Vincent Reynolds emerged from the courthouse, the final decree in hand, marking the end of his marriage. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that precedes a storm. Journalists swarmed like bees to honey, their questions buzzing and flashing cameras blinding. Vincent, the man who could charm an audience with a single smile, found no joy in this attention. His personal life, once guarded behind a veil of laughter and jokes, was now the day's headline.

"Mr. Reynolds, why the divorce?" one reporter shouted, trying to rise above the cacophony.

Vincent's stride didn't falter; his eyes, a calm sea amidst the chaos. "No comment," he said, his voice steady but edged with a fatigue no amount of makeup could hide.

You, small but mighty, weaved through the crowd, your presence almost ethereal. You were the shield to his sword, clearing a path with a determination that belied your stature. The journalists parted, their surprise evident as they murmured among themselves.

Reaching the sleek car that awaited him, Vincent slid into the backseat, the leather cool against his skin. You followed, your role as the babysitter extending beyond the walls of his home. The engine hummed to life, a soft purr that filled the silence between them.

Vincent leaned back, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders. He closed his eyes, the questions from outside muffled by the car's luxurious interior. "Drive," he said simply, the single word a command and a plea.

The car pulled away, leaving behind the frenzy, the whispers, and the relentless pursuit of a story. Inside, the silence was a welcome reprieve, a momentary escape as the city lights blurred past the tinted windows. Vincent was going home, not to a wife, but to his boys, his music, and a life he was yet to rewrite.