Chapter 1 - THE LITTLE GIRL IN MY PRIVATE ROOM
"MY HOUSEKEEPER'S THREE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER BROKE INTO MY PRIVATE ROOM AND MOCKED MY FACE. I was ready to fire her mother for breaking my strictest rule, until the little girl copied an expression that belonged to the woman who had vanished from my life three years earlier. But when I demanded to know who her father was, my housekeeper revealed she'd been hiding something far more devastating.
My name is Lucas Whitmore. I own a sprawling estate outside Boston, where every employee knows one rule: Never enter my private quarters without permission.
Apparently, nobody had explained that to Emma Bennett.
I found her sitting on my velvet dressing stool, studying herself in my enormous mirror.
She was three years old, with chubby pink cheeks, sparkling hazel eyes, and golden-blonde curls gathered into delicate braids. Her sage-green princess dress shimmered with tiny ivory flowers, while her little ivory shoes swung above the polished floor.
She looked like she'd wandered out of a fairy tale.
Then she made a face that nearly stopped my heart.
Two tiny fingers pressed against her temples. Her eyebrows pulled together. Her chin tilted downward, and her lips formed a stubborn little pout.
I'd seen that expression before.
On Emily.
The woman I'd loved more than anyone.
The woman who'd disappeared three years ago without saying goodbye.
""Who taught you to do that?"" I whispered.
Emma glanced at me through the mirror.
""Nobody. I'm practicing.""
""Practicing what?""
She frowned even harder.
""Your grumpy face, mister.""
I should have been furious.
Instead, I laughed.
Emma spun around, her curls bouncing.
""YOU SMILED!"" she squealed. ""I knew you could!""
Before I could respond, hurried footsteps echoed outside.
The door flew open.
Clara Bennett, my housekeeper, stood frozen in the doorway.
""Emma!""
She rushed forward, grabbing her daughter's hand.
""Mr. Whitmore, please forgive me. She wasn't supposed to come upstairs.""
But something about Clara's expression bothered me.
She wasn't simply embarrassed.
She looked terrified.
""Don't punish her,"" I said.
Clara nodded, avoiding my eyes.
Emma waved cheerfully.
""Bye, Mr. Grumpy!""
I almost smiled again.
Then I noticed the little girl's profile.
Those hazel eyes.
That stubborn chin.
The way her nose wrinkled when she smiled.
Emily had done exactly the same thing.
My chest tightened.
Three years.
Emily had disappeared three years ago.
Emma was three.
And Clara had worked in my home for nearly two years, always finding excuses to keep her daughter out of my sight.
""Clara. Wait.""
She stopped instantly.
I approached slowly, unable to take my eyes off Emma.
""Who is her father?""
Clara's face drained of color.
""Mr. Whitmore...""
""Please. Just tell me.""
Her eyes filled with tears.
Emma squeezed her mother's fingers.
""Mommy, why are you crying?""
Clara knelt, kissed her daughter's forehead, then looked directly at me.
""Lucas, there's something you need to understand.""
My heart pounded.
""Is Emma Emily's daughter?""
Clara covered her mouth.
And in that terrible silence, I knew my question had struck something buried.
Then she whispered the words that shattered everything I believed.
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""Lucas, Emma isn't the secret I've been keeping from you.""
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