Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I stared at the ceiling of my own bedroom, as I was hyper-aware of the woman sleeping mere inches away from me. 

Winter had finally drifted off about an hour ago, her breathing evening out, after being exhausted from the day's work. Meanwhile I was still not asleep, my eyes were wide open and my heart was racing, as I relived the entire events that transpired today.

I'd punched a man in public.Not just that , I had also gone ahead and kidnapped his ex-wife. Brought her home to my children. And now she was in my bed, wearing my shirt, and I was trying very hard not to think about how right it felt to have her there.

What the hell was I doing?

Six months ago, I'd been living in New York, running the American division of Hale Enterprises with ruthless efficiency. My life had been ordered, controlled, predictable, filled with schedules. 

The twins had their elite private school where they were taught by the best teachers money could buy, I had my penthouse apartment, and we had a team of qualified nannies who rotated through on a schedule more precise than a Swiss watch.

Then Mom had called, her voice weak and trembling, telling me she was in the hospital with chest pains, that kept her from breathing well. That the doctors were concerned about her health and had diagnosed her with a heart sickness, and she was running out of time. That she needed to see me and her grandsons one more time before—

I'd dropped everything. Chartered my private jet within the hour, bundled two confused and sleepy four-year-olds onto the plane, and flown across the country in a panic. 

We'd arrived three days before I was supposed to officially return to take over as CEO of the entire Hale empire, my carefully planned transition thrown into chaos by maternal emergency.

Except there had been no emergency.

I'd burst into her hospital room to find Margaret Hale sitting up in bed, perfectly healthy, eating grapes and reading the financial section of the newspaper, insulting companies CEO, and mocking them for buying the bad stocks cause they lt themselves be swayed by sex from their mistresses. She'd taken one look at my panicked face and smiled with the satisfaction of a chess master delivering checkmate.

"Darling," she'd said calmly, "we need to talk about your life choices."

That conversation had ended with me, two bewildered children, and exactly three suitcases standing in front of this run-down apartment building. Mom had confiscated everything else—my credit cards, my access to the family accounts, even my damn car keys.

"You have one month," she'd declared, her voice brooking no argument despite the fact that I was a grown man who ran a multi-billion dollar company, and was well within my right to live how I wanted to live. 

"Find a suitable wife, prove you can provide a stable home for those boys, or you can forget about taking over as CEO. I'll name your cousin Patricia as my successor instead."

Patricia. Who couldn't run a lemonade stand without setting something on fire. The threat was both absurd and deadly serious.

"Mom, you can't be serious—"

"One month, Derek. The boys need a mother. You need a partner. And I'm tired of watching you bury yourself in work while those children raise themselves with whatever nanny happens to be on duty that week."

She hadn't been wrong, which was the most infuriating part of the entire thing. She had brought nothing but facts, I knew nothing about the twins, their likes and dislikes, hell I couldn't even differentiate between them,just shouted a name and hoped the right one was coming to me half the time.

 Since Elena died giving birth to the twins, I'd thrown myself into work with single-minded intensity. It was easier than dealing with the grief, the guilt, the overwhelming responsibility of raising two boys alone when I had no idea what I was doing.

The nannies had been good—professional, qualified, expensive. But they weren't family. They didn't love my sons the way they deserved to be loved. And the twins, brilliant and perceptive as they were, knew it, and they had acted out, all the times, giving me gray hairs.

Hence the chaos that they brought. The questions. The "behavioral issues" their teachers constantly complained about. They were testing boundaries, seeking attention from whoever would give it to them, trying to figure out where they fit in a world that had taken their mother before they ever got to know her.

I'd failed them. I'd been so focused on building the empire that would be their inheritance, I'd forgotten they needed a father more than they needed a fortune.

So when Mom had delivered her ultimatum, when she'd stripped away all my safety nets and resources, forcing me to actually face my life instead of managing it from behind a desk—I'd been angry. Furious, even.

But I hadn't argued with her.

Because deep down, I'd known she was right.

The apartment Mom had "graciously" provided was a far cry from our New York penthouse. No doorman, no private elevator, no floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Just two bedrooms, a kitchen barely big enough for one person, and neighbors whose idea of a good time involved playing heavy metal at two in the morning.

The first week had been a disaster. I'd burned everything I attempted to cook. YouTube cooking lessons was a scam, I followed all the instructions but got nothing like the desired results. The boys had refused to sleep in their new room, claiming it was haunted. And I'd realized with dawning horror that I had no idea how to actually parent without a staff to handle the difficult parts.

Pizza had become our solution to everything. Late for school? Pizza for breakfast. Long day at the office? Pizza for dinner. Boys refusing to do homework? Bribe them with pizza.

It wasn't healthy. It wasn't sustainable. But it was all I could manage while trying to prepare for my new role as CEO, navigate the complex politics of the board of directors who weren't thrilled about my impending appointment, and keep two energetic four -year-olds from burning down the apartment building.

And then this morning had happened.

We'd been late to the park—of course we'd been late, we were always late—and I'd sent the boys to play while I took a call from Peter, my second-in-command, who was handling the day-to-day operations until I officially took over.

That's when I'd seen her. Winter. Covered in mud, surrounded by a hostile crowd, looking like she'd lost everything and was trying to figure out how to survive the fall.

I'd seen that look before. In my own mirror, three days after Mom's ultimatum, when I'd realized I was completely out of my depth.

And then the twins—my brilliant, insane, wonderful sons—had done something I never could have planned. They'd claimed her. Just walked up to a complete stranger and decided she was ours now, thank you very much, we'll be keeping her.

I should have stopped them. Should have apologized to Winter, helped her up, maybe offered to pay for her dry cleaning, and then gone back to my own disaster of a life.

Instead, I'd punched her ex-husband in the face and brought her home.

Best decision I'd made in six months.

Or possibly the worst. It was too early to tell.

Winter shifted beside me, rolling over so she was facing my direction, though her eyes remained closed. In the dim light from the street lamp outside, I could see the fading bruises on her wrists, the exhaustion etched into her face even in sleep.

Someone had hurt her. Badly. And the protective instinct that roared to life in my chest was completely inappropriate for someone I'd known for less than twelve hours. Why would I go to the extent for someone I have literally never met before?

She mumbled something in her sleep—it sounded like "Thomas"—and her expression crumpled with pain before smoothing out again.