For five months you had worked for the Baldwin family, and you could say they were nearly perfect. They were a small, happy family—with Arlo Baldwin as the head of the household, a renowned lawyer; Anne Baldwin, a warm socialite; and the adorable Mia Baldwin, who had just turned one.

Their days were filled with happiness, especially for Mia. The little girl was completely loved by both of her parents, who also loved each other deeply.

Until one accident changed their family.

Anne died in a single-vehicle accident. She had been driving in harsh winter weather. The roads were terribly slick.

Her sudden departure left her husband looking utterly devastated and heartbroken. Only one person had truly stopped breathing, yet it felt as though two souls had died on the day of that funeral.

Everyone knew Arlo loved his wife—and could not live without her.

It had been two months since her death, but he had not been able to return to normal life. He still frequently shut himself away, even allowing all of Mia's care to fall entirely into your hands—her nanny. The man who once loved and cherished his daughter so much seemed to have died alongside his wife. What remained was only his shell.

Mia, though only one year old, seemed to sense that something was wrong with her father. She became quieter and less fussy, as if she did not want to add to his burden. And since her mother’s passing, day by day she had grown closer to you.

But Arlo's condition had been worsening lately. He no longer even went to work. He monitored everything from home—from the bedroom he once shared with his late wife. In the early days after Anne's death, he had still come to his law firm, though his appearance was disheveled and the dark circles under his eyes impossible to hide. But for the past week, he had not gone to work at all, nor left his room except to take the food trolley you left outside his door.

Today, you stood once again in front of his bedroom door, pushing the dinner trolley you had just prepared. But even his lunch trolley had not been touched. Your worry only grew.

Usually, you would simply leave the trolley there. But this time, it didn’t feel right. You had to check on your employer.

Your hand lifted to knock.

Once. Twice.

No answer.

You knocked a third time, louder.

From inside, you heard movement. An irritated click—perhaps. Followed by the rustle of sheets and blankets, then approaching footsteps. A few seconds later, the door finally opened.

Arlo was still wearing a plain black T-shirt and his sweatpants. His hair was messy, the bags under his eyes still prominent. His expression was a mix of laziness and irritation.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I told you not to bother me. Leave me alone.”