I have a daughter.
Her name is Lily. She is five years old, with auburn curls that mirror mine and bright green eyes that hold more innocence than I've ever deserved. She is my entire world—the reason I wake up, the reason I breathe, the reason I endure the daily torment of working for the devil incarnate, Damien Blackwood.
If not for her, I would have quit years ago. Walked out, flipped him off, and never looked back. But I can't. Because Lily needs me. And I need this job to keep a roof over her head, food in her belly, and the promise of a future where she never has to know the kind of struggle I've faced.
No one at Blackwood Industries knows about her. Not because I'm ashamed—never that. I am proud to be her mother. But this world is cruel. Corporate sharks like Damien don't see single mothers as assets; they see us as liabilities. Distractions. Weaknesses to exploit. And I refuse to give anyone the ammunition to undermine me.
So, I keep her a secret.
Only six people know—my mother, Aunt Linda, Jamila (Lily's daycare owner), Elliot( my neighbour), and my two best friends, Mia and Lauren. That's it.
The cab screeches to a halt outside Little Stars Daycare, a modest but cheerful building with rainbow-colored windows and a playground out front. I pay the driver and hurry inside, my heels clicking against the linoleum floor.
The moment I step in, the noise hits me—children's laughter, wails, the occasional shriek of excitement. The walls are plastered with finger paintings and alphabet posters. Somewhere, a toddler is having a meltdown over a stolen toy.
I don't stop to look. I walk past the front desk, down the hall, and take a sharp right toward Jamila's private playroom—the one reserved for kids who aren't feeling well.
When I push the door open, relief floods my veins.
There she is.
Lily sits cross-legged on a rainbow-colored mat, her cheeks flushed with fever, clutching her favorite stuffed bunny. Jamila kneels beside her, patiently helping her stack blocks.
The second Lily sees me, her face lights up.
"Mommy!"
She scrambles to her feet, arms outstretched, and I don't hesitate—I scoop her up, pressing kisses to her warm forehead, her chubby cheeks, the tip of her nose.
"I missed you," she mumbles into my shoulder, her little arms tightening around my neck.
My heart squeezes. "I missed you too, sweetheart."
I pull back just enough to press my lips to her forehead again, gauging her temperature. Still too warm.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, brushing her curls away from her face.
She sniffles. "Bad bad. Tired."
Jamila rises gracefully, offering me a sympathetic smile. "She's been asking for you since the fever spiked. I'll give you two some privacy."
I mouth a thank you as she slips out, closing the door behind her.
Gently, I set Lily down on the plush couch in the corner. She immediately grabs her pink stuffed bunny, hugging it to her chest.
"Did you eat lunch?" I ask, already digging into my shoulder bag for the tiffin box I packed this morning.
She shakes her head. "Not hungry."
I sigh but smile, popping open the container to reveal her favorite—peanut butter sandwiches cut into little stars, sliced apples, and a handful of goldfish crackers.
"You have to eat, Lily-flower. Even just a little."
She pouts but takes a tiny bite when I hold out a star-shaped sandwich.
I launch into a story—one about a brave little girl who outsmarts a dragon—and between bites, her eyes widen in fascination.
"Did the dragon eat her?" she asks, nibbling on a cracker.
"No," I say, grinning. "She tamed it with cookies."
She giggles, and the sound is the best medicine in the world.
But then I glance at the clock.
12:20 PM.
My stomach drops.
I have to be back at the office before 1:00 PM, or Damien will notice. And if he notices, he'll ask questions. And if he asks questions—
No. I can't risk it.
Lily, sensing my distraction, tugs on my sleeve. "Mommy, I want to go home."
I smooth her hair—so soft, so like mine—and force a smile. "We will, baby. In the evening, like always."
Her lower lip wobbles. "But I don't feel good."
"I know," I whisper, kissing her forehead again. "But Mama has to work so I can buy you all the chocolates in the world, remember?"
Her green eyes sparkle at the word. "The big ones with the sprinkles?"
I laugh. "The biggest."
She grins, and for a moment, the fever doesn't matter. The exhaustion doesn't matter. Damien Blackwood doesn't matter.
