Chapter 4 - Terms of Survival
1264 Words
(Liam Romano POV)
Her house was exactly what I expected—neat, modest, hopelessly domestic. A place built on quiet routines and soft touches. Roses bloomed stubbornly along the walkway, cheerful and defiant, as if they hadn’t gotten the memo that someone had died here. That this was now a graveyard in disguise.
I knocked once. The door opened before the echo faded.
And there she was.
No shoes. Light blue dress that hit just below the knee. Hair pulled back in a loose bun, strands falling soft around her flushed face. Hailey Miller looked like something from a forgotten decade—graceful, untouched by the rot of this world. Her hazel eyes widened when she saw me.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Mr. Romano.”
I smirked. “Didn’t we already agree to drop the ‘Mr. Romano’?”
A flush spread across her cheeks like spilled wine. She stepped back, opening the door wider. “Right. Sorry. Please—come in.”
Her voice trembled. Not fear exactly, but uncertainty. Still, she didn’t hesitate.
Before I even took a seat, a chilled glass of lemonade landed in front of me. Then the pitcher. Then a tray of perfectly shaped cookies—each one golden, uniform, like they’d been sculpted by hand and not just baked.
“You bake, too?” I asked, raising a brow as I picked one up.
She offered a faint smile. “It helps me think.”
I took a bite. Soft center. Crisp edges. Cinnamon. She didn’t just bake—she knew what she was doing.
“Madison couldn’t make toast without setting off the fire alarm,” I said.
Her smile faded. Eyes dropped to the floor like she was bracing for something.
Silence stretched between us—tense, too full.
“Hailey,” I started, keeping my voice measured, “I was hoping we could help each other.”
Her eyes lifted slowly. There was hesitation in them, but also curiosity.
“I have a daughter—Isabella. She’s the same age as Caleb. And finding someone I trust to care for her, especially with her condition... it hasn’t been easy.”
Her brow creased, arms folding loosely over her stomach. Her tone cooled, laced with wariness. “What kind of arrangement are you talking about, Mr. Romano?”
I exhaled slowly and leaned forward, folding my hands atop her polished table. “I know about Ethan’s debts, Hailey. Selling this house won’t even scratch the surface of what he left behind.”
She stilled.
“I’d like you and Caleb to move in with me.”
A short laugh escaped her, but it was sharp, stunned. Her fingers brushed her temple as she looked away, as if trying to make sense of words that didn’t fit into her world.
“Do you even know how much debt Ethan had?” she asked, voice brittle.
“Six point two million,” I said without missing a beat.
Her lips parted. Her jaw tensed. She looked at me like I’d just set fire to the room.
“Even if I cared for your daughter for the rest of her life,” she began, voice low and shaking, “I wouldn’t come close to—”
I cut in, calm and firm.
“Hailey, I’m not trying to trap you. I’m offering a deal. Give me one year to settle everything. You take care of Isabella—live in the penthouse with Caleb—and when it’s done, I’ll round it up to seven million. Enough to buy a home, secure your future… and your son’s.”
She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers twisted in the soft fabric of her apron, knuckles white, her teeth grazing her bottom lip like she was biting back every instinct telling her to run.
“Would there be a contract?” she asked at last, her voice barely above a whisper.
Hooked.
“Of course,” I said, drawing the crisp, cream-colored folder from my jacket and laying it gently between us on the table.
She reached for it slowly, like it might burn. Her fingertips brushed the edge of the page, trembling slightly as she began to read. Her eyes moved silently over the lines—stopping now and then, not just to understand, but to breathe. Grief pooled beneath her lashes. Fear tightened her mouth. And that helpless glint behind her gaze—God, it sparked something in me I hadn’t felt in years.
I hadn’t created this mess. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful it had brought her to my door.
Midway down the contract, she paused. Her brows drew together.
“Did… did your wife breastfeed Isabella?”
“No,” I answered without hesitation. “But the pediatrician recommended it. Given her allergies, it’s the healthiest option.”
If she pushed back now, it would be over. My offer didn’t allow space for softness or excuses.
But Hailey didn’t argue. She just nodded—silent, composed. A woman calculating survival. She knew there were no hidden accounts waiting for her, no family fortune to swoop in. The moment I named the number, she realized how deep in hell she really was.
Without a word, she stood and disappeared down the hallway. When she returned, Caleb was propped against her hip, his flushed cheeks and narrowed eyes already radiating quiet defiance. He looked like a storm cloud in baby form—small, stubborn, and watching me like I was a threat he didn’t quite trust.
She sat again, bouncing him rhythmically on her knee, eyes scanning the last page.
“If you’d like,” I said smoothly, “I could hold him while you finish reading.”
She didn’t look up. Didn’t even blink.
“Thank you, but he’s fine.”
The message was clear: Don’t touch my child.
Caleb’s eyes stayed locked on mine, brow still drawn like he saw straight through me. Like he already knew I was the villain in his mother’s story. That glare—it didn’t come from Hailey. And it damn sure didn’t come from Ethan. Maybe it skipped a generation. Or maybe the kid just had instincts.
Still, I couldn’t tear my eyes off the way she cradled him. The way he fit in her arms like he’d been made to be there. She was maternal without trying. Gentle without effort. Everything Madison never was.
And Christ, she was beautiful.
Beautiful in a way that didn’t beg for attention—just quietly demanded it. She didn’t even know it. Which made it worse. Better.
I had plans for her. Things I wanted. Needed. Not just for Isabella. Not just for the arrangement.
For me.
If she was everything I believed she could be… she wouldn’t just be the nanny.
She’d be mine.
My woman. My wife. The mother of my next child.
And eventually—whether she knew it or not—Hailey Miller would belong to me.
She stood abruptly.
My gut tensed, bracing for a polite refusal. A c***k in her calm. A slammed door.
Instead, she looked at me and asked softly, “Do you have a second copy of the contract… for my records?”
I smiled. Slowly. Controlled.
“Of course.”
She bent to kiss Caleb’s cheek. Her lips lingered there for a moment—soft, sure, steady.
Then she straightened, met my gaze without flinching, and said:
“Then yes. I’ll do it.”
Perfect.
She has no idea what she’s just agreed to.
- Writer
