Fired By The Father Of My Child

Three days later, Breanna sat on a cold wooden bench on the edge of Central Park. The autumn wind whipped through her thin sweater as she scrolled through depressing job listings on her cracked phone.

A hundred yards away stood the wrought-iron gates of Manhattan's most elite private kindergarten.

A line of black SUVs idled at the curb. Nannies in crisp uniforms and bodyguards with earpieces waited for the dismissal bell.

Breanna looked up to rub her tired eyes.

A small boy stood near the stone pillar of the gate—maybe six years old, wearing a tailored navy blazer and tiny tie. But his posture was rigid. His blue eyes were blank, staring ahead with a terrifying, defensive emptiness.

Two massive bodyguards stepped toward him.

The boy recoiled. He let out a high-pitched, guttural scream, shoving the men away with surprising violence. He clutched a piece of drawing paper against his chest.

A gust of wind ripped the paper from his hands. It tumbled through the air and landed at the toe of Breanna's worn sneaker.

She leaned down and picked it up. A chaotic, angry mess of heavy black crayon lines—pressed so hard the paper had almost torn through.

The boy, Cole, snapped his head around. His eyes locked onto Breanna.

The moment their eyes met, something inexplicable thumped in Breanna's chest.

Cole ignored the bodyguards. He marched straight across the pavement toward the bench.

The bodyguards panicked, jogging after him, but kept their hands hovering—terrified to trigger another meltdown.

Cole stopped inches from Breanna's knees. He tilted his head up. His striking blue eyes—identical to the man who had ruined her life—stared unblinking into hers.

Breanna slid off the bench and crouched down. She held out the paper with a soft smile. "Is this yours?"

Cole didn't look at the paper. He reached out his small, pale hand and wrapped his fingers tightly around Breanna's index finger.

The head bodyguard gasped, freezing. Cole despised physical touch. He hadn't let anyone hold his hand in two years.

"Young master, please step back," the bodyguard urged, stepping forward.

Cole's head whipped around. He bared his teeth and let out an aggressive, animalistic hiss. He scrambled forward and hid behind Breanna's legs.

Instinct took over. Breanna opened her arms and wrapped them around the trembling boy. She rubbed slow, rhythmic circles on his back.

Like flipping a switch. Cole's rigid muscles instantly melted.

He buried his face in the crook of Breanna's neck, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

The bodyguards stood frozen, staring at the impossible scene.

The head bodyguard exchanged a shocked glance with his partner. The boy had never—not once—responded to a stranger like this. But protocol was protocol. He stepped forward and bowed slightly, his voice tight with urgency.

"Miss, please. He needs an outlet. Perhaps you could act as his art therapist. Just get in the car with us. We will compensate you for your time."

It wasn't trust. It wasn't approval. It was desperation.

Breanna blinked. "I'm not a nanny. I just have an art degree."

Cole's grip on her sweater tightened. His blue eyes locked onto hers with an unspoken, desperate plea.

She looked down at the boy clinging to her. Her heart ached with a profound, unexplainable need to protect him.

She nodded slowly.