Pack your bags. You’re fired

Two weeks after the confrontation with Victoria, winter descended upon Manhattan with an icy vengeance. Freezing rain lashed the penthouse windows, rattling the heavy frames against the gale.

At 3:15 A.M., the internal intercom beside Daniel’s bed buzzed sharply.

He was awake before the second ring finished, tossing aside his duvet and throwing on a heavy robe. He reached the nursery within seconds, the door swinging open to reveal a scene of quiet, controlled emergency.

The nursery was dark save for the amber bedside lamp. Elise was sitting in the wide glider chair, rocking Rosie rhythmically. The baby was stripped down to her diaper, her skin flushed an alarming, mottled crimson, her small chest heaving with rapid, shallow breaths.

"What is it?" Daniel asked, crossing the room in three strides.

"Her fever spiked," Elise said, her voice tight but entirely steady. "Thirty-nine point four. She refused her bottle an hour ago, and her breathing became labored twenty minutes ago. I’ve called Dr. Henderson, but his service says the sleet has closed the West Side Highway."

Daniel touched Rosie’s forehead. The heat radiating from her tiny body was terrifying—like touching an iron radiator. The baby let out a pitiful, cracked moan, her eyes rolling weakly beneath heavy lids.

A cold, familiar terror clawed at Daniel’s throat.

Not again.

The memory of the sterile hospital corridor, the red emergency lights, the doctor shaking his head while Rebecca’s vital monitors went flat—the phantom machinery of death roared in his ears.

"We’re taking her to Presbyterian," Daniel commanded, his voice shaking. "I’ll call the security detail—"

"No," Elise said firmly, standing up with the burning child in her arms. "The roads are sheets of ice, Mr. Carter. An ambulance would take thirty minutes, and a car could skid on the bridge. We bring the fever down here, right now, while we wait for Henderson’s mobile team."

Daniel froze. His corporate authority, his billions, his power—all of it was completely useless against a pathogen burning through an infant’s bloodstream.

"Tell me what to do," Daniel whispered.

"Run the master bath," Elise instructed, moving with lightning speed toward the bathroom. "Tepid water. Not cold—cold will shock her system and cause seizures. Tepid. And bring the pediatric ibuprofen from the locked medical cabinet in my room."

For the next two hours, the master bathroom became an intensive care unit.

Daniel knelt beside the massive marble tub, holding Rosie’s slippery, burning torso while Elise gently sponged lukewarm water over her chest and limbs. The baby screamed at first, a weak, agonizing wail that tore through Daniel’s soul, but he kept his hands steady, his voice low and constant, whispering every nursery rhyme he could dredge up from his own distant childhood.

"I'm here, Rosie. Daddy's holding you. It's okay, little bird. It's okay."

Elise worked with surgical precision—monitoring the digital thermometer, administering measured drops of medicine with an oral syringe, placing damp washcloths across the back of the child's neck. Her gray dress was soaked through, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, but her eyes never wavered from the baby’s face.

By 5:30 A.M., the screaming had ceased.

The thermometer beeped softly in the steam-filled room.

37.8.

The fever had broken.

Rosie lay limp against Daniel’s bare chest, wrapped in a dry flannel blanket, her breathing deep, steady, and cool. Her tiny hand was curled around the collar of his damp shirt, anchoring herself to his heartbeat.

Daniel sat on the bathroom floor, his back pressed against the marble wall, his head tilted back toward the ceiling, gasping for air as if he had just surfaced from deep water.

Beside him, Elise collapsed against the side of the tub, her hands resting flat on the tile, her chest rising and falling in exhausted shudders.

"She’s out of danger," Elise whispered, her voice cracking with fatigue. "The infection is viral. Henderson’s mobile van just checked in with the lobby; they’re coming up the service elevator now."

Daniel turned his head to look at her.

She looked completely wrecked—covered in water, her eyes bloodshot, her knuckles red from the cool compresses.

"You saved her," Daniel said.

Elise offered a faint, exhausted smile, shaking her head. "We saved her, Mr. Carter. You held her so tight she wasn't afraid."

Daniel looked down at his sleeping daughter, then back at the young woman beside him. The invisible, iron-clad walls he had erected around his heart for eleven months groaned under the weight of an unfamiliar, overwhelming warmth.

"Daniel," he murmured.

Elise blinked, looking up. "What?"