Save A Son, Win A Billionaire Husband

5

Faith

The sleek black car drove through two massive iron gates and onto a private winding road. I leaned my head against the cool glass window, staring in awe. Sutton Manor didn't look like a home; it looked like a grand European castle sitting on hundreds of acres of manicured green lawns and thick forests.

There were security guards stationed at every turn, wearing crisp suits and hidden earpieces. It felt like entering a high-security military base rather than a family estate.

When the car pulled up to the main entrance, a driver opened my door. I stepped out onto the gravel driveway, my single, beat-up canvas suitcase hanging from his hand. With my right arm bound tightly in a bulky white cast and sling, and three cracked ribs aching with every step, I felt completely out of place.

A warm, gentle-looking woman in a neat dark dress stood at the top of the grand marble stairs.

"Welcome to Sutton Manor, Miss Porter," she said, giving me a kind, welcoming smile. "I am Clara Hayes, the head housekeeper. Please, come inside."

I followed her into a grand foyer with towering ceilings, a massive crystal chandelier, and twin curved staircases. Household staff in matching uniforms moved quietly through the halls like silent shadows.

"The Sutton family values their privacy above all else," Mrs. Hayes explained gently as she led me down a wide hallway lined with gold-framed paintings. "So we ask that you keep household matters strictly within these walls. The previous nanny was dismissed immediately after the accident for failing to maintain proper security."

"Dismissed?" I repeated softly.

"Mr. Sutton has zero tolerance for mistakes where Noah is concerned," she replied simply.

Before I could process that, Mrs. Hayes opened a set of double tall doors and ushered me into a sunlit library.

Nicholas Sutton was standing by a massive oak desk, holding a cup of black coffee. He looked immaculate, dressed in a sharp gray suit without a single wrinkle. His dark eyes locked onto mine the moment I walked in, assessing me with the sharp precision of a businessman evaluating a contract.

"Miss Porter," he said, setting his coffee cup down. "I hope your journey was comfortable."

"It was fine, thank you," I said, holding my sling close to my body.

"Good. Before you see Noah, we need to establish the ground rules of your stay," Nicholas said, his voice cold, steady, and commanding. He didn't offer me a seat. He simply laid out his expectations like a list of military commands.

"Rule number one: You are never to speak to the press or media. Anything you see or hear in this house remains private."

I nodded. "Understood."

"Rule two: You are here as Noah's companion. You will not interfere in my business, my schedule, or my personal life."

"Rule three: Noah does not leave the grounds of this estate without full security detail. Ever."

He stepped closer, staring down at me with an unreadable expression. "And rule four: You must remember that this position is strictly temporary. Six months. Do not mistake my son's attachment to you for anything more than what it is. You are an employee."

I bit my tongue to stop myself from snapping back. He was so incredibly arrogant, distant, and controlling. He spoke to me like I was an unpredictable variable he was forced to manage rather than a person who had almost died for his son.

He thinks I'm just an uneducated girl who gets too emotional, I thought, lifting my chin. Well, he's wrong.

"Is that all, Mr. Sutton?" I asked, keeping my voice flat and professional.

"For now," he replied coldly. "Mrs. Hayes will show you to your room. Dinner is served at seven in the formal dining room."

At seven o'clock, I walked down to the formal dining room.

The space was suffocatingly grand. A massive polished mahogany table stretched across the center of the room, lit by glowing chandeliers. Nicholas sat at the head of the long table, reading through a stack of legal documents. Noah sat to his right, looking tiny and lost in a high-backed wooden chair.

The silence in the room was so heavy you could hear a pin drop. It felt more like a courtroom than a place where a father and son ate dinner.

"Excuse me," I said, stopping near the entrance.

Nicholas looked up from his papers. "Yes, Miss Porter?"

"It's a beautiful summer evening outside," I suggested, gesturing toward the open glass doors that led out to a sunny, flower-filled patio terrace. "Why don't we eat dinner outside? The fresh air would be really good for Noah."

Nicholas frowned slightly, his dark eyebrows drawing together. "We eat dinner in the dining room, Miss Porter. That is the routine."

"Routines can be changed," I replied smoothly, ignoring his sharp tone. "Sitting in this huge, quiet room feels cold. Eating outside on the terrace would be much more relaxing for him."

"I said no," Nicholas said firmly, his tone making it clear the discussion was over. "It is unpractical and—"

"Daddy... please?"

A tiny, raspy voice cut through the air.

