence, all while carrying the soul-crushing weight of a dying child on her shoulders. Yet she had never complained. And her daughter had walked into my room and offered me her only blanket.

Suddenly, a tiny voice broke the heavy silence.

“Mama?”

Lily stirred on her bed of aprons, rubbing her eyes with chubby fists. She sat up, blinked against the bright light, and then spotted me standing near the table.

Instead of shrinking back, a wide, sleepy smile spread across her face.

“Mr. Woodcutter,” she murmured, holding out her arms. “Did you bring the sun back?”

Allie froze, looking between her daughter and me in absolute horror.

I didn't answer right away. I walked over to the prep table, picked up the sleepy child, and cradled her gently against my shoulder. She weighed almost nothing, her small head resting naturally against the crook of my neck.

“No, Lily,” I said softly, looking down at her hazel eyes as she snuggled into my dark sweater. “I didn't bring the sun. But I’m going to make sure the storm stops.”

I looked up at Allie, whose jaw had dropped so low she looked entirely speechless.

“Starting tomorrow,” I told her, “you are off the domestic staff rotation.”

Allie’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “Mr. Moretti, please—!”

“You are being reassigned,” I interrupted smoothly. “As my personal administrative assistant. Your salary is tripled. And Vance will be fired by sunrise.”

Allie stood frozen, her hands trembling. “I… I don't understand. Why would you do this for us?”