5

Archie’s POV Two weeks had passed since Lincoln Greyson walked into my house, and the quiet rhythm of my life had been thoroughly upended. I was sitting in the backseat of my town car, staring out the window at the city skyline as my driver navigated the evening traffic. On my lap lay the quarterly report from the boys’ private academy. I didn't need to read it to know what it said; my assistant, Clara, had already briefed me earlier that afternoon. "It’s a miracle, Mr. Samuel," Clara had said, looking up from her tablet with a look of genuine disbelief. "Headmaster Vance called. No pranks. No behavioral warnings. Leo helped clean up the science lab, and Toby actually earned a gold star in reading. He asked if you had hired a former military drill sergeant." I had just grunted in response, keeping my face stoic, but inside, a strange mix of pride and unease had settled into my ribs. Lincoln wasn't a drill sergeant. If anything, his methods were entirely chaotic. He didn't yell, he didn't hand out strict detentions, and he certainly didn't care about the rigid schedules I had carefully printed out for the household. He cooked messy meals, dragged the boys into the backyard for rain-soaked soccer matches, and talked to them as if they were adults capable of making their own choices. And it worked. I looked down at my watch. It was barely six-thirty. A month ago, I would still be sitting in a glass-walled conference room, scheduling my third late-night conference call. Now, I found myself wrapping up meetings early, delegating tasks I usually micro-managed, and checking my watch every twenty minutes. I told myself I was doing it for Leo and Toby. I told myself a good father should be home for dinner. But as the car pulled into the grand iron gates of the estate, a quiet, stubborn voice in the back of my mind whispered the truth: I was coming home early to see him. I stepped into the grand foyer, slipping off my suit jacket. The house was unusually quiet. The usual sounds of clattering pots or loud laughter were missing. I walked down the long corridor toward the main living room. The warm glow of the standing lamp spilled across the hardwood floor. I stopped at the entrance, the breath catching sharply in my throat. Lincoln was asleep on the massive velvet sofa. He was still wearing a simple gray t-shirt and jeans, one broad arm draped casually over the back cushions. Leo was curled up against his left side, his small face pressed into Lincoln’s shoulder, fast asleep. Toby was sprawled at the other end of the couch, his feet tangled in a throw blanket, his hand loosely resting on Lincoln’s knee. An open picture book lay upside down on the carpet. It was a scene of absolute, uninterrupted peace. I stood in the shadows, paralyzed. The sight hit me with a sudden, suffocating weight that made my chest ache. For three years, this house had felt like a vast, empty mausoleum made of white marble and expensive glass. It had been cold, loud, and lonely. But looking at the three of them wrapped together in the soft lamplight, the room felt... like a home. My eyes dragged away from my sons and settled on Lincoln. In the soft light, the sharp edge of his jaw looked smoother. His dark hair was messy, a few strands falling over his forehead. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. He looked soft, vulnerable, and undeniably handsome. A sharp spike of heat rushed through my veins, dropping straight down into my stomach. My pulse hammered against my ribs, loud and frantic. I couldn't move. I couldn't tear my eyes away. Then, Lincoln shifted. His eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep. He blinked against the dim light, his gaze wandering aimlessly for a second before landing directly on me standing in the doorway. He didn't jump or startle. He just stayed still, his dark eyes locking onto mine through the shadows. The silence between us stretched, thick and suffocatingly tense. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved. The air in the room felt suddenly charged, heavy with an unspoken electricity that made my skin prickle. He was looking at me not as an employee looking at his boss, but as a man looking at another man. I felt completely exposed, as if he could read every dangerous, unwanted thought racing through my head. My throat went dry. Panic—sharp, cold, and familiar—flooded my system. "I..." My voice cracked slightly. I cleared my throat, stepping backward into the hallway. "I didn't mean to wake you. Carry on." Before he could answer, I turned on my heel and practically fled down the corridor toward my private study, shutting the heavy oak door behind me with a muted thud. Archie’s POV I slammed my hands down on the edge of my mahogany desk, breathing heavily as if I had just run a marathon. "Get a grip," I whispered fiercely to the empty room. "Get a grip on yourself, Archie." I paced across the oriental rug, gripping the back of my neck. I was furious. I was a thirty-four-year-old billionaire, a leader of industry, a man who controlled multi-million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. Yet a twenty-eight-year-old babysitter in a plain t-shirt had just sent my heart into a tailspin with a single look. It was absurd. It was unacceptable. I was not supposed to feel this way. Ever since my wife passed, my heart had been locked away. I had told myself I was done with romance, done with vulnerability. And even if I were to open that door again, it certainly wasn't supposed to be for a man—and definitely not for the man I paid to watch my children. He's an employee, I reminded myself sternly, staring at my reflection in the dark windowpane. He's here for a job. He's here for the boys. Stop acting like a foolish teenager. My phone buzzed sharply on the desk, shattering the heavy silence. I walked over, picked it up, and saw a new text message on the screen. The sender name read: Mother. I unlocked the phone and opened the message. > Archie, darling. I spoke with Eleanor today. Her daughter Beatrice just moved back to the city after finishing her fellowship in London. She is charming, brilliant, and comes from a wonderful family. It has been three years, Archie. The boys need a mother, and you cannot stay alone in that giant house forever. Are you finally ready to let me set up a dinner? Are you ready to start dating women again? > I stared at the glowing text. My thumb hovered over the glass screen, ready to type out my usual, practiced rejection: I am too busy with work right now, Mother. I raised my head, looking past the desk, through the cracked door of my study, and down the long, dimly lit hallway toward the guest room where Lincoln slept. My hand froze over the screen. I didn't type a single word.