Chapter 4 - Crimson Tea Parties
Within three weeks, the quiet, terrifying monotony of the estate was completely shattered.
Willow didn't follow the rigid schedules set by the previous nannies. She didn't force Mia to practice piano for three hours or force French grammar down her throat. Instead, she brought life back into the cold stone walls.
The cream-colored walls of Mia’s room were now covered in massive, bright murals of wild blue ocean waves and silver stars, painted by both of them with poster paint that got all over their hands and clothes. The expensive, untouched toys were opened and spread across the floor.
For the first time in years, the grand mansion echoed with the sound of laughter—a sound so foreign to the guards stationed outside that they occasionally checked their earpieces, thinking it was radio interference.
Josiah watched the transformation from afar.
He watched through the security cameras in his private study. He saw Willow chasing Mia through the manicured gardens, her dark hair flying wildly in the wind, her genuine, dazzling smile illuminating the gloom of the estate. He saw Mia holding Willow’s hand while they baked messy, burnt cookies in the industrial kitchen, covered in flour from head to toe.
And every night, when he returned from the bloody, tense negotiations of his underworld empire, he found himself drawn to Mia’s wing.
One evening, Josiah stepped out of the dark hallway and stopped at the threshold of the playroom.
Willow was sitting cross-legged on a plush rug, wearing a oversized grey sweater and jeans, wearing a tiny plastic pink tiara sideways on her head. Mia was sitting opposite her, carefully pouring imaginary tea from a plastic teapot into tiny cups.
"Ah, the Boss is here," Willow said, looking up with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Care to join our high-stakes business meeting, Mr. Josiah? We're negotiating the distribution of chocolate chip cookies."
Josiah looked down at his three-piece tailored suit, then at the microscopic pink plastic chair set out for him.
"I don't drink imaginary tea," he said sternly.
"It's Earl Grey, Father," Mia said, her voice bright and clear, lacking any of the bitter rage that used to define her speech. "Willow says executives always drink Earl Grey."
Josiah felt a strange, unravelling sensation in his chest. He hadn't heard Mia call him "Father" in that bright tone since his wife died.
Slowly, awkwardly, the six-foot-three mob boss unbuttoned his jacket, lowered his massive frame to the floor, and folded his long legs to sit on the carpet opposite the two of them.
Willow handed him a tiny pink cup with exaggerated elegance. "Mind the pinky finger, sir. Protocol is everything."
Josiah took the tiny plastic cup between two massive, calloused fingers. He brought it to his lips and took a slow, deliberate sip of air.
"Needs more sugar," Josiah deadpanned.
Mia burst into a fit of giggles, hiding her face in Willow’s side. Willow laughed too, a warm, rich sound that seemed to settle deep in Josiah’s bones, stirring something dark and dormant inside him.
As Mia rambled on about a bird she had seen in the garden, Josiah’s eyes drifted to Willow. Her face was flushed, a few stray strands of hair clinging to her neck. She caught him staring, and for a fleeting second, the air between them grew thick and heavy with an unmistakable tension.
The unspoken warmth was abruptly shattered by the violent screech of Josiah’s encrypted phone.
The soft light in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by the cold, murderous glass of the syndicate leader. He pulled the phone from his pocket, checked the caller ID, and stood up in one fluid, intimidating motion.
"I have to go," Josiah said harshly.
"Father?" Mia asked, her smile fading.
May you like
"Stay in your room tonight," Josiah ordered, looking at Willow with absolute gravity. "Both of you. Double the guard at the south gate. Lock the doors."
Without another word, he swept out of the room, leaving the pink teacup sitting alone on the rug.
