But for reasons he couldn’t explain, he didn’t do it right away.
Maybe it was the note. Maybe it was the desperate faith behind it—the fact that someone had chosen him, specifically him, to protect the most fragile thing imaginable.
He lifted the basket carefully and carried it inside. The baby barely stirred.
For several long minutes, Michael stood in the foyer, staring at his phone, then at the child, then at his own reflection in the enormous mirror: a man who could close million-dollar deals without blinking, suddenly helpless in front of a sleeping infant.
The sound of keys snapped him back.
At seven—right on schedule—Emily Carter walked in. She’d been his housekeeper for two years: young, capable, quiet. Michael had always regarded her like part of the mansion itself—necessary, punctual, almost invisible.
“Good morning, Mr. Anderson,” she said—then stopped mid-step.
Her gaze locked on the basket in the living room. On the baby. On Michael’s unsettled face.
Color drained from Emily so quickly Michael thought she might faint. Her eyes widened, not just with shock, but with something deeper—like a crack had opened in her world.