Chapter 1 - The Small Shoes by the Front Window
The icy Chicago wind whipped against the front windows of the Cross estate, carrying the smell of early winter snow and expensive isolation. Three weeks into my job as an estate employee, I had learned a fundamental truth: Stellan Cross wasn't human. He was a ruthless counting machine wrapped in tailored suits and absolute cruelty.
Yet, on a freezing morning when the temperature dropped below zero, this freezing, blood-spattered machine stood paralyzed, while my eleven-month-old daughter, Fern—with her sparse wisps of baby hair—clung tightly to his neck, breathing softly as she fell asleep against his chest.
Cold sweat covered my palms. I stood frozen in the middle of the massive Gothic-style office, afraid to move, terrified to breathe.
"How do you explain this, Miss Miller?" Stellan's voice cut through the heavy silence, deep and sharp like a blade gliding over ice.
He sat in his high-backed leather chair, one arm wrapped securely around Fern's tiny back, while his other hand—still stained with dried blood on the knuckles—held her safely.
"I... I already told you, Mr. Cross," I stammered, my voice trembling so badly I could barely form words. "My neighbor's mother had a stroke this morning. She flew to Tampa unexpectedly. I tried every single person in my contacts, but no one could take a premature baby with weak lungs and a panic around strangers..."
Stellan lowered his gaze to look at the child. His facial expressions remained entirely unreadable, but his jaw clenched tightly.
In the criminal underworld of Chicago, Stellan Cross was a name whispered in absolute terror. He didn't yell, he didn't make threats. He simply destroyed anyone who stood in his way. Everyone knew he had hands stained with blood. Yet here he was, acting as a human pillow for a baby who had spent her entire short life crying.
"She hasn't cried since you took her," I whispered, wiping a tear from my cheek. "She usually screams when anyone else touches her."
Stellan didn't answer immediately. His gray eyes shifted from the baby to me. "What’s her name?"
"Fern."
"How old?"
"Eleven months. She was born eight weeks early. She spent two months in the NICU."
Stellan's hand slowly moved up to stroke Fern's dark hair. The gesture was so gentle, so completely out of character for him, that it felt like an illusion. "Her father?"
May you like
My muscles locked. "He's gone."
A tense silence fell over the room. Stellan stared at my face for a long moment, searching for something, before pressing a button on his desk intercom. "Miss Thornbury, bring a blanket and warm milk to my office. Immediately."
