Updated Feb 23, 2026 • ~8 min read
POV: Valencia
Valencia wakes at 2 AM to the sound of someone crying.
Not Jules—she’s attuned to his sounds after four weeks, knows his nightmare whimpers versus his rare actual distress.
This is adult crying.
Deep, wrenching sobs coming from somewhere in the penthouse.
Valencia’s out of bed before fully processing, pulling on a robe over her sleep shorts, padding barefoot through the dark hallway following the sound.
She finds Dominic in the kitchen.
Sitting on the floor with his back against the cabinets, face in his hands, shoulders shaking.
Valencia’s heart clenches.
She’s seen grief before—worked with widowed parents, bereaved children, families navigating loss—but something about Dominic St. Clair breaking down on his kitchen floor hits different.
“Dominic?” she says softly.
He doesn’t look up. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Are you okay?”
Stupid question. He’s obviously not okay.
“Fine. Go back to bed.”
Valencia doesn’t go back to bed.
She fills the kettle, starts making tea, then sits on the floor beside him.
Not touching.
Just present.
“Nightmare?” she asks gently.
Dominic’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “About Amelie. The accident. I was—in the dream I could see the car. See her inside. And I was trying to get to her but I couldn’t move. Just watching her—”
His voice breaks.
Valencia reaches out instinctively, takes his hand.
He grips it like a lifeline.
“It’s not real,” Valencia says quietly. “You’re here. You’re safe. She’s—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s been eighteen months. Shouldn’t I be over it by now?”
“Grief doesn’t have a timeline. You lost your wife. Jules lost his mother. That’s not something you ‘get over.’ That’s something you learn to carry.”
“I don’t know how to carry it. Some days I’m fine. Functional. Then something triggers it and I’m back there. Back to the hospital. The doctors saying they did everything they could. Jules in the pediatric ward with a broken arm and trauma he can’t articulate. Amelie just—gone.”
Valencia squeezes his hand. “Tell me about her. What was she like?”
“Why?”
“Because talking about her might help. And because I want to know. I’m caring for her son. I should know who she was.”
Dominic’s quiet, considering.
Then: “She was brilliant. Architect. Designed sustainable buildings for underserved communities. She cared about making the world better, not just making money. We met at a charity fundraiser—she was presenting a project, I was there being antisocial. She called me on it. Said ‘you look miserable, want to escape to the balcony?’ And we did. Talked for three hours. Married six months later.”
“Love at first sight?”
“Love at first conversation. She was—she challenged me. Made me better. Less workaholic, more human. When Jules was born, she was this incredible mother. Patient, creative, exactly what he needed. I was useless with the baby stuff. She’d laugh, show me how to do things, never made me feel inadequate even when I was.”
“You weren’t useless.”
“I was terrified. But she made it seem easy. Made parenting seem like this adventure instead of a responsibility. And then—” He stops.
“The accident.”
“Drunk driver. Wrong place, wrong time. She was picking Jules up from daycare. Crossing an intersection. Guy ran a red light going seventy in a thirty zone. Her car was hit driver’s side. She died instantly. Jules survived with minor injuries but—the trauma. Watching his mother die. He hasn’t been the same since.”
Valencia’s throat tights. “I’m so sorry.”
“I was in Tokyo. Business meeting. Got the call at 3 AM local time. Took eighteen hours to get home. By the time I arrived, Amelie was already gone and Jules was—he looked at me like he didn’t recognize me. Hasn’t really connected with me since. Until you.”
“He loves you. He just doesn’t know how to express it right now.”
“He trusts you more than me.”
“Because I’m safe. Not a reminder of trauma. You were there after the accident. You’re associated with the loss. I’m new. Neutral. It’s not about love—it’s about emotional safety.”
Dominic looks at her for the first time, eyes red and swollen. “How are you this wise at twenty-six?”
“I’m not wise. I just pay attention. And I’ve worked with a lot of grieving families.”
