Single Dad Woke Up in a Mansion After Christmas — Then Realized the Girl He Rescued Was His CEO
Shadows in the Mansion
She looked around as if expecting someone to appear from the storm. Clinton helped her to her feet and asked for her address. He guided Viven through the snow toward a bus stop, but no buses were running.
Vivien’s phone was cracked and dead. Clinton made a decision to take her home himself through the blizzard. Matilda held his hand tightly while Vivien leaned on his shoulder.
Meanwhile, Helen Farah sat in her warm office watching security footage. She had been tracking Viven for weeks. Now, she watched a grainy video of Clinton pulling Viven from the car.
“Keep following them,” Helen sent a message to her contact.
“Document everything.”
Clinton, Viven, and Matilda arrived at the Constant estate nearly 2 hours later, soaked and frozen. The mansion loomed before them. Inside, the fire was still burning and the scent of cinnamon hung in the air.
The space was enormous but felt empty. Matilda looked around with wide eyes while Clinton felt his inadequacy settle over him. He suggested calling someone to stay with her, but Vivien shook her head.
“There’s no one,” she said quietly.
“I sent the staff home for the holiday.”
She moved toward the fire and then stopped abruptly, her whole body going rigid.
“The flames.”
She could not get close to them. Matilda noticed immediately.
“She’s scared of the fire,” the little girl whispered to her father.
“Her eyes look sad.”
Clinton understood then. The necklace, the scars, and the reaction were tied to 1998. Outside, Helen’s people took photos of Clinton moving inside the mansion.
Clinton tried to make Viven comfortable with soup and tea. He moved with careful efficiency, checking on Matilda and speaking in a gentle voice. Vivien found herself studying him.
He had risked himself to save her without hesitation. It was so different from the corporate world she inhabited. As she watched him, something stirred in her memory.
She had seen him before, somewhere long ago. Her mind pulled her back to 1998 when she was a child in a fire. She remembered the smoke and the flames.
A boy had appeared and grabbed her hand. He pulled her through the smoke just before the ceiling collapsed. She never learned his name, but she never forgot his face.
Looking at Clinton, she saw that boy again. If he was that boy, his father might have been a firefighter who did not make it out. Her throat tightened.
Clinton felt the weight of the class divide. He was a janitor in a mansion. He told himself he would leave as soon as the storm passed. But Matilda had fallen asleep, and they were trapped for the night.
The power went out suddenly. Viven gasped, her panic immediate and visceral. She backed away from the flickering shadows of the fire.
“It’s okay,” Clinton said.
“Just a power outage.”
Clinton grabbed a flashlight and headed toward the basement. He found the generator and managed to get it running. When he returned, Viven really looked at him.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Just part of the job,” Clinton tried to deflect.
“No,” Vivian said.
“It’s not. You didn’t have to do any of this.”
Clinton caught movement outside and saw a figure behind a hedge. He went out into the storm and caught a man near the edge of the property. The man shoved Clinton and ran, dropping a camera.
Clinton returned to the house, cold seeping into his bones.
“Who was that?” Vivien asked.
“I don’t know,” Clinton said, “but they were taking pictures.”
