8
1241 Words
Christopher Gravemoor:
There was a soft knock on the glass door before my assistant peeked in.
“Sir, Mr. Darius Mordaunt and his daughter are here.”
I closed the file I was reading and straightened slightly.
“Send them in.”
A moment later, Darius walked in like he owned the building. Same old swagger, same fake smile. His suit screamed money, but his eyes—those were the eyes of a man who only showed up when it benefited him.
Behind him trailed a young woman. Early twenties. Long legs, glossy hair, subtle perfume that filled the room before she even said a word.
“Mr. Darius,” I said with a measured smile, standing. “Such a pleasure to have you.”
He spread his arms like he was greeting an old friend at a reunion. “Christopher, you look even more handsome than your father ever did. I heard about his passing… Accept my deepest condolences. I was in Turkey when it happened—so much business at once, I couldn’t make it down.”
I gave him a polite nod. “It’s okay. You were his friend. You showed up when it mattered most — while he was alive. I’m sure that’s what counts.”
He laughed, easing into the chair across from me. “Still sharp. Just like your father said you'd be.” Then he gestured to the girl standing beside him. “This is my daughter, Lauren.”
She stepped forward, her smile poised and practiced. “Hi. Lauren Mordaunt.”
I stood again briefly, offering a handshake. “Lauren. Beautiful name for a beautiful lady.”
She smiled but said nothing.
Darius leaned back, fingers interlaced across his stomach. “You know, Christopher… kids grow up too fast these days. One day they’re riding toy horses, next they’re asking for office space.” He chuckled. “Lauren’s just returned from finishing school and… well, let’s say I’d sleep better knowing she’s under the wings of someone I trust.”
I raised a brow slightly. “Under my wings?”
He smiled wider. “She’s got talent. Quick with data. Numbers don’t scare her. I thought — what better place for her to start than at Gravemoor Group? A place where competence is valued, and where I know she’d be looked after… properly.”
Ah. There it was.
I glanced at Lauren. She looked like she’d rehearsed the visit, but not the reality of working in a place like mine.
I leaned back in my seat, crossing one leg over the other.
“Well… Mr. Darius. You’ve always known how to ask for favors without asking.”
He chuckled. “Old habit.”
I turned back to Lauren. “We’ve got a spot in Data Analytics. Fast-paced. No hand-holding. Think you can handle that?”
She nodded. “I can.”
“Good. You’ll start Monday.”
Darius beamed. “See why I like you? Efficient. Like your father, but with more bite.”
I gave him a cool smile. “And less patience.”
We all laughed, but only one of us meant it.
Darius stood up, brushing invisible lint off his overpriced suit like he’d just closed a million-dollar deal. He straightened his cuffs and offered another of those practiced, polished smiles.
“Well, we’ll be out of your hair now. See you on Monday, Christopher.” He paused at the door. “And don’t be a stranger. Stop by the house sometime — we’ll have dinner, wine, good company…”
He turned slightly and threw a look at Lauren.
“Oh, and… my daughter’s still single. Gorgeous, smart — the kind of woman that would complement a man like you.”
I gave a tight smile. “Mm. She is beautiful… but I’m not sure we’d fit.”
Darius chuckled, that awkward kind of rich-man laugh that said he wasn’t used to being told no. “You’ll never know unless you try,” he said, before walking out with Lauren trailing behind, heels clicking against the marble floor.
The door closed behind them.
I rolled my eyes.
“That old hag…”
I muttered it under my breath and ran a hand through my hair before sinking into my chair again. His cologne still lingered in the air like an unwanted reminder. I opened my laptop, got back to work, and tried to forget the fake smiles and arranged intentions.
But I couldn’t concentrate.
Not long after, my phone buzzed — a call from the nanny.
I frowned as I picked it up.
“Sir—Amara. She’s running a temperature. I didn’t want to scare you, but it came on fast…”
I didn’t wait to hear more.
“Get her comfortable. I’m coming home now.”
I didn’t even shut the laptop. Just grabbed my keys, my jacket, and walked out. My driver knew better than to ask questions. The entire ride, I sat in silence, jaw clenched, mind racing.
Amara was rarely sick. And when she was, it always brought a storm inside me. Fear. Guilt. The kind you don’t say out loud.
At Home – Evening
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
I stepped in and loosened my tie as I walked toward the hallway that led to her room. My shoes barely made a sound against the polished floors, but my heart was loud — like a steady drum behind my ribs.
I pushed the door open slowly.
There she was.
Amara, curled up in bed under her favorite pink blanket. Her cheeks flushed. A small frown on her face even in sleep.
And sitting beside her… Isabella.
Her hair was tied up loosely, sleeves rolled, a bowl of soup half-empty on the table next to her. Her hand rested gently on Amara’s back, rubbing slow, comforting circles.
She turned at the sound of the door.
“Oh… you’re back,” she said quietly. “She’s okay now. I gave her some soup… checked her temperature. It’s going down.”
She looked tired, but calm. And oddly enough, in that moment, she looked like she belonged there — in that room, with my daughter.
I walked over slowly, kneeling next to Amara’s bed, brushing a strand of hair away from her damp forehead. Her breathing was steadier now.
“She asked for you before she slept,” Isabella said softly. “But I told her you were coming. So she waited… and then just passed out.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t answer. I just sat there, staring at her little face, the way her fingers curled around the stuffed unicorn she wouldn’t sleep without.
“She’s strong,” Isabella added after a pause. “Like you.”
I looked up at her then, really looked at her — at the way her eyes softened when they landed on Amara… and maybe, just maybe, when they landed on me too.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
She shrugged. “She’s my family too… remember?”
I stood, glanced at the soup. “You ate?”
“Not really.”
“Come on then. Let’s go downstairs. I’ll make tea or order something. You’ve done enough here.
”
She looked surprised. “You’ll make tea?”
I smirked a little. “Well. I can pour hot water into a cup. That’s a start.”
She smiled.
And it wasn’t sarcastic or guarded.
It was warm.
- Writer
