Chapter 8
1212 Words
The following days unfolded in a quiet pace, as if the strange noise from that night had been nothing but a figment of her imagination. No more gunshots. No more late-night footsteps. Just the soft echo of footsteps in hallways, the gentle rustle of wind through the garden trees, and the occasional laughter from the kitchen.
Amara tried not to dwell on it. The head maid's words echoed in her mind, clear and pointed.
"You should mind your job."
So she did.
She poured all her focus into Seraphina.
The child had grown more comfortable around her—subtle shifts in the way she reached for her hand, or leaned slightly against her side during afternoon walks in the garden. Amara noticed the way her eyes softened now when she saw her at the start of the day. It was as if a small thread of trust was beginning to form between them.
And for Amara, that was everything.
She helped Seraphina with her reading lessons, taught her little songs, and even got her to paint again. The girl loved the feel of soft pastels, and together they filled sheets with imagined forests, lavender skies, and suns with faces.
Each moment grounded her. Steadied her.
And yet, somewhere beneath the surface, Amara’s thoughts wandered. Not to gunshots. Not to secrets.
But to Damien.
His voice when he thanked her. His eyes when he looked at Seraphina. The gentle smile he gave her after the lullaby.
Amara wasn't used to that.
Not to kindness.
Not to being seen.
---
She sat in the reading corner of Seraphina's room one quiet afternoon, watching the little girl nap peacefully. The house was silent again, only the soft creak of the ceiling and distant birdsong accompanying the moment. Amara held a storybook loosely in her lap, though she wasn’t reading.
She was thinking.
About Damien.
And his words.
*"Thank you, Amara. For being here. For being the kind of person who sings lullabies even when no one’s watching."*
She hadn't realized how much those words would stay with her.
She placed a hand against her chest.
A strange flutter.
Like butterflies.
She blinked, startled by the sensation, then shook her head lightly and let out a soft, embarrassed laugh under her breath.
"Don’t be ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "It was just a kind word. That’s all."
Still, her hand lingered a moment longer.
It had been so long since anyone had thanked her for anything.
Back at the orphanage, gratitude was rare. Responsibility was constant. From the time she could walk, Amara had been one of the older girls—the helper, the caretaker, the reliable one. No one had asked if she wanted to help the younger children. No one had thanked her for missing out on playtime to feed them, dress them, tuck them in.
It was just expected.
"You’re the oldest, Amara. You should know better."
She remembered those words clearly. Spoken over and over again, until it became a part of her identity.
She had learned to expect nothing.
No praise. No affection. No family.
So when Damien looked at her like that, spoke to her with appreciation in his voice—
It stirred something she wasn’t prepared for.
---
Amara stood by the window that evening, brushing Seraphina's hair after a warm bath. The little girl hummed softly, cradling her stuffed rabbit in her arms.
Damien passed by in the hallway.
He paused for a moment at the door, his eyes meeting Amara's. He didn't say anything. Just offered her a small nod. A smile. Then continued on.
Her fingers slowed as she combed through Seraphina’s hair.
That flutter returned.
She ignored it.
Focused instead on her small charge, on the trust growing between them.
After all, this was why she was here.
For Seraphina.
Not for anything else.
She had promised herself she would never need anything more than what she could give. Never wish for more than what she had.
But then Damien thanked her.
And everything changed.
---
Damien stood by the tall window of his study, phone pressed against his ear, his gaze fixed on the moonlit grounds of the estate. The garden stretched out below, tranquil, untouched, an illusion of peace that he had learned to both maintain and distrust.
"How did it go?" he asked, his voice low and calm.
"The transaction’s complete, sir," his man replied on the other end of the line. "Smooth. No problems. But—there's something else. We found the leak. One of the runners—he's been talking."
Damien's fingers tightened slightly around the phone. "Who is it?"
"Guy named Laro. Worked with the docks. Not from our usual chain. We think he was bribed."
"You’re certain?"
"Yes. We followed the trail. He's been meeting with a contact from the Marquez side for weeks. We got proof."
Damien exhaled slowly, almost silently.
"What should we do with him, sir? Want us to bring him to the mansion? Make him talk?"
There was a pause.
Damien's eyes flicked toward the hallway, where somewhere down the corridor, Seraphina’s room lay. And he thought of Amara, of her soft lullaby that night, the calm she had wrapped around his daughter like a second blanket. The fear in her eyes when she heard the gunshots. The trust he had begun to see forming between them.
No. He couldn’t risk disturbing that.
"No," he said firmly. "Don’t bring him here. I’ll go to the warehouse myself."
"Understood, sir. We’ll hold him there."
"Good. Make sure he’s kept quiet until I arrive."
"Yes, sir."
Damien ended the call and set the phone down on his desk, his jaw tightening slightly. For a long moment, he stood there in silence, deep in thought.
The truth was, he could have sent someone else. Could have ordered the interrogation from a distance.
But something about this one—it needed his presence. It needed control.
And he wasn’t going to let that control slip, not after what happened the other night.
The shot that rang out. The panic in Amara’s voice. Her immediate instinct to protect his daughter.
It had almost ruined everything.
He didn’t mind danger. He lived in it. But the idea of bringing it too close—too near Seraphina. Too near *her*—
Damien rubbed his eyes tiredly.
This new nanny—Amara—she was more than what he expected.
She wasn’t just gentle. She was present. Alert. Smart.
She didn’t look the other way when things felt off.
And that was a problem. But also... it wasn’t.
He couldn’t afford to scare her. Couldn’t afford to lose her.
Not after the way she sang to Seraphina like the girl was her own.
Not after the way Seraphina smiled at her now—genuinely, openly.
Not after that soft, beautiful lullaby that still echoed in his mind.
Damien stepped away from the window, heading toward the far end of the study. He opened a concealed panel and took out a long black coat.
Time to handle things. Far from the mansion. Far from her. Because the less Amara knew, the safer she would be.
And the more he could protect the delicate balance she had unknowingly begun to restore in his home.
- Writer
