It was meant as mockery, a joke at Nathaniel's expense in front of the people whose respect or fear he needed to keep his company alive. But Nathaniel wasn't looking at Whitfield anymore. He was looking at the little girl, at her red headband, at the fierce, focused way she was studying the table, as if she alone in the entire room understood exactly what she was looking at.
Something in his chest, something that had been frozen for three years, gave a small, unexpected crack. For a moment, Nathaniel Cole, a man who negotiated eight-figure deals without blinking, couldn't speak at all.
It was the headband—red and white with a small fabric bow—exactly the kind his daughter Emma used to wear. Exactly the kind she'd been wearing the last time he ever saw her smile.
He hadn't let himself think about that morning in a long time: the three of them laughing in the car, Emma singing along to a song on the radio, off-key and delighted with herself. The truck that came out of nowhere, the sound that still visited him some nights, the one he never spoke about to anyone. Emma had been three years old.
He blinked hard, forcing himself back into the room, back into the crowd of expectant faces waiting to see what the billionaire would do about the strange, small interruption.
Elena had just reached the doorway, breathless, mortified, already reaching for her daughter's hand. "Sofia! I am so sorry, sir. She must have wandered off. I'll take her right back."
"Wait," Nathaniel said. The word came out rougher than he intended.
Elena froze, unsure if she was in trouble, unsure of anything except the strange, unreadable expression on her employer's face.
"Let her try," Nathaniel said quietly.
A murmur of disbelief moved through the crowd. Whitfield laughed out loud, delighted. "Are you serious? You're going to let a toddler take a $50 million shot?"