Chapter 8: Growing Up Jennings

Spring faded, and another year shone bright. The world outside bloomed, the mansion gardens awash in tulips and daffodils. The days grew longer, the air sweeter.

Before I turned three, I lived in Dad’s home office. When I grew older, he built a small suite next door for me. The office became our haven—stacks of paperwork, crayon drawings taped to the walls, the smell of coffee and baby powder mingling in the air. My new room was a palace, filled with sunlight and laughter.

At first, Marcus Jennings didn’t even know how to hold a child, but now he was experienced, able to braid my hair and wash my hands and feet with ease. He learned as he went, sometimes clumsy, sometimes brilliant. Together, we made up the rules as we went along.

When he was around, he rarely left my matters to the staff. He changed diapers, read bedtime stories, even sang lullabies in a gravelly baritone. I clung to him, knowing I was safe.

But that didn’t mean he never got angry. His temper still flared—especially when I got into mischief. But now, his anger was tempered by love.

After a long time, raising a child is always infuriating. When he saw me dip my hand in ink and crawl all over his reports, leaving layer upon layer of ink marks, he roared. His shout echoed through the halls, startling the staff. I giggled, knowing he’d forgive me by dinner.

“Little rascal, stop right now!” He wagged a finger at me, but his eyes twinkled with amusement.

I raised my black little paw. “It’s fun! Abby wants to play!” My voice was stubborn, my grin wide. He sighed, shaking his head, but I saw the smile tugging at his lips.

The head of security, dressed in black, entered the study just as I was playing on Dad’s head, making his already thinning hair even sparser. He cleared his throat, trying not to laugh. Dad glared at him, but the tension broke.

“Greetings, Mr. Jennings. Long life and good fortune to the little miss.” His voice was deep, formal, but his eyes were kind. I liked him immediately.

I stopped and looked over curiously, seeing a beautiful face of indeterminate gender, full of tough energy. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine—sharp jawline, clear eyes, a confidence that couldn’t be faked.

Dad snorted. “If you hadn’t come back, I’d have thought you died out there.” His words were rough, but his tone was affectionate. The man grinned, bowing his head in apology.

But his words were full of affection. There was history between them—a friendship forged in fire and loyalty.

The man smiled faintly. “Thank you for your concern, sir. I ran into some trouble and lost my memory, which delayed me.” His words were casual, but I sensed the truth beneath them. He’d been through something hard, but he’d made it back.

I asked, “Daddy, who is this?” My voice was small, curious. I studied him, wondering if he’d be a friend or a rival.

Dad’s eyes lit up. He stuffed me into the man’s arms. “This is your Uncle Jamie—no, you can call him Godfather.” He winked at me, a rare show of mischief. Uncle Jamie looked surprised, then smiled, holding me carefully.

Jamie was stunned. His arms tensed, but he didn’t flinch. I felt safe—another anchor in my uncertain world.

I found a comfortable spot, let go of the crumbled animal cracker in my hand, and offered it to his mouth. It was my version of a handshake, an offering of trust. He accepted it with a wink, taking a careful bite.

In a soft voice, I called, “Godfather, eat cookie.” My words made him laugh—a real, belly-deep laugh that filled the room.

Jamie’s charming eyes curved. He didn’t mind the cookie squished by a child, but instead treasured it, taking small bites. He made a show of savoring every crumb, as if it were a delicacy. Dad watched, smiling at the exchange.

“She’s clever. She’ll surely be a good successor in the future.” His voice was warm, proud. For a moment, I felt invincible.

The beautiful Godfather had to report to Dad about the corruption in Toledo. I got bored and went aside to play with a puzzle, occasionally stuffing more cookie into my mouth. The grown-ups talked in low voices, the words blending into background noise. I focused on my game, but kept an ear out—old habits die hard.

Until Jamie got up to leave. “I still have tasks to do, so I’ll take my leave.” He stood, straightening his jacket. I watched him go, a sense of foreboding settling over me.

I hesitated for a moment, thinking about how to say this so adults would listen: If Godfather leaves, he might not come back. The bad luck on his face had already gathered—the accident is tonight.

I had to find a way to save him. But who would ever believe a three-year-old?