There is only her.
And I would burn the world down to keep her safe.
~
Lily is asleep now, curled up on the small daycare couch, her pink bunny clutched tightly in her arms. Her cheeks are still flushed from the fever, but her breathing has evened out, her little chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. I brush a stray curl from her forehead, pressing one last kiss there before slipping silently out of the room.
Jamila waits just outside, arms crossed, her dark eyes knowing.
"Call me if anything changes," I whisper, my voice low but urgent. "If her fever spikes again—"
"I'll call," Jamila says simply. No judgment. No questions.
She knows. She's a mother too—though her circumstances are different, she understands the tightrope I walk every day. The unspoken fear that one wrong move could send everything crashing down.
I don't waste time with more words. I hurry out of the daycare, the midday sun blinding as I step onto the sidewalk. My phone screen mocks me—12:50 PM.
Ten minutes.
I flag down a cab, sliding into the backseat with a hissed command. "Blackwood Industries. Five minutes."
The driver—a grizzled man with a thick Brooklyn accent—barks a laugh. "Lady, in this traffic? More like twenty."
"I don't have twenty," I snap, digging into my wallet and slapping a fifty-dollar bill over the seat. "Make it ten, and there's another fifty in it for you."
His eyes flick to the cash, then to the rearview mirror. "Buckle up."
What follows is the most reckless cab ride of my life. We swerve through gaps in traffic, cut off a delivery truck, and narrowly miss a pedestrian who flips us off as we screech around a corner. My nails dig into the leather seat, but I don't complain.
12:59 PM.
The cab lurches to a stop in front of Blackwood Tower. I toss the second fifty at the driver and bolt for the doors, my heels clicking against the pavement like a ticking time bomb.
The security guard, an older man named Frank, grins as I rush past. "Cutting it close today, Ms. Cole."
"Always," I pant, jamming the elevator button.
The ride up is agony. My reflection in the mirrored walls is a mess—hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed from running, the ghost of Lily's fever still warm on my skin. I smooth my blouse, tuck a stray curl back into my chignon, and take a deep breath.
Ding.
The doors slide open, and I stride into the bullpen like I own it. Gloria, the intern, practically collapses with relief when she sees me.
"Oh thank God," she whispers, her eyes red-rimmed. "He—he asked for you. I told him you were at lunch, but he just—" She swallows hard. "He told me to get out."
Poor sheltered thing. She's never been on the receiving end of Damien Blackwood's wrath before. I pat her shoulder. "Go get some air. I'll handle him."
Gathering my tablet, I square my shoulders and march toward his office.
The glass door is slightly ajar. Inside, Damien stands with his back to me, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows, his hands tucked into his pockets. The Manhattan skyline sprawls behind him like a kingdom he owns—and in many ways, he does.
My heels click against the marble floor.
He turns.
The scowl on his face is nothing new—it's practically his default expression. But it's the calmness in his voice that sets my nerves on edge.
"Cole."
I smile, all polished professionalism. "Sir. I stepped out for lunch—that new sushi place on 5th. The line was longer than I expected."
A lie. Smooth. Believable.
His icy blue eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't call me on it. Instead, he asks, "The Lexington meeting. Is it ready?"
"Yes. They agreed to the change. They're waiting at The Laurent—private dining room, just as you requested."
He nods once, then reaches for his blazer, sliding it on with the effortless grace of a man who's never had to rush for anything in his life. The dark fabric molds to his broad shoulders, the crisp white shirt beneath stretching slightly as he moves.
It's true what they say—the devil comes in beautiful packaging.
Damien Blackwood is obscenely handsome. The kind of face that belongs on a magazine cover or a Renaissance painting—sharp jawline, perfectly tousled dark hair, lips that would be sinful if they ever smiled. And those eyes. Arctic blue, capable of freezing blood or setting skin on fire, depending on his mood.
And right now, they're locked on me.
Shit.
I realize, too late, that I've been staring. His eyebrow arches, a silent question.
I clear my throat, snapping my gaze away. "Car's waiting downstairs."
He doesn't respond. Just strides past me, leaving a trail of citrus and sandalwood in his wake.