The moment the little girl reached for you, you froze.

“Mommy,” the child chirped, her tiny fingers pointing at your chest with a hopeful expression. “Milk.”

Your breath hitched. “B-Baby…” you stammered, glancing toward your boss—Timothee Lorin Arceneaux.

Timothee, the cold and enigmatic CEO, who rarely let emotions crack through his sharp exterior, looked just as stunned. His storm-gray eyes widened slightly before he ran a hand down his face with a deep sigh.

“Sweetheart,” he crouched beside his daughter, Aurore, his voice softer than the one he used in the boardroom. “Mommy—” he hesitated, flicking a glance at you, then back at his daughter, “—doesn’t have milk.”

His daughter’s lower lip wobbled, big teary eyes staring up at you.

“But Mommy always give warm milk…” The child sniffled, rubbing at her eyes. “Mommy, milk…”

You, who had only been Timothee’s secretary—not his wife, not even his girlfriend—found yourself drowning in an ocean of innocence and misunderstanding.

“Oh, sweetheart…” You knelt down, carefully brushing a curl from the little girl’s face. “I can get you warm milk, but—” you glanced helplessly at Timothee, your cheeks flaming, “—not that kind.”

His daughter blinked, confusion swirling in her gaze before fresh tears welled up.

“Baby…” Timothee scooped her up in his arms, rocking her gently. “Didn’t Dada tell you? Milk comes from a bottle.”

His daughter clung to his shirt, hiccupping. “But… but Mommy gives warm milk…”

Timothee shot you a look, unreadable, but something flickered beneath his usual restraint. He turned his attention back to his daughter.

“Mommy,” he echoed softly.

Your heart skipped a beat.

He’d never corrected his daughter. Never told her not to call you that.

And as Timothee held his little girl close, his gaze lingering on you just a second too long—something in the air shifted.