Chapter 2 - SIX INNOCENT WORDS
Priya had seen Nathan Cole angry. She had once watched him stand in the library with a phone against his ear while a contractor explained that a structural error would delay a luxury development by four months. Nathan had never raised his voice. He had simply asked three calm questions, ended the call, and replaced the entire leadership team by morning. She had seen him tired, impatient, and coldly disappointed. She had never seen him cry.
The tear moved slowly down his cheek as though even grief had forgotten how to travel across his face. Maya noticed it instantly. Her eyebrows pulled together. “You’re still sad.” Nathan closed his eyes. Those six words—Mommy says kisses fix sad—were no longer words in a penthouse. They had become an echo from a different room, a different morning, a different little girl. For half a second, he was no longer thirty-nine. He was twenty-nine, standing near a breakfast table while his daughter swung her legs beneath a chair and asked him not to leave.
Nathan opened his eyes again. Maya was still in front of him, waiting for an answer. “Maybe,” he said, voice barely steady, “I’ve been sad for a long time.” Maya seemed to consider this as a practical problem. Then, before Priya could stop her, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. She wrapped her arms around his neck with complete trust.
Nathan’s body locked. For years he had avoided touch that was not formal or expected. Handshakes were easy because they ended quickly. Casual hugs at charity events made him uncomfortable. Intimacy belonged to a former life. Yet Maya held him as though he were not a billionaire, not a stranger, not a man with invisible walls around every room of his heart. He was simply someone who looked sad and therefore needed to be held.
Priya moved forward. “Maya, that’s enough.” Nathan raised one hand again. “Please.” The word was quiet, almost embarrassed. Priya stopped. Slowly, Nathan placed one arm around Maya. Then the other. His eyes closed. For a moment his face disappeared against her curls, and the world outside the windows continued without him—traffic sliding between buildings, office lights burning, planes crossing the deep blue sky. In the penthouse, time seemed suspended.
When Nathan finally released Maya, he stood too quickly and turned toward the windows. His shoulders rose with a deep breath. Priya could see that he was fighting for control, and instinct told her not to force him to explain. She took Maya gently by the hand.
“We’ll go,” she said. “I’m sorry.” Nathan did not turn around. “How old is she?” Priya paused. “Three.” “Exactly three?” “She turned three in May.” Nathan’s right hand tightened around the back of a chair. “May what?” “The twelfth.” He went still. Priya noticed. “Mr. Cole?”
“Nothing.” It was clearly not nothing. Maya had already wandered back toward the chandelier, fascinated again by the moving shards of light. Nathan watched her reflection in the window instead of looking directly at her. “You’re not fired,” he said. Priya blinked. “I wasn’t—” “You thought you were.”
She could not deny it. Nathan turned. His expression had returned to something close to normal, though his eyes were red. “If childcare falls through again, she can come with you.” Priya stared. “Are you sure?” “Yes.” He walked toward the hallway leading to his study.
“Mr. Nathan?” Maya called. He stopped. Nathan had never invited an employee’s child to use his first name, but something softened in his face. “You can call me Nathan.” Maya smiled. “Are you fixed now?” A faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Not quite.”
She nodded, accepting the diagnosis. “Maybe tomorrow.” The smile vanished. Priya noticed, but she did not understand. Nathan did. Ten years earlier, on the last morning he had seen his four-year-old daughter alive, Amelia had stood in the foyer of their old house wearing red pajamas patterned with tiny moons. Nathan had been late for a meeting. Amelia had wanted pancakes. He had kissed the top of her head, promised breakfast together the next day, and reached for his coat. She had looked up at him with exactly the same stubborn seriousness Maya had shown under the chandelier.
“You look sad, Daddy.” “I’m fine, sweetheart.” Amelia had frowned. “Kisses fix sad.” She had kissed his cheek. Then, when he still looked distracted, she had added, “Maybe tomorrow.” There was no tomorrow. That evening, a truck ran a red light on Lakeshore Drive. Nathan’s wife, Claire, survived the collision. Amelia did not.
Nathan had never told anyone about the final conversation. Not his lawyers. Not his therapist during the three sessions he attended before quitting. Not his parents. Not even Claire during the brutal months after the funeral when they lived in the same house like two people trapped on opposite sides of a fire. The words belonged to him and Amelia. He had guarded them more fiercely than any business secret.
Now a child who had never known Amelia had repeated them in his living room. Nathan locked himself inside the study. For ten minutes, he stood with both palms flat against his desk, breathing as though he had run up a staircase. Then he crossed to a cabinet behind the bookshelf and entered a six-digit code. Inside were documents, old letters, a child’s silver bracelet, and a small framed photograph.
Amelia stood in the photograph wearing a white summer dress and holding a yellow balloon. Her curls were darker than Maya’s, her eyes lighter, but the energy was similar—the careless confidence of a child who expected love to be permanent. Nathan sat in the leather chair with the photograph in his hand.
He had spent years telling himself he remembered Amelia by suffering. If he allowed himself to be happy, perhaps it meant he had moved on. If he moved on, perhaps he was leaving her behind. The logic was irrational, but grief had never cared about logic. Grief built its own architecture inside him, room by room, until Nathan mistook the prison for a monument.
Outside the study, he heard Maya giggle again. Nathan looked toward the door. The sound hurt. But beneath the pain was something else. Warmth. That frightened him more than grief ever had. Later, Priya prepared to leave. Maya wore her coat and carried a folded drawing. When they reached the service elevator, Nathan appeared at the end of the hall.
May you like
Maya waved. “Good night, Nathan.” He hesitated. “Good night, Maya.” She held out the drawing. “For you.” Nathan took it. It was an uneven picture of the chandelier, the crystals represented by large yellow stars. Beneath them stood three figures. One was small and wore a yellow dress. One had long black hair. The third figure had enormous legs and no smile.
Nathan looked at Maya. “Why don’t I have a mouth?” “You don’t smile.” Priya’s face flushed. “Maya.” Nathan surprised her by saying, “She’s observant.” Maya stepped into the elevator. The doors started to close. Then Nathan heard her voice through the narrowing gap. “Maybe tomorrow.” The doors shut. Nathan remained in the empty hallway with the drawing in his hand. For the first time in ten years, he wanted tomorrow to come.
