Chapter 2 - THE UNEXPECTED GUEST
"I don't need help sleeping, little girl," Vincent said, his voice flat, dry, and devoid of warmth. "I am working. Go back to your room before I call your mother."
Lily didn't answer him with words. With the stubborn, fearless determination that only a toddler possessed, she reached out with her small hands, grabbed the edge of the heavy, white linen duvet, and hauled herself up onto the high mattress. Her tiny knees dug into the pristine fabric as she scrambled onto the bed, completely ignoring the unspoken rule that no living soul entered Vincent Moretti’s private quarters without an invitation.
Vincent watched her with a mixture of disbelief and quiet irritation. In the boardroom, men who controlled multi-million-dollar hedge funds sweated when he lowered his voice. On the docks, seasoned union bosses backed down when he folded his arms. Yet here was a three-year-old girl in pink pajamas climbing onto his bed as if it were a playground bench.
Lily sat cross-legged on the white duvet three feet from his knee. From behind her battered plush rabbit, she produced a small, brightly colored hardcover storybook. The cover was worn at the corners, depicting a cheerful watercolor illustration of a blue bear sitting under a yellow moon.
She set the book down on her lap with a soft, dramatic thud.
Vincent looked at the book, then looked at Lily.
"I’m not three years old," Vincent stated, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.
Lily opened the cover with great care, smoothing her tiny palm down the center crease of the paper page. She looked up at him, her wide brown eyes entirely serious.
"Maybe nobody reads you the right stories," Lily said.
The sentence hung in the quiet, dim room, floating above the hum of the air filtration system and the distant rumble of Manhattan traffic.
Vincent stared at her. His first instinct was to pick her up by her waist, walk her down the long, mahogany-lined corridor to the housekeeper's quarters, and hand her back to Maria with a strict reminder about locking doors at night. He had a multi-million-dollar real estate acquisition to authorize before the Tokyo markets opened at 1:00 AM. He had security logs to clear. He had work to do.
Yet, as he looked at her small, earnest face—at the complete lack of malice, fear, or hidden agenda in her eyes—something cold and calcified behind Vincent’s ribs gave a faint, reluctant yield. He had been alone in this dark room for three years, surrounded by bodyguards, lawyers, and enforcers who looked at him with either fear or calculated ambition. Nobody had walked into his room simply to give him something.
Against his better judgment, Vincent reached out. His thick, calloused fingers caught the edge of the dark titanium laptop screen.
Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the screen down until it closed with a soft, magnetic click. The harsh blue light vanished from the room, leaving only the warm, amber glow of the bedside lamp casting long, soft shadows across the dark leather headboard and the white linen sheets.
Vincent leaned his broad back against the headboard, crossing his forearms over his broad chest.
May you like
"Two minutes," Vincent growled softly. "Then you go back."
Lily offered him no verbal promise. She simply looked down at the first page of her book, her small index finger landing squarely on a bright watercolor drawing of a green meadow.
