Chapter 3 - THE GILDED CAGE
The Cross Estate wasn't just a house; it was a fortress masquerading as a modern architectural marvel. Nestled on fifty acres of private, heavily wooded land in Westchester, it was surrounded by wrought-iron gates, security cameras, and men in tailored suits who walked with the heavy, lopsided gait of concealed carry.
Nora's first three days were a trial by fire.
The house was completely sterile. There were no toys in the living room, no crayon marks on the walls, no evidence that a child lived there at all. Everything was marble, glass, and steel. Milo moved through the massive corridors like a ghost, completely mute, refusing to engage with the tutors or the private chef who tried to serve him deconstructed gourmet meals.
On the fourth morning, Nora decided she had had enough.
She walked into the pristine, industrial-grade kitchen, tied an apron over her jeans, and physically pushed the private chef—a haughty French man named Luc—away from the stove.
"What are you doing?" Luc sputtered, outraged.
"Making breakfast," Nora said, pulling flour, butter, and sugar from the massive pantry. "Actual breakfast. Not a micro-greens omelet."
Marcus Reyes, the mountain of a security chief she had met at the restaurant, leaned against the doorframe, sipping dark coffee. A smirk played on his lips. "Boss isn't going to like you messing up the schedule, Red."
"The boss isn't the one starving," Nora shot back, her hands already covered in flour. She looked down at Milo, who was standing in the doorway, clutching a stuffed rabbit by its ear. "Hey, buddy. You want to help me make a mess?"
Milo stared at her. Slowly, he walked over. Nora lifted him onto the marble island—a blatant violation of house rules—and handed him a whisk. For the next hour, the kitchen was filled with the smell of sizzling butter, vanilla, and chocolate chips. They made pancakes. Uneven, messy, utterly perfect pancakes.
When Damon walked into the kitchen, the room’s temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Luc looked terrified. Marcus straightened up.
Nora didn't flinch. She placed a plate of chocolate chip pancakes in front of Milo.
Damon looked at the flour on the floor, the syrup on the counter, and his son sitting on the expensive marble island. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat.
Milo had picked up a fork. With trembling hands, the boy took a bite. And then another. For the first time in a week, Milo was eating.
May you like
Damon stared at his son, something raw and desperate flashing in his dark eyes. He looked at Nora, his chest rising and falling in a deep breath. He didn't yell. He didn't fire her. He simply turned to Marcus.
"Cancel my morning meetings," Damon ordered, his voice thick. He walked over, pulled up a stool beside his son, and looked at Nora. "Are there any left?"
