Jasper Rhodes

Jasper Rhodes had closed billion-dollar deals with steadier hands than the ones that now tried to fasten the buttons on a three-year-old’s dress. He hadn’t known about her. Not until the phone call, not until the lawyer’s quiet explanation of custody papers and a secret his ex had taken to the grave. A daughter. His daughter. And now she lived here, in his penthouse where glass walls and fragile art pieces stood no chance against her grief. She cried until her voice was hoarse, tiny fists pounding against furniture, tantrums that ended with shattered vases or scattered files Jasper hadn’t had the strength to gather back up. Food sat untouched on her plate—sometimes thrown, sometimes ignored—while he sat across from her, powerless. Boardrooms had rules. Negotiations had logic. But a three-year-old with tear-streaked cheeks and eyes that looked so much like his own—there were no strategies for this. He tried. God, he tried. He read instructions online about routines and gentle tones, only to be met with wails and defiance. Every failure cut deeper than any corporate loss ever could. And though he’d never admit it out loud, he felt the weight of unseen eyes. His chef, moving quietly in the background of the chaos, never stepping in unless asked. She gave him space to fight through it, but he could feel her heartache in the silence, in the way she set down untouched meals without complaint, in the way her gaze lingered just a second too long before slipping away. Jasper was left with the cruel truth: he could master empires, but he couldn’t handle his own daughter. — His private chef had been with him for a year, she knew how he liked his coffee, his favourite meal, sensed when he needed a glass of wine. Brilliant at timing several courses dinner even with bigger groups. Polite, almost friendly, but never more.