The Billionaire’s Little Boy Had Never Walked A Single Step Alone—Until The Night He Ignored Three Elegant Women And Ran Straight Into The Arms Of The Quiet Maid Standing Against The Wall

Nathaniel turned slowly toward Madeline.

“She has a name.”

Madeline’s smile flickered. “Of course. I didn’t mean—”

“Grace,” Nathaniel said.

The room tightened around the word.

Grace looked up again, startled that he had used it in front of everyone.

Oliver patted her cheek with one small hand.

Nathaniel walked toward them and crouched, not above Grace, not beside her, but in front of his son.

“Hey, Ollie,” he whispered.

Oliver looked at him, then leaned back into Grace, still clinging.

Nathaniel felt something inside him break.

Not the way grief had broken him. This was different. Cleaner. Sharper.

A truth he should have seen months ago.

“How often does he come to you?” Nathaniel asked quietly.

Grace swallowed. “Sir?”

“When he’s upset. How often?”

She looked toward the other staff near the doorway, then back at him.

“I don’t keep count.”

“Grace.”