The millionaire had come home early—and nearly collapsed at what he saw.
For months, Michael Reynolds had lived in a kind of helplessness he had never known before. A man who controlled one of San Diego’s largest construction empires, he had discovered that all his power, all his wealth, meant nothing when it came to healing the shattered heart of a three-year-old child.
That afternoon, something pulled him away from an important investor meeting. It wasn’t logic or schedule—it was instinct. A quiet voice urging him home. He followed it.
When he pushed open the kitchen door of his mansion, Michael froze. His hand shot out to grip the doorframe, steadying himself.
There was Ava. His silent, grief-buried daughter. Sitting on the maid’s shoulders, giggling as they washed dishes together. Not just smiling—laughing. A bright, musical laugh he had not heard since the night everything fell apart.
“Scrub right here, princess,” Paige murmured, guiding the child’s tiny hands. “You’re doing wonderfully.”
“Aunt Paige, can I make bubbles with the soap?” Ava asked. Then, noticing Michael, she tilted her head. “What’s wrong?”
Her voice—strong, clear, alive—hit him like a blow. He had believed he might never hear it again.
His legs weakened. Since his wife’s death in the car accident, Ava had not spoken a single word. Doctors had told him to be patient, that trauma could silence a child. But here she was, speaking freely… as if the last few months had been nothing more than a bad dream.
Paige turned, startled, almost dropping a plate.
“Mr. Reynolds—I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were home.”
“Daddy!” Ava squeaked, then instantly recoiled, guilt flickering across her face.
Michael backed out of the kitchen and made his way to his office, shutting the door behind him. His hands trembled as he poured a glass of whiskey, but the burn of it did nothing to calm the storm inside.
How had this young maid reached his daughter in ways he—and multiple specialists—could not? Why was Ava opening her heart to Paige but shutting him out completely?
The next morning, he left the house at his usual time. But instead of heading to his office, he circled the block and parked. He needed to know the truth.
Quiet as a shadow, he slipped through the back door, went straight to his office, and pulled out the tiny cameras he had bought on his way home the night before.
And with shaking hands, he installed them.
Whatever was happening in his house, he was finally going to see it.
Michael Reynolds had money, influence, and a calendar packed with meetings that never seemed to end, yet none of it helped him survive the quiet evenings that followed the death of his wife. For months, the sprawling house overlooking the hills outside San Diego felt less like a home and more like a museum of grief, each room carefully preserved yet painfully empty. His three year old daughter, Ava, had stopped speaking after the accident, retreating into a silence that no specialist, no toy, and no expensive therapy session had been able to break.
On a Tuesday afternoon, Michael cut short a negotiation with overseas partners without fully understanding why. A tight pressure sat in his chest, a strange instinct urging him to return home. When he pushed open the kitchen door earlier than usual, he froze, gripping the doorframe to steady himself as though the floor had shifted beneath his feet.
Perched on a sturdy wooden chair was Ava, her small hands submerged in soapy water beside a young woman Michael barely noticed during his rushed mornings. Paige Collins, the new household assistant, laughed softly as she guided Ava’s fingers over a plate.
“Slowly,” Paige said warmly. “Circles help clean better. You are doing great.”
Ava giggled, a sound Michael had not heard in months. “Look, bubbles,” she said clearly, proudly lifting her hands.
Michael’s breath caught in his throat. He stepped back without thinking, heart racing, mind scrambling to make sense of what he had just witnessed. His daughter had spoken. Not whispered. Not murmured. She had spoken with ease and joy.
“Daddy,” Ava called when she noticed him, her smile faltering as if unsure whether she was allowed to be happy.
Michael turned away abruptly and shut himself in his study, hands shaking as he poured a drink he did not even taste. Gratitude flooded him, followed immediately by jealousy and confusion. Why could his daughter speak freely with Paige when she barely looked at him.