Nicholas froze mid-sentence. His eyes snapped down to his six-year-old son.

Noah was looking up at his father with big, pleading brown eyes, his small fingers resting on the edge of the mahogany table. He had spoken. He had asked for something directly.

Nicholas stared at his son in utter shock. The cold, impenetrable armor of the billionaire CEO melted away for a brief second, replaced by sheer disbelief. He swallowed hard, his throat moving as he processed the sound of Noah's voice.

Clear, quiet silence hung in the room for three long seconds.

Nicholas cleared his throat, adjusting his silk tie. "Very well," he said, his voice surprisingly thick with restrained emotion. "We will eat on the terrace."

Ten minutes later, the house staff had set up a small table on the sunny outdoor patio.

The mood was completely different. The warm evening breeze blew softly around us, and Noah seemed far more relaxed. A waiter brought out plates of homemade pasta with rich red tomato sauce.

Because my right arm was locked in a stiff cast, I had to eat with my left hand. I clumsily tried to twist a forkful of spaghetti, but my grip slipped. A long noodle whipped back, splashing a bright blotch of red tomato sauce right onto the tip of my nose.

I froze, wide-eyed. "Oh, classic."

Noah stared at me for a second. His big brown eyes widened, and his little mouth formed a tiny 'O'.

Then, he burst into a bright, musical giggle.

The sound was pure and ringing. He covered his face with his tiny hands, his small shoulders shaking as he laughed aloud—a full, delighted, glorious laugh.

It was the first time he had laughed in two long years.

I couldn't help but smile, wiping the sauce off my nose with a napkin. "Is something funny, mister?"

Noah giggled harder, nodding his head emphatically.

Across the small table, Nicholas sat completely frozen. He wasn't eating. He was just staring at his son, his eyes wide, his chest rising and falling heavily. A look of profound, overwhelming gratitude flushed through his handsome face, mixed with a deep, visible confusion.

He looked at Noah laughing, and then his sharp dark eyes shifted to me. He looked at me as if I were a ghost—someone who had somehow unlocked a door he had been pounding on for two agonizing years. He was grateful, but I could tell he was also deeply unsettled by how much power I suddenly had over his little boy.

Later that night, the manor went completely dark and silent.

My bedroom was huge and luxurious, but the strange bed and the dull throbbing in my broken ribs made it impossible to sleep. I lay awake, staring up at the tall ceiling, listening to the soft rustle of wind against the heavy window curtains.

Around midnight, a faint sound caught my attention.

Shuffle. Shuffle.

It was the soft sound of bare feet dragging across the hardwood floor in the hallway outside my room.

I sat up slowly, wincing as a sharp pain shot through my ribs. I threw off the blanket, wrapped a lightweight robe over my pajamas, and gently pushed open my heavy bedroom door.

Standing in the dimly lit, cavernous hallway was Noah.

He was wearing his blue airplane pajamas, holding a heavy silver picture frame tightly against his chest. Tears were streaming silently down his pale cheeks, his tiny body trembling violently.

"Noah?" I whispered, dropping to my knees despite the painful ache in my side. "Sweetie, what's wrong?"

Noah looked up at me, his eyes wide with terror. He took two quick steps forward and threw his small arms around my neck, burying his wet face into the crook of my shoulder. I gently hugged him back with my good left arm, rubbing his small back.

Looking down, I saw the picture in the silver frame. It was a beautiful photograph of a woman with long dark hair and a bright, radiant smile—Noah's late mother.

"I had a bad dream," Noah sobbed quietly into my robe, his small frame shaking. "About the big black car on the road."

"Oh, sweetie," I murmured softly, kissing the top of his head. "It was just a nightmare. You're safe here. The road is far away."

I pulled back slightly to look at his face, gently wiping his warm tears with my thumb. I had been wondering about that scary night ever since I woke up in the hospital.

"Noah," I asked gently, keeping my voice soft and calm. "Why did you go near that busy street that night? How did you get away from your nanny?"

The moment I asked the question, Noah's tiny body went completely stiff.

The color drained instantly from his face. His small, tear-filled eyes widened in pure terror, and he looked nervously past my shoulder, staring down the dark, empty corridor of Sutton Manor as if he expected a monster to jump out of the shadows.

He squeezed his mother's picture frame tightly against his chest, leaning in close to my ear.

Noah whispered, “I didn’t run away. Someone told me Daddy was waiting across the road.”