That afternoon, something pulled him away from an important investor meeting. It wasn’t logic or schedule—it was instinct. A quiet voice urging him home. He followed it.
When he pushed open the kitchen door of his mansion, Michael froze. His hand shot out to grip the doorframe, steadying himself.
There was Ava. His silent, grief-buried daughter. Sitting on the maid’s shoulders, giggling as they washed dishes together. Not just smiling—laughing. A bright, musical laugh he had not heard since the night everything fell apart.
“Scrub right here, princess,” Paige murmured, guiding the child’s tiny hands. “You’re doing wonderfully.”
“Aunt Paige, can I make bubbles with the soap?” Ava asked. Then, noticing Michael, she tilted her head. “What’s wrong?”
Her voice—strong, clear, alive—hit him like a blow. He had believed he might never hear it again.
His legs weakened. Since his wife’s death in the car accident, Ava had not spoken a single word. Doctors had told him to be patient, that trauma could silence a child. But here she was, speaking freely… as if the last few months had been nothing more than a bad dream.
Paige turned, startled, almost dropping a plate.
