Chapter 4 - The Condition
"A proposition, Mr. Castalano?" I echoed, my voice trembling. My brain was spinning. Men like Vincent Castalano didn't make propositions to low-level archival assistants; they made pronouncements, and people lived or died by them.
"Your administrative record is spotless," Vincent said, walking back toward his desk and picking up a gold fountain pen. "You work longer hours than anyone in your department, your archival cataloging is precise down to the minute, and you clearly have an extraordinary tolerance for high-stress environments—given that you haven't fainted yet."
I swallowed hard, keeping my hand firmly clamped over Mia’s shoulder to stop her from trying to climb onto the leather armchair. "Thank you, sir."
"However," Vincent continued, his eyes narrowing slightly, "reliability is everything in this house. A mother who cannot secure reliable childcare is a liability. A liability I cannot afford in the middle of a major international corporate merger."
"I understand," I whispered, my voice breaking. The hope that had flared up a moment ago flickered and died. Of course he was going to fire me.
"I am not firing you, Miss Hayes," Vincent interrupted, reading the despair on my face with unnerving accuracy. "I am restructuring your employment."
I blinked. "Restructuring?"
"Effective immediately," Vincent stated, leaning forward, resting his palms flat on the mahogany surface, "your salary will be doubled. You will be moved to a private office adjacent to this suite. And you will bring your daughter to work every single day."
The room went dead silent again. Even the security guards blinked in astonishment.
"Every... every day?" I stammered, my mind struggling to process the math and the sheer absurdity of the statement. "Bring Mia here? To the estate?"
"Precisely," Vincent said, his expression impassive. "I am establishing an on-site private tutoring and daycare wing in the east wing of the estate for estate employees who require flexibility. You will be its first test case. Furthermore, you will act as my executive liaison, meaning you answer directly to me."
"Mr. Castalano, I don't know what to say," I stammered, feeling tears of pure shock prick the backs of my eyes. "Why? Why do this?"
Vincent’s gaze flickered down to Mia, who was now quietly attempting to draw a smiley face on the toe of his expensive leather shoe with a purple crayon. For a fleeting second, the cold mask slipped, revealing a strange, shadow-like amusement in his eyes.
"Because," Vincent said softly, standing up to his full height, "she is the only person in five years who didn't back down when I looked at her. And quite frankly, Elena, this estate needs someone around who isn't terrified of me."
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He looked at Renzo. "Get Miss Hayes and her daughter settled in the secondary office on the second floor. Have the kitchen send up hot chocolate and pastries. And get someone to clean the purple crayon off my left shoe."
Renzo grinned, a wide, genuine smile that transformed his rugged face. "Right away, boss. Come on, Elena. Let's get you and the little boss settled."
