Chapter 3

*Margaret's POV*

I spent the entire night scrubbing the cherry stain out of my shirt, but the faint red mark stayed behind. A constant reminder of the little storm waiting for me at the Vance estate.

By 7:30 AM, I was standing outside the massive iron gates again. My stomach was tied in knots, but I refused to turn back. I needed this job.

The butler let me in and showed me upstairs to the second floor, stopping right in front of a pair of large white doors painted with faint pink butterflies.

"Mr. Vance is currently in a board meeting downstairs," the butler said softly, keeping his voice low. "Miss Jasmine has been up since six.

Good luck, Margaret."

He gave me a look that felt more like a prayer than a goodbye, turned on his heel, and practically jogged down the hallway.

I took a deep breath, smoothed down my jeans, and opened the door.

The room was huge, bigger than my entire apartment.. filled with expensive toys, custom bookshelves, and a dollhouse that looked like a real mansion. Sitting on the pink rug in the middle of the room was Jasmine. She was wearing a blue denim overalls outfit, her brown hair bouncing as she violently ripped the hair off an expensive looking Barbie doll.

The moment the door clicked shut, her head snapped up.

"You're still here?" she asked, her big doe eyes widening in pure disbelief. "I threw juice at you! You're supposed to quit!"

"Good morning to you too, Jasmine," I said calmly, walking inside and shutting the door behind me. "And no, I don't quit that easily."

"I hate you!" she yelled, jumping up from the carpet and kicking a plastic toy block straight at my shoes. "I hate all of you! Get out of my room!"

I didn't yell. I didn't get angry. I just walked over to the small white table, picked up the stray blocks scattered across the floor, and sat down on one of the tiny wooden chairs.

"You can hate me all you want," I said, looking at her with a gentle expression. "But I'm staying. So we can either spend the next eight hours yelling, or we can find something better to do."

For the next three hours, Jasmine tried every trick to break me.

She purposefully knocked over a box of crayons. I picked them up without a word.

She turned the TV volume up to the highest level. I walked over and quietly turned it off.

She sat in the corner with her arms crossed, glaring at me like she wanted to set me on fire with her eyes. I just pulled out a notebook and started sketching, completely unbothered by her silent rage.

By noon, her stomach let out a loud, embarrassing rumble.

Jasmine froze, her cheeks turning bright red as she buried her face in her knees.

"I can ask the chef to make us some lunch," I offered softly, setting my sketchbook down. "What's your favorite?"

"I don't want your stupid food," she muttered into her knees, though another loud growl completely betrayed her.

"Too bad, because I'm starving," I said, standing up. "I'll be right back."

I went down to the kitchen, grabbed two plates of fresh strawberry pancakes which the cook told me was the only thing Jasmine occasionally ate without throwing a fuss and carried them back upstairs.

When I stepped into the room, Jasmine was sitting near the large window, clutching a small, framed photo to her chest. Her tiny shoulders were shaking slightly.

My heart softened instantly. Beneath all that stubborn, sharp armor, she was just a lonely, grieving six year old girl who lost her mother and felt abandoned by the world. I knew that exact type of pain—the kind that makes you want to push everyone away before they can hurt you first.

"Hey," I said gently, setting the plate down on the low table near the window. "I brought pancakes."

Jasmine quickly wiped her face with her sleeve, turning her head away so I wouldn't see her tears. "I didn't ask for them."

"I know. But you need to eat." I sat down on the floor a few feet away from her, giving her space.

She sniffed, looking at the plate, then looked at me. Slowly, painfully slow, she dragged herself over to the table and picked up a fork. She took a small bite, chewing silently while staring at her shoes.

"Your dad said you like drawing," I said, trying to fill the quiet air. "I used to draw a lot when I was your age."

"My mom used to draw with me," Jasmine whispered, her voice so small and vulnerable it almost broke my heart. "Before she went to the sky."

The room grew heavy. I looked at the tiny girl, feeling an overwhelming wave of warmth and sadness rush through me.

"I lost someone important to me too," I admitted softly, looking down at my hands. "It hurts a lot. But talking about them sometimes helps."

Jasmine stopped chewing. She looked up at me, her eyes searching my face as if trying to figure out if I was lying. For the first time all day, the cold, defensive wall around her cracked.

Suddenly, while reaching for her juice glass on the table, she lost her balance.

"Woah, careful!" I gasped, reflexively reaching forward to catch her before she hit the sharp wooden edge of the table.

I grabbed her under her arms, pulling her small body securely against my chest. In the sudden scramble, her left denim pant leg raised up past her leg, exposing her lower leg and ankle.

My eyes casually dropped down to make sure she wasn't scraped and everything inside me completely stopped.

The blood in my veins turned to ice. The room started spinning so fast I couldn't breathe.

Right above her inner left ankle was a dark, distinct mark shaped like a perfect crescent moon.

It wasn't a smudge of dirt. It wasn't a bruise.

It was the exact same, rare crescent shaped birthmark that the nurse had shown me six years ago on my newborn baby's leg.. The baby Dr. Harrison claimed was dead before he rushed her out of the room.

My hands began to shake violently against Jasmine's shoulders. Tears instantly blurred my vision, flowing hot down my cheeks.

"Where..." My voice cracked, barely a whisper. "Where did you get this mark?"

Jasmine pulled her leg back, flinching at how hard I was staring at her ankle. "It's just my birthmark! Let go of me!"

Before I could say another word, the bedroom door swung wide open.

Alexander stood in the doorway, taking in the sight of his daughter crying and me gripping her leg with tears streaming down my face.

His eyes hardened into pure steel as he stepped into the room. "Margaret. What on earth are you doing to my daughter?"