His Fiancée Burned the Maid’s Toddler’s Birthday Gifts, and the Billionaire Made the Whole Ballroom Watch Her Lose Everything

The morning after the fire, the Callaway estate was quiet, but it was the quiet after a restructuring, not a funeral.

Nathaniel didn't go into the office. He sat at the long mahogany table in his library, surrounded by four of the top toy restoration experts in New England, whom his assistant had flown in on a private jet at three in the morning.

On the table lay the charred remains of the stuffed rabbit.

"Can it be saved?" Nathaniel asked. He didn't look up from his laptop, where he was currently signing the foreclosure papers for the Marsh Media headquarters in downtown Boston.

The oldest expert, a woman with silver hair and thick glasses, used a pair of tweezers to lift the singed fabric. "The original material is synthetic, Mr. Callaway. The heat melted the fibers on the right side completely. The stuffing is ruined. However..." She looked up at him over her lenses. "The left ear and the small silver button eye are intact. If we can find the exact dye match for the yarn and re-weave the body around the original eye, it will structurally be the same toy. But it will take time. Three weeks, minimum."

"You have two," Nathaniel said. "Name your price."

"We don't need a price, sir. We just need the original pattern if possible."

"The widow made it from memory," Nathaniel said. "I’ll get you whatever details she remembers."

Later that afternoon, Nathaniel walked down the gravel path toward the staff cottage. It was a small stone building hidden behind the high boxwood hedges of the formal garden. He had owned this property for twelve years, but he had never once walked down this specific path.

He knocked on the door.

Grace opened it after a moment. She was wearing an old flannel shirt that must have belonged to her late husband; the sleeves were rolled up clumsily to accommodate her bandaged hands.

"Mr. Callaway," she said, looking startled. "Please, come in. I’m sorry, the place is small."

It was small, but it was spotless. The air smelled of cinnamon and old books. In the corner, Lily was sleeping on a small daybed, the purple-maned lion drawing taped carefully to the wall above her head.

"How are your hands?" Nathaniel asked, stepping into the tiny living room. He felt enormous in the space, his broad shoulders nearly reaching the low wooden beams of the ceiling.

"They don't hurt as long as I don't try to lift anything," Grace said. She offered him the single armchair, but he shook his head, preferring to stand near the small kitchen counter. "Dr. Evans gave me some salve. He said the skin will heal without scars. Thank you for calling him."

"It was the least I could do," Nathaniel said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a notepad. "The restorers need to know about the rabbit. The yarn type. The color name if you remember it from your sister's letters."

Grace stared at him. "You're... you're trying to fix it?"

"I don't like broken things in my house," he said, using his corporate voice to cover the sudden awkwardness he felt. "Especially things that were broken intentionally."

Grace walked over to the counter, her movements slow. She looked down at her white bandages. "It was just a cheap thing, Mr. Callaway. You didn't have to ruin your engagement for us. The news this morning... they're saying you destroyed the Marsh family overnight. People are saying you're ruthless."

"I am ruthless," Nathaniel said flatly. "But Vivien didn't understand the difference between being ruthless in business and being cruel to a child. One is strategy. The other is rot."

He stepped closer to her. The cinnamon scent of the room was warm, filling his lungs. "Why did you come to Boston, Grace? Really."

Grace hesitated. She looked at the sleeping form of her daughter. "After Aaron died, his partners tried to blame the accident on him so the insurance company wouldn't pay the settlement. I spent every dollar I had on a lawyer to clear his name. We won the case, but by the end of it, the lawyer's fees took everything. I had sixty dollars left and a cousin who told me there were cleaning jobs at the Callaway estate. I didn't want charity. I wanted a place where the walls were thick enough that nobody could hear me worry."

Nathaniel’s chest tightened. He knew about lawyers who chewed up widows. He knew about corporations that buried their mistakes under red tape. He had built his own company to be so large that nobody could ever do that to him again.

"The walls here are thick," Nathaniel said softly. "But you don't have to worry behind them anymore."

He reached out, his hand stopping just short of touching her wrapped fingers. "Starting Monday, you're no longer on the housekeeping staff."

Grace’s heart dropped. "Mr. Callaway, please—"

"You have an associate's degree in business administration from Ohio State, don't you?" he interrupted, his eyes pulling her gaze upward. "I read your original application file this morning. My logistics office in North Boston needs a compliance manager. The hours are regular, it comes with a full salary, benefits, and a housing allowance. You can keep the cottage until you find something you like."

Grace couldn't breathe. "I... I haven't worked in an office in four years."

"Then you'll learn again," Nathaniel said. He turned toward the door, his long coat swinging around his boots. "The salary starts Monday. And Grace?"