Noa didn’t sit immediately. She looked at the chair, then back at Gideon, her hands resting calmly in her coat pockets.

“I prefer to stand,” she said evenly. “It keeps things professional.”

Gideon’s eyes narrowed slightly, an assessment flashing behind the dark irises—the look of a man accustomed to people falling over themselves to obey his slightest whim, suddenly encountering someone who wouldn't flinch. He didn't press the matter. He leaned back against the edge of a mahogany side table, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Fourteen nannies,” Gideon began, his voice dropping into a conversational tone that felt more threatening than a shout. “Three developmental specialists, a child psychologist from Johns Hopkins, and a private tutor with a master’s degree in behavioral pedagogy. Do you know what they all have in common, Miss Bennett?”

“They quit,” Noa said.

“They ran,” Gideon corrected softly. “Some left notes. Some packed their bags in the middle of the night while my back was turned. My daughter, Lucia, is eight years old, she has buried her mother, she refuses to speak to anyone outside of a very narrow circle of basic necessities, and yesterday, she held a shattered porcelain shard to the throat of a senior partner from a rival shipping syndicate because he looked at her too loudly.”

Noa remembered the fierce, trembling defiance in the little girl's eyes. “She was terrified. And no one was listening to her.”

“They tried to manage her,” Gideon said sharply, a rare crack of raw frustration breaking through his stoic armor. “They medicated her, they psychoanalyzed her, they tried to bribe her with toys, and they locked her in structured environments. None of it worked. But last night, you walked across a room full of broken glass, handed her a peppermint, and walked away without demanding an explanation or a performance.”

“I didn't treat her like a bomb waiting to go off,” Noa said quietly. “Children aren't stupid, Mr. Cole. They know when you're terrified of them. And when adults are terrified, kids have to be twice as loud to feel safe.”

Gideon stared at her for a long, heavy beat. The silence in the conservatory stretched until the sound of the rain tapping against the glass dome felt deafening.

“My daughter needs stability,” Gideon said, pushing off the table and taking a step closer. “And I need someone who isn't intimidated by my name or my world. I am offering you a position as Lucia’s primary guardian and private companion. Live-in quarters here, complete medical coverage for your mother—including any private specialists required—and a base salary that will make your current debts look like pocket change.”

Noa felt the breath leave her lungs. It was an offer designed to solve every single crisis she was drowning in.

“And what’s the catch?” she asked, her eyes locked on his. “Because men like you don't hand out fairy-tale rescue packages for free.”

“The catch,” Gideon said, his voice hardening into unyielding steel, “is that once you step into this house, you don't step out until I say so. You protect her. You manage her world. And if anyone—rivals, enemies, or opportunistic relatives—tries to get to me through my daughter, you stand between them and her. Permanently.”