Page 27 of Single Mom's Daddies
I arch an eyebrow. “You think working here is dangerous.”
“I think it’s unusual,” she says. “I think I’ll be surrounded by people who could ruin my life if I say the wrong thing. But I also think I’m the best person you’ll find for this job.”
“Because?”
“I can handle your kids. I can keep my mouth shut. I can do the work. And I’m not afraid of hard things. Or hard people.”
The room stays quiet a moment longer. “You said your daughter’s name is Ivy.”
“Yes.”
I glance at Nikolai. He doesn’t move. He quietly asks, “She has a broken heart?”
“A pair of holes in a heart valve,” she says. “It’s complicated. Her case is rare. She’s had two surgeries already, and there’s at least one more coming. Maybe two.”
“And your insurance doesn’t cover it?”
“It covers enough to keep her alive. For now. Not enough to help her live.” Something shifts in her voice when she says that. Just slightly. “She’s stable right now, but she needs to be with me. Not in a hospital bed every other week. I’m not asking for pity. I’m asking for what I’m worth—and what she’s worth.”
My left hand moves almost without thought. Fingertips grazing the skin between my thumb and forefinger. The ivy cross inked there is old now. Familiar. But her daughter’s name—Ivy—makes it feel different somehow.
I pull my hand back. “Why didn’t you list a father on the birth certificate?”
Her mouth tightens slightly. “Because I don’t know who he is.”
I believe her. I shouldn’t. But I do. “No one who might come looking for you? No man in your life?”
“Just my grandfather.”
Who we already vetted. I nod once. Then stand. “You’re hired.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Nikolai leans back in his chair and lets out a low whistle, but he doesn’t object.
“You’ll live in one of the guest cottages,” I continue. “Close enough to be accessible, far enough to give you and Ivy space. Your daughter’s care comes first. Always. If that means you miss dinner, you miss dinner. If that means you disappear for a week, we adjust.”
Saffron’s breath catches.
“And if her condition worsens,” I add, “we’ll make arrangements. Specialists. Private care. Equipment. Whatever it takes. You won’t carry that burden alone.”
Her eyes go glassy. She blinks fast, lips parting like she wants to thank me—but I hold up a hand.
“Don’t.”
She stops.
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“But I?—”
“You should expect nothing less.”
She nods, pressing her lips together.
I hate that this is what breaks good people. Not the violence. Not the threats. Not the money or the name.
