An Underboss's Canary Sings

I had kept everything my daughter Rosalie left behind. Her drawings, her little dresses, the fairy tale books she'd read—I had sealed them all away in the attic.

But I couldn't let go of this design.

On countless sleepless nights, I would trace the outline of that rose on my own wrist, as if it were the only connection I had left with her. It was the only way I could endure the soul-crushing sorrow.

It was my pain, but it was also my solace.

Brady didn't understand, and he never tried to. To him, I was just sick, a problem that needed a forcible cure.

Fiona quickly took her daughter Maeve Gallagher's hand. "Brady, we should go. I don't want to cause any more trouble between you two."

"Don't mind her, Fiona," Brady said, pulling her back. "This isn't your fault. She's just being unreasonable. She needs a minute to cool off."

With that, he strode into the dining room, instructed the staff to serve dinner, and sat down to eat with Fiona and Maeve as if nothing had happened.

I was left alone on the second-floor terrace. The sound of their laughter drifted up from below, and a single, hot tear escaped, splashing onto the cold tile. In that moment, clarity struck me.

We shared a roof, but we were worlds apart, speaking languages the other could no longer comprehend.

I closed my eyes, forcing the tears back. When I opened them again, my gaze was sharp with resolve.

Eventually, Fiona left with Maeve.

Brady walked over, trying to pull me into his arms. "I was too harsh earlier. I'm sorry."

I didn't resist. I let him hold me, his body warm against mine, but the warmth never reached my heart.

My mind drifted back to the days when Rosalie was sick. Chemotherapy had stolen all her hair, and she couldn't bear to look in the mirror anymore.

I'd sketched the rose during that time. I wanted her to see something beautiful, to give her a moment of escape from the pain.

Rosalie had been overjoyed. She traced the lines on the paper, a smile gracing her face for the first time in days.

"Mamma, look. It's beautiful, just like me."

I smiled and nodded, tears already streaming down my face.

When Brady came home, he'd glanced at the sketch impatiently. "Nicely drawn. Don't let her tear it."

Then he was back on his calls, always busy, always with "family business" more urgent than his own daughter.