Chapter 5 5

Brown rubbed his temple. Why does this sound less like reflection and more like bragging about how much he adored her?

Honestly, Damian wasn't reminiscing. He was advertising. If there had been a podium nearby, the man would've gladly held a microphone and given a TED Talk titled "Why My Wife's Hair is the Eighth Wonder of the World."

Brown had to bite his tongue to keep from pointing out the obvious. 'Miss Livia uses the same shampoo as you, sir. The exact same brand. Same bottle. Same fragrance. The only difference is that her curls bounce while your hair just... sits there. Do you want me to order a perm for you, too?'

He thought back to their very first meeting. Damian had threatened to yank out Livia's curls-yank them out, like weeds. And now? The mighty CEO couldn't fall asleep unless his hand was buried in them. Brown could practically see the headlines already:

"Nation's Fiercest CEO Reduced to Teddy Bear, Needs Wife's Hair to Sleep."

The humiliation of it all was enough to make Brown want to cry into his tie.

Meanwhile, Damian was still grinning like a fool, lost in his memories. "Back then, when she was scared of me touching her hair, I only teased her more. Her ears would turn red, and then I'd get this urge to... bite them."

Brown's inner voice was shrieking. 'Yes, yes, we get it! You're hopelessly addicted to your wife. Beyond saving. Congratulations, you've won the gold medal for romantic lunacy.'

Outwardly, however, Brown gave a polite, noncommittal cough.

What mattered was Damian's mood. His boss was calm. Relaxed, even. That was a small miracle, considering they had three more appointments lined up today and Damian had been growling at everyone earlier like a rabid dog. If daydreaming about Livia's hair kept him mellow, so be it.

Brown decided it was the perfect moment to sneak in a little reason. He cleared his throat. "Young Master, you just need to be patient a little longer. From what I've read, strange cravings usually only happen in the early months of pregnancy. Maybe it's just your wife's body adjusting."

Damian's face instantly darkened, like storm clouds rolling in. "It's already been nearly a month!"

'Ah, here we go again,' Brown thought wearily. He braced himself as if preparing for a typhoon.

"Young Master, patience," he repeated quickly, voice dripping with the kind of false cheer a kindergarten teacher used when explaining to toddlers why they couldn't eat crayons. "A little longer. I'll be here to help you whenever Miss Livia wants something-no matter how strange it is."

Damian studied him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. For a second, Brown thought he might be strangled on the spot. Then, miraculously, Damian sighed and leaned back.

"Brown," he said slowly, "you really are reliable."

Those words hit Brown like a medal pinned to his chest. He straightened, pride swelling inside him. "Of course, sir."

But even as he said it, regret churned in his gut. If he'd known what was coming, he would've bitten off his tongue before making such a promise.

In the days ahead, Brown would realize the cruel truth: it wasn't Damian being punished by the baby in Livia's belly. It was him. Assistant Hansel Brown. The one forced to hunt, fetch, and endure every bizarre demand.

Some nights, lying in bed with a warm glass of milk, he could still hear his own voice echoing in his skull:

'Miss Livia, why don't you just kill me instead?'

And so, the journey began. Damian Alexander's transformation into a father-and Hansel Brown's unwilling promotion into Uncle Brown.

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