Chapter Three

Leomaris’s POV

I reached out my arm, my hand searching for the familiar warmth of silk and soft skin. My fingers brushed the cotton sheets, but they were cold. Empty.

For a split second, my brain forgot. I waited for her giggle, to pull the duvet over her head, or to roll into me with that sleepy sigh that used to be the only thing that could ground me.

Then, the weight of the silence hit me like a physical blow.

I opened my eyes and stared at the empty space beside me. Lotte wasn’t there. She was never going to be there again.

The grief didn’t come as a wave; it came as a violent, white hot rage. I sat up abruptly, the anger bubbling in my chest until I couldn’t contain it anymore. I swung my head back, slamming it hard against the heavy bed frame.

Thud.

The pain exploded behind my eyes, sharp and rhythmic. I did it again. And again. I wanted the physical string to drown out the hollow ache in my soul. In all our years together, I had planned for every market crash, every hostile takeover, and every corporate threat. I never planned for this. I never expected to loose her—and certainly not like this. Not a disease that stripped her away piece by piece until there was nothing left but a memory.

Before the tears could even thunk about forming, the sound of small footsteps echoed in the hallway.

The bedroom door burst open.

“Daddy! Daddy! Good morning!”

Lenon and Noa scrambled into the room, their blonde waves messy from sleep. They jumped onto the edge of the bed, their face bright with an innocent hope that made me want to recoil.

I looked at them, and for a moment, I didn’t see my daughters. I saw two miniature version of the woman I buried yesterday. I saw her jawline on Lenon. I saw her wide, curious eyes on Noa. It was too much, too suffocating.

“Get down,” I said. My voice was a frost that coated the room.

They froze. The smiles didn’t vanish, but wavered. I spoke to them the way I spoke to my directors—distant, clinical, as if I had forgotten that my own blood ran through their veins.

“Good morning, Mr. De La Fontaine,” Noa whispered, her voice small. She had learned early that when I was like this, I wasn’t “Daddy.”

Lenon, always the bolder one, climbed closer. “Daddy……where is Mommy? You said you would tell us where she went when you got home from work yesterday. But we were already sleeping.”

I stared at her. The question was a knife twisted in an open wound. How was I supposed to tell two five year olds that their mother was a pile of ash and a memory? How was I supposed to explain that she was never coming back to tuck them in?

I didn’t have the words. I didn’t have the heart.

“Your mother is gone,” I said, my voice flat and devoid of any comfort. “And she is not coming back. Now, go to your rooms. Your new nanny will be here shortly. Do not come back into this wing today.”

“But Daddy—“ Lenon started, her lips trembling.

“Out,” I snapped.

They got off the bed. They didn’t cry but were confused which seemed more louder. They left the room leaving me alone in my marriage ruin.

I checked the clock on the nightstand.

7:45am.

The girl would be at the gates in fifteen minutes. I needed to get up. I needed to put on my suit. I needed to become the man who felt nothing, because the man who felt everything was currently banging his head against a wall, wishing he was the one under the dirt.

I stood under the shower, the water as hot as I could bear it, trying to wash away any phantom sensation of Lotte’s ghost beside me. I dressed in a charcoal suit, movements robotic. I didn’t need a mirror to know I looked like a man made of stone. Tie straights. Cuffs linked. Armor on.

I hadn’t eaten, and the thought of food made my stomach churn. I just needed to get to the office. I needed the roar of the city to drown out the echoes of my daughter’s retreating footsteps.

8:00Am.

The doorbell chimed through the hollow expanse of the house. It was sharp, intrusive sound that sliced through the stillness.

“The Nanny,” I muttered, grabbing my briefcase.

I waited for the sound of footsteps in the foyer—butler, a maid, anyone. I waited for the heavy oak door to groan open and for a polite voice to greet the newcomer. Silence.

Then it clicked. A jagged memory from last night surfaced through the fog of my grief. I had dismissed them. All of them. In a fit of rage after the funeral, I couldn’t stand the sight of staff hovering, their eyes red from weeping for a woman they had no idea to mourn.

Lotte had never liked a house full pf strangers. She always said the mansion felt like a museum, not a home. She had let most of the staff go years ago, insisting on cooking herself and tucking the girls in without a shadow behind her. She wanted a life that was real.

And now, because of her wish, the house was a tomb with no one to guard the entrance but me.

The bell rang again. Persistent.

I growled, the sound vibrating in my chest. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t want to be the one to open the door and let a stranger into the space Lotte had spent years protecting.

But I couldn’t leave my daughters alone in this silence, but I couldn’t stay here for another minute.

I marched down the grand staircase, my leather shoe clicking like a countdown on the marble floor. I reached the front door and gripped the handle, my knuckles turning white.

I pulled it open, ready to bark a list of rules and demands before stepping past her to my car.

I pulled the door open, my mouth already forming the first of many cold directives. I wanted her to know her place before she even crossed the threshold.

But the air in my lungs seized.

Standing on the front step was Luka, and beside him, the woman.

When I saw her, the world cracked. Rage and shock burned through me, blurring my vision. It was like yesterday’s grave had followed me here.

I didn’t see a nanny. I didn’t see a professional. I saw an insult. A cruel, sick joke played by the universe.

“Sir,” Luka began, his voice cautious, “this is Esmé Colliete—“

I didn’t let him finish. I lunged forward, my hand reaching out to grab the lapel of Luka’s coat, hauling him toward me with a force that nearly sent the girl stumbling back. My briefcase hit the marble floor with a hollow thud.

“Are you mad?” I hissed, my voice vibrating with lethal edge. I was inches from his face, my teeth bared. “Is this some kind of sick game, Luka? What have you done?”

I turned my head slowly toward the girl. She stood frozen, her hand still gripping the handle of her bag. She looked confused, startled, and small—but I didn’t care. To me, her presence was a violation.

“Get out!” I rasped, the words coming out like broken glass.

“Mr. De La Fontaine?” She whispered her voice trembling. “I don’t understand, I—“

“I said get out!!” I roared. The sound echoed off the high ceilings of the foyer, loud enough to shake the dust from the chandelier.

I turned back to Luka, my grip tightening on his jacket until I heard the fabric groan. My heart was thundering against my ribs, each beat a painful reminder of the man I was trying to bury.

“Get off my property,” I commanded, my voice dropping to a terrifying, deathly quiet. “Get her away from this house before I lose whatever remains of my sanity. If she is still here when I count to ten, you are both finished.”