Boston’s most lethal underworld king had made an unbelievable vow: whoever could help his four-year-old son speak again would receive half of his criminal empire—and become his wife.

I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Mr. Thorne, I—I was just dusting the lower shelves.”

“You were instructed not to touch my son,” Julian’s voice was dangerously low, carrying a lethal edge that made the air in the room drop ten degrees. He stepped into the library, his sheer physical presence overwhelming.

Leo immediately shrank back, clutching his rabbit tighter, stepping behind my legs to hide from his own father.

Julian’s eyes tracked the movement, a flash of pure agony breaking through his stoic mask before it was instantly replaced by rage. He hated that his son feared him. He hated that he couldn't fix it.

“I didn't touch him, sir,” I said, keeping my voice remarkably steady, drawing on years of dealing with volatile parents in the hospital wards. “His toy was broken. I mended the eye. We didn't speak.”

“Ms. Sterling!” Julian roared, not looking away from me.

Within seconds, the head housekeeper rushed into the room, her face pale. “Yes, Mr. Thorne?”

“Pack her bags. She’s fired,” Julian commanded coldly.

Panic seized my throat. If I was thrown out, I would be on the streets. Silas Vance’s men would find me by nightfall.

“Wait!” I blurted out, stepping forward, accidentally shielding Leo. “Please, Mr. Thorne. I need this job. I didn't speak to him. I know he’s non-verbal. I know pushing a traumatized child into communication causes regression.”

Julian froze. He turned his lethal gaze back to me. “What did you say?”

“I have a master’s in pediatric speech therapy,” I said, the words tumbling out desperately. “I specialized in severe trauma and selective mutism. If you force everyone in this house to ignore him, you are isolating him further into his trauma. You are making it worse.”

Ms. Sterling gasped at my audacity. No one spoke to Julian Thorne like that.

Julian stepped closer, towering over me. “You are a maid.”

“I’m a mother who lost her child,” I shot back, the grief flaring in my chest, overriding my fear. “And I know what a grieving child looks like. Fire me if you want, but stop treating your son like a ghost.”