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Grant Mercer did not blink when Clara answered his question. He simply leaned back into his high-backed leather chair, the sound of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows filling the heavy silence between them. / Chapter 2 / 8

Chapter 2 - The Billionaire's Awakening

Back in the present, Clara stared down at her daughter and the billionaire sleeping beneath a celestial sky of yellow paint, pink flowers, and a flying bluebird.

"Kira," Clara whispered, her voice tight with panic as she reached out to grab a dry cloth from her apron pocket. "Sweetheart, what did you do? Wake up. Oh god, Mr. Mercer—"

She lunged forward, frantically trying to wipe the yellow paint from his cheek before he opened his eyes. But before her trembling fingers could graze his skin, a large, heavy hand shot out and caught her wrist.

Clara froze.

Grant Mercer’s eyes weren't sleep-fogged. They were wide, sharp, and instantly alert—the eyes of a man who lived his life anticipating betrayal. He looked at Clara’s hand on his wrist, then down at the wet bristles of the brush still clutched in Kira’s hand.

Slowly, deliberately, Grant sat up. The watercolor paint smeared slightly against the leather headrest, leaving a faint yellow stain.

Clara dropped to her knees, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I am so, so sorry, Mr. Mercer. Please. It was an accident—she wandered out, she doesn't understand boundaries, I'll pack our things right now, just please don't—"

"Stop talking," Grant said. His voice was low, devoid of the fury Clara expected.

He didn't yell. He didn't call security. Instead, he reached up with one long, calloused finger and touched his own cheek, right where the yellow sun had dried into a crusty, uneven circle. He felt the three stars along his jaw, the pink petals over his brow, and the sweeping wings of the bluebird across the bridge of his nose.

"What is this?" Grant asked, his gaze shifting from Clara’s terrified face down to the little girl standing innocently beside her.

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"A sky," Kira piped up, completely unintimidated by the billionaire's terrifying reputation. She pointed a tiny finger at his nose. "And a bird. Because you looked like you were falling down inside, and birds know how to fly back up."

Grant Mercer stared at a three-year-old child for ten long, agonizing seconds. The air in the grand salon seemed to freeze. Then, slowly, painfully, something cracked behind the steel walls of his expression.

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