“Thank you. For sitting with me. For listening. For not treating me like I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken. You’re grieving. There’s a difference.”
The kettle whistles.
Valencia gets up, makes two cups of chamomile tea, returns to the floor beside Dominic.
They sit in comfortable silence, drinking tea, shoulders touching.
After a while, Dominic says: “I miss her. Not just for me. For Jules. He deserves a mother. Someone like Amelie. Someone warm and creative and patient.”
“You mean someone like you’re describing? Or someone exactly like Amelie?”
“What’s the difference?”
“One is honoring her memory. The other is trying to replace her. You can’t replace people. But you can find new connections. Different love. It doesn’t erase what you had—it just adds to what’s possible.”
Dominic’s quiet, processing.
Then: “My mother wants me to date Charlotte Beaumont.”
“The woman from the socialite world?”
“Society appropriate, good breeding, everything Amelie wasn’t. Everything I don’t want.”
“What do you want?”
Loaded question.
Valencia realizes it as soon as she asks.
Dominic turns to look at her—really look at her, in the dim kitchen at 2 AM, sitting on the floor drinking tea, no professional distance, just two people being honest.
“I want someone who makes me feel human again,” Dominic says quietly. “Someone who challenges me. Someone Jules connects with. Someone who—”
He stops.
But Valencia hears what he doesn’t say.
Someone like you.
The air between them shifts.
Charged.
Dangerous.
Valencia should pull back, reestablish boundaries, remember she’s the employee.
Instead she says, “Amelie would want you to be happy. To find love again. To give Jules a mother who cares about him. She sounds like she was generous enough to want that for you.”
“You didn’t know her.”
“But I know grief. And people who love that deeply want their partners to live fully after they’re gone. Not stay stuck in mourning forever.”
“Is that what I’m doing? Staying stuck?”
“I think you’re trying to move forward but don’t know how. That’s okay. There’s no manual for this.”
Dominic’s hand finds hers again on the floor between them.
Deliberate this time.
Not desperate, but choosing connection.
“Thank you,” he says. “For this. For being here. For not making me feel pathetic for crying on my kitchen floor at 2 AM.”
“You’re not pathetic. You’re human. There’s a difference.”
They sit there for another hour.
Talking about Amelie, about Jules, about grief and healing and the impossibility of moving forward while honoring the past.
Valencia learns that Amelie loved sustainable architecture and terrible puns, that she made Dominic try adventurous foods he’d normally avoid, that she sang off-key to Jules and didn’t care.
She learns that Dominic still sleeps on his side of the bed, leaving Amelie’s side untouched.
That he kept all her clothes in the closet for eight months before finally donating them.
That he’s terrified of forgetting her voice, her laugh, the way she said his name.
Valencia listens, offers comfort, doesn’t judge.
And somewhere in the darkness and honesty and shared vulnerability, something shifts between them.
Not just employer and employee.
Not just professional courtesy.
Something deeper.
Something neither of them can acknowledge out loud but both feel settling between them like a promise.
When Valencia finally goes back to bed at 4 AM, she lies awake thinking about Dominic’s hand in hers.
About the way he looked at her when talking about wanting someone who makes him feel human.
About how comfortable it felt to sit on the kitchen floor with her billionaire employer in the middle of the night.
This is dangerous, she thinks.
This is exactly what she swore she wouldn’t do.
Catching feelings for an employer.
Especially a grieving widower still processing his wife’s death.
Especially when there’s a child involved.
Especially when the class difference between them is measured in billions of dollars.
But her heart doesn’t care about should and shouldn’t.
It just knows that Dominic St. Clair is becoming important to her.
That sitting with him at 2 AM felt right.
That she wants to be the person who makes him feel human again.
Even though she absolutely shouldn’t.
Even though it’s completely inappropriate.
Even though it could destroy everything.
Starting now.
Starting with the way he held her hand in the dark.
Starting with feelings she can’t afford but has anyway.
Dangerous.
Impossible.
Inevitable.
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