The man towered before them, his sculpted features sharp enough to cut glass. His piercing sapphire eyes danced with playful mischief, radiating an effortless charm that bordered on dangerous.

"Amy, you're causing trouble again," he murmured, his voice a velvet baritone that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.

But little Oliver Kingsley trembled slightly, pressing closer into Amy Sinclair's protective embrace.

Instinctively, Amy shifted to shield the boy, her gaze narrowing. "Excuse me, but who exactly are you to him?"

The man blinked, as if noticing her for the first time. His dark brows lifted in amusement.

"Who am I?" He chuckled, the sound rich and smooth. "His father, naturally."

Amy's skepticism didn't waver. "Prove it."

His lips curved into a lazy, infuriating smirk. "Shall we settle this with a call to the authorities?"

"Fine." Amy pulled out her phone, thumb hovering over the dial pad.

A small hand tugged at her sleeve. Oliver's voice was barely a whisper. "Don't. He... he is my dad."

Amy studied the boy, then the man—Sebastian Kingsley—his presence overwhelming even in the dim light. Something unspoken crackled between them, tension thick enough to slice. But if Oliver confirmed it, she had no grounds to argue.

Gently, she crouched to his level. "If your father's here, you should go home with him."

Oliver's face crumpled. "I don't want to!"

Her mind raced. A family dispute? Something severe enough to drive a child into the night? She opened her mouth to mediate, but Sebastian's voice sliced through the air like a blade.

"Then don't." He shrugged, as if discussing the weather. "If home isn't where you wish to be, stay away. Simple."

Amy and Samantha exchanged stunned glances.

"I'm Sebastian Kingsley," he announced smoothly. "Oliver's father."

Amy straightened, wary.

Sebastian continued, his tone casual yet deliberate. "Oliver rarely takes to strangers. Yet he seems fond of you." He paused, studying her. "I'd like to hire you to look after him during his breaks. A hundred thousand a month, expenses covered. What do you say?"

Samantha's eyes widened.

That kind of money for babysitting? It was absurdly generous. Oliver’s designer clothes and polished manners screamed old money—the kind that treated six figures like pocket change.

Amy shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I can't—"

"Two hundred thousand."

"It's not about the money—"

"Five hundred."

Her jaw tightened. "Mr. Kingsley—"

"One million."

Silence.

Amy exhaled sharply.

Fine. Money talked.

Even married to Alexander Blackwood, she'd never indulged in extravagance. No designer obsessions, no reckless spending—just a quiet life caring for Liam. She’d never touched Alexander’s accounts for personal gain.

But now? With her cards frozen and her dream studio with Benjamin Carter needing funding? She couldn’t let him shoulder the entire cost alone.

A million dollars changed things.