Chapter 4 - Unspoken Scars
By the end of Willow’s first week at the estate, the silence in the house had begun to shift.
It wasn't a sudden miracle. Mia still had moments of volatility—she threw a bowl of cereal against the wall on Tuesday because the milk was too cold, and she tore up a drawing on Thursday when she couldn't get the colors right. But under Willow’s patient guidance, the meltdowns didn't turn into nuclear explosions.
Willow didn't bribe her, and she didn't punish her. She simply stayed present through the storm, giving Mia a safe space to feel angry without fear of abandonment.
On Friday afternoon, Willow was sitting in the estate’s glass sunroom, watching Mia paint on a large canvas.
The sun shone through the windows, illuminating the flecks of gold in Willow’s brown hair. She wore a soft beige sweater and jeans—a stark contrast to the sterile, dark suits worn by everyone else in the compound.
Footsteps echoed on the marble.
Josiah walked into the room. He had removed his jacket, wearing only a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong, corded muscles and the faint edge of a dark tattoo winding up his wrist.
Mia looked up from her painting, instantly freezing. The easy laughter she had shared with Willow moments ago vanished, replaced by her usual cautious, rigid posture.
Josiah noticed the shift. He stopped ten feet away, keeping his distance.
“How is she doing?” Josiah asked Willow, his tone businesslike, though his eyes lingered on Willow’s face longer than necessary.
“She’s doing wonderful,” Willow smiled, gesturing to the canvas. “Look at what she painted.”
Josiah stepped closer, looking at the messy splatters of bright yellow, blue, and red paint. “It’s... very bright.”
Mia looked down at her small hands, her voice barely audible. “It’s the park. The one near the old house. Before...” She stopped, swallowing hard.
The atmosphere in the room plummeted into an icy chill.
Josiah’s face hardened instantly. “Mia. We don't talk about the old house.”
Mia flinched as if she had been struck. She dropped her paintbrush, pulled her arms against her chest, and ran out of the sunroom without a word.
Willow stood up immediately, her eyes flashing with rare anger. “Was that really necessary?”
Josiah turned his cold gaze onto her. “You don't know what you’re talking about, Willow. Do not cross the line. You are paid to care for my daughter, not to judge my parenting.”
“I am not judging you, Josiah,” Willow said, stepping toward him, fearless despite his intimidating presence. “I am watching a father suffocate his daughter’s grief because he can’t handle his own.”
Josiah grabbed her wrist. His grip was firm, hot, and electric, though he took care not to hurt her. His dark eyes burned down into hers, filled with a dangerous, swirling tempest.
“You know nothing about my grief,” he whispered dangerously, his voice vibrating with suppressed fury. “Her mother was killed in front of her in that old house. Two years ago. An ambush meant for me. I watched my wife bleed out on the living room floor while Mia hid under the sofa.”
Willow’s breath hitched. The anger in her chest dissolved, replaced by a profound, ache of sympathy.
“Josiah...” she breathed, reaching out with her free hand, her fingers lightly brushing against his forearm.
Josiah froze at her touch. The lightning anger in his eyes gave way to something raw, exhausted, and desperately human. He had spent two years wearing armor, keeping the world at bay, ensuring no enemy could ever use his heart against him again.
Yet here was this woman—a waitress who carried her own secret scars—touching him without fear, looking into his soul without flinching.
“She thinks you blame her,” Willow whispered softly. “And she thinks you hate her because she looks like her mother.”
Josiah let out a harsh, ragged breath. He released her wrist, stepping back, his hand raking through his dark hair. “I would die for her. Every breath I take, every war I fight in this city, is to keep her safe.”
“Then tell her,” Willow pleaded gently. “Safety isn't just iron gates and armed guards, Josiah. Safety is knowing your father loves you even when you are broken.”
Before Josiah could answer, the security intercom on the wall beeped loudly, breaking the intimacy of the moment.
Marcus’s urgent voice came through the speaker. “Boss. We have a problem at the front gate. It’s the Moretti syndicate. They’re demanding a sit-down. And they brought twenty armed men.”
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Josiah’s soft, vulnerable expression instantly vanished, replaced by the terrifying, lethal mask of the city’s undisputed king.
He looked at Willow, his voice dropping into an absolute command. “Take Mia to the panic room in the basement. Now.”
