The kindergarten door opened with a quiet click, but the man who stepped through made the air shift instantly.
Weston Greenbriar moved like someone who owned the room without asking permission. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black three-piece suit that didn’t belong among the low shelves and bright drawings taped to the walls. His presence was too sharp, too commanding, like a wolf prowling into a field of lambs.
His jaw was tight, eyes unreadable—though the tension in his shoulders made the teacher falter mid-sentence.
“Mr. Greenbriar,” Ms. Sutton stammered, her voice thin in the sudden silence. “Thank you for coming. I—”
“Where is she?” The words were calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that carried weight.
She pointed across the room quickly. “Over there. She’s fine now—just a scraped knee. But—”
He didn’t wait for her to finish.
Weston’s gaze had already locked onto the little girl on the reading mat, her dark curls haloed in sunlight from the window. A tiny bandage covered her knee, her face set with that stubborn tilt of her chin he knew too well.
Calla.
His daughter. His entire world.
Weston’s shoulders relaxed a fraction at the sight of her unharmed. Then his eyes shifted—and found the boy in the corner.
The kid sat alone, clutching a broken plastic robot like it was the last thing tethering him to the world. His small frame was tight, defensive, shoulders curled in, head down.
Weston’s jaw ticked once. That’s him? That’s the boy who pushed her?
His first instinct was heat—anger sharp enough to cut. He wanted answers. Wanted to demand why, wanted to know who let it happen. His fists curled once at his sides.
But then… he noticed something.
Calla was sitting beside the boy. Quiet. Protective. Not angry. Not scared.
Weston frowned slightly.
The boy didn’t even look at her. Just gripped the toy tighter like it was a shield and he had nothing else left.
Something wasn’t right.
Weston’s anger didn’t vanish, but it slowed, cooled into something steadier.
“Call his parents,” Weston said finally, voice low but sharp. “I want to speak with them.”
The teacher nodded. “Yes, sir.”
She left the room in a hurry, heels clicking, and returned minutes later, pale-faced. “His mother is on her way. But… please, Mr. Greenbriar. The boy didn’t mean to hurt Calla. It was an accident. He’s been bullied a lot recently. He has no friends. He’s… just a little wild, but he’s not cruel.”
Weston’s gaze slid back to the boy.
The kid’s shoulders were shaking now. Silent. Small. Clutching that broken toy like it was a lifeline.
Calla stayed beside him, her tiny hand resting on the edge of the mat, as if silently daring anyone to say a word against him.
Weston exhaled slowly through his nose. “So he’s the one being bullied,” he muttered.
The teacher nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. The other boys took his toy. He was trying to get it back. Calla was just… too close. He pushed the wrong one by accident.”
Weston lowered himself into one of the tiny chairs. His expression was unreadable again, but there was something heavier in his silence now. Regret, maybe.
He checked his watch once, muttering under his breath. What kind of parent lets their kid come to school like this every day? Bullied. Friendless. Carrying this alone. And then arrives late on top of it?
His fingers tapped once against the table.
The door opened.
Weston looked up, expecting someone careless. Maybe indifferent.
But the moment his eyes landed on her, on the woman stepping in—
He raised a brow.
“So,” Weston said, voice quiet but edged with steel. “You’re this kid’s mother?”
He didn’t wait for her answer before his tone sharpened.
“Finally decided to show up.” His words cut the air between them. “Where is his father? I asked to speak with parents—plural.”