“Daddy,” Sophie repeated, her voice small but firm, “I choose her.”
Anna’s lips parted. Her hand rose to her chest.
“Me?” she whispered. “Sophie… no, sweetheart, I’m just—”
She stopped herself, lowering her eyes quickly.
Just the maid.
Everyone in the room heard the unfinished words anyway.
A ripple of gasps passed through the hallway. One of the models raised her brows, offended. Another exchanged a sharp glance with the woman beside her. Someone gave a short, disbelieving laugh before covering it with a cough.
Daniel’s jaw tightened.
He looked from his daughter to Anna, then back again.
Anna had worked in the Whitmore estate for nearly two years. She was quiet, reliable, and almost invisible in the way wealthy homes often expected servants to be. She polished silver, arranged flowers, carried trays, folded linens, and disappeared before anyone thought to thank her.
Daniel had barely spoken more than a few sentences to her.
Yet Sophie was looking at Anna as if she had just found the safest person in the world.
“Sophie,” Daniel said carefully, “do you understand what I’m asking you?”
The little girl nodded.
“I want her.”
Anna took a small step backward. “Mr. Whitmore, I would never—”
Daniel lifted his hand, silencing her.
His eyes narrowed, not with anger exactly, but with suspicion. He had built an empire by reading people. By noticing hunger behind smiles. By catching ambition before it became betrayal.
And now he studied Anna’s face, searching for a hidden motive.
But Anna only looked terrified.
Then Sophie suddenly walked across the marble floor, slipped her tiny hand into Anna’s trembling fingers, and said the words that made Daniel’s face go pale.
“She was the only one who came when I cried for Mommy.”
The room went even quieter.
Daniel stared at his daughter.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Sophie tightened her grip on Anna’s hand.
“At night,” she whispered. “When I wake up scared. When I call for Mommy and nobody hears.”
Daniel felt something twist sharply in his chest.
“Nobody hears?” he repeated.
Sophie looked down.
“The nurses tell me to go back to sleep. Miss Clara says big girls don’t cry. But Anna comes.”
The head housekeeper, Clara, stiffened near the staircase.
Anna’s eyes widened. “Sophie…”
“She sits beside me,” Sophie continued, her little voice trembling now. “She sings the song Mommy used to sing. She knows the words.”
Daniel turned slowly toward Anna.
His voice dropped. “How do you know Isabelle’s song?”
Anna’s face drained of color.
The women in gowns leaned closer, their earlier pride turning into curiosity. Servants glanced at one another. Clara’s mouth tightened.
Anna swallowed.
“I heard Mrs. Whitmore sing it once,” she said softly.
Daniel’s eyes sharpened. “Once?”
Anna looked away.
Sophie pulled at her hand. “Tell him.”
Anna shook her head almost desperately. “No, sweetheart.”
“Tell him,” Sophie said again, louder this time.
Daniel’s suspicion returned, colder than before.
“What else have you not told me?” he asked.
Anna’s fingers trembled around Sophie’s.
For a moment, she looked as if she might run.
Then Clara stepped forward.
“Mr. Whitmore,” the housekeeper said, voice crisp and controlled, “this has gone far enough. The child is confused. Anna has clearly overstepped her position.”