Sebastian stood by the door, tie crooked, heart heavy with self-loathing. He had meetings, power, an empire to protect—and yet he couldn’t calm his own child.
The doorbell rang at exactly three.
A young woman stood outside, dark hair pulled back, simple clothes, steady brown eyes.
“Mr. Reed,” she said calmly. “I’m Camille Vasquez. I’m here about the job.”
“Do you have experience with special-needs children?” he asked, not inviting her in.
“I’m a certified occupational therapist,” she replied. “I’ve worked with autistic children. And”—she glanced toward the crying—“I think he’s trying to tell us something.”
That unsettled him. No one ever spoke of Matthew that way.
Camille walked inside without hesitation, following the sound. Matthew lay on the floor, sobbing, toys everywhere.
She didn’t rush him. She sat nearby and began tidying—slowly, quietly. She grouped blocks by color, lined up cars, arranged stuffed animals. Matthew paused. Watched.
She hummed a soft lullaby. The crying faded into shaky breaths.
“Hi, Matthew,” she whispered. “I’m Camille. You can call me Cami.”
The boy crawled closer, testing the space between them.
Something loosened inside Sebastian. A dangerous hope.