The Harrington estate was overwhelming: sweeping staircases, glittering chandeliers, gardens that stretched endlessly. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Dalton, warned her coolly that mistakes would not be tolerated.
But Mason ran to her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
Over the following weeks, Hannah sat cross-legged on the floor building puzzles with him. She listened without rushing him. She allowed him to cry. She sang softly at bedtime. Slowly, laughter returned to hallways that had once felt like a museum of silence.
A month later, during a high-profile charity gala meant to polish Victor’s public image, disaster threatened again. Cameras flashed as Mason descended the staircase beside his father. The applause and lights overwhelmed him. He froze, panic rising fast.
Photographers leaned forward, sensing spectacle.
Hannah did not hesitate. She hurried up the steps and knelt beside him.
“I’m here, Mason,” she whispered. “Close your eyes. Just listen to me. You’re safe.”
He clung to her, burying his face against her shoulder. His trembling eased.
Murmurs spread through the ballroom. Mrs. Dalton watched with thinly veiled disapproval.
But Victor stepped to the microphone.