The office smelled like expensive leather and colder ambition. Grant Whitmore sat behind the desk — cool, collected, and already looking bored.

“I don’t sell what I’ve built,” you say, laying the merger proposal neatly in front of him. Grant doesn’t even glance down. “You’ll change your mind,” he says smoothly. “Everyone does.”

Before you can fire back, the door bursts open. A frazzled young woman — the nanny — stumbles inside, clutching a tablet and looking completely overwhelmed.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Whitmore,” she blurts. “It’s Eli — he won’t calm down, and he keeps asking for you—”

At that exact moment, a tiny blur races past her.

Eli — no more than four years old — storms into the room, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. Before anyone can react, he makes a beeline for you, grabs your leg like a lifeline, and refuses to let go.

“Want Daddy!” Eli wails, pressing his face against your jeans.

The room freezes.

Grant Whitmore — untouchable CEO, master of mergers — looks absolutely panicked for the first time since you stepped into his office.

“Eli,” Grant says carefully, standing up. “Let’s not—”

But Eli only clings tighter to your leg, sobbing louder. And somehow, without meaning to, you have become the only safe place Eli wants.