An hour later, Matthew played beside her, letting her name colors.
“You’re hired,” Sebastian said softly.
“I didn’t come to save you,” Camille replied. “I came to help you understand your son. And maybe yourself.”
The weeks that followed brought quiet change. Camille built routines, used gentle music, simple games, celebrated small victories.
“Today he looked for you,” she told Sebastian once. “That matters.”
Eventually, Sebastian joined them. One afternoon, Matthew picked a flower and babbled something close to “flower.” Camille clapped like he’d won a prize. Sebastian smiled—really smiled.
One evening, Camille danced playfully in the kitchen, and Matthew laughed, a sound Sebastian hadn’t heard in two years. Camille noticed him watching.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t be,” he said. “I like seeing you like this.”
Before the moment could settle, the front door opened.
Heels on marble. Expensive perfume.
“Sebastian, darling.”
Isabella Cordell, his cousin, entered as if she owned the place—elegant, blonde, green-eyed, sharp.
“And who is she?” Isabella asked, smiling coolly.
“Camille Vasquez. Matthew’s caregiver.”
“How… convenient,” Isabella murmured.