The Tycoon’s Only Taste of Love

The sound of cruel laughter echoed from the playroom, sending ice through my veins. I'd been folding laundry in the adjacent hallway when I heard Leo's small, pained cry.

"Stop it, Marcus! That hurts!"

I dropped the towels and rushed toward the sound, my heart hammering against my ribs. What I saw when I reached the doorway made my blood boil.

Marcus, Isabella's six-year-old son, had Leo cornered against the toy chest. My sweet boy was on the ground, his knees scraped, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. Marcus stood over him like a tiny tyrant, his face twisted with the same cruel satisfaction I'd seen on his mother's face countless times.

"Get up, son of the servant," Marcus sneered, giving Leo another shove with his foot. "My mommy says your mommy is just a poor cook who cleans toilets. That makes you poor toilet boy!"

The other children in the playroom—Marcus's friends from his expensive private school—erupted in giggles. They pointed at Leo like he was some kind of circus animal, their designer clothes and entitled expressions making my stomach turn.

"That's enough!" I stormed into the room, my voice sharper than I'd intended. The laughter died instantly.

Marcus looked up at me with those cold, calculating eyes—so much like his mother's. "I'm just telling the truth," he said with a shrug that was far too mature for a six-year-old. "Leo needs to know he doesn't belong here."

I knelt beside Leo, helping him to his feet. His small hands trembled as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. The sight of his scraped knees and the shame in his eyes made something fierce and protective roar to life in my chest.

"Marcus, what you're doing is called bullying, and it's wrong," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the rage building inside me. "You need to apologize to Leo right now."

Marcus crossed his arms and lifted his chin defiantly. "I don't have to listen to you. You're not my mommy. You're just the help."

Before I could respond, the sharp click of designer heels announced Isabella's arrival. She swept into the playroom like she owned the world—which, in this house, she essentially did. Her perfectly styled blonde hair caught the afternoon light streaming through the massive windows, and her silk blouse probably cost more than I used to make in a month.

"What's all this commotion?" she asked, but her tone suggested she already knew and didn't particularly care.

"Your son was bullying Leo," I said, standing to face her. "He pushed him down and called him horrible names."

Isabella's lips curved into that familiar, cold smile. She looked down at Marcus with something that might have been pride. "Oh, darling, were you just explaining the household hierarchy to Leo?"

My mouth fell open. "Isabella, he's six years old. He doesn't need to understand any hierarchy. He needs to be treated with basic human decency."

"Marcus is just telling the truth," Isabella said, echoing her son's earlier