When Her Death Couldn't Break Him (Cecilia and Nathaniel) novel Chapter 2050

At the Smith residence, Meredith arrived with Dahlia in tow, chatting and laughing with Cecilia.

Barely past her first birthday, Dahlia already sensed adult moods. She toddled over with a slice of fruit, offering it to Cecilia in hopes of earning a smile.

Meredith's sigh slipped out. "A child this tiny shouldn't have to be so considerate. It breaks my heart."

"Yes," Cecilia murmured.

Cecilia, too, found the girl pitiful.

What baffled her most was how Cassandra—Dahlia's own mother—could be so cold to the child.

After playing for a while, Dahlia grew drowsy, climbed onto a velvet chaise, and drifted into sleep without a fuss.

A maid tried to lift her. Dahlia startled awake, eyes wide with fear, until they found Meredith.

Meredith stood at once and gathered the trembling child into her arms.

"It's all right," she whispered, voice soft as a feather. "We're at Cecilia's house, and Mommy is right here."

Only then did Dahlia relax, cheek pressed against Meredith's shoulder—still without uttering a single word.

When sleep reclaimed her, Meredith kept holding her, unwilling to loosen the fragile peace.

"Lay her on the bed," Cecilia urged. "It's tiring for you to hold her like this."

Meredith shook her head. "She wakes the moment I let go. She needs me beside her; otherwise, the nightmares come."

Grief edged her next words. "Since I brought her home, she often sits alone, staring into space. She hasn't even started talking yet."

Cecilia nodded, eyes shining with unspoken sympathy.

Meredith pressed a gentle kiss to Dahlia's brow, a tiny gesture brimming with fierce resolve.

"It's getting late," she said, slipping her bag over one shoulder. "Ceci, we'll head back now."

Cecilia walked with them to the porch, her heels ticking softly across the marble like a metronome for good-byes. At the threshold, she paused, shoulders squared yet eyes tender, determined to escort this small piece of warmth all the way to the gate. Outside, dusk had thinned into the violet hush that comes just before the streetlights wake.

"Ms. Seiler, please bring Dahlia over again—okay? I want her to play with me next time, too," Elliot called, cupping his hands around his mouth as though afraid the breeze might steal the plea away.

Amy's face is practically porcelain. By looks alone, she should have every child's vote. Baffled, she waited for her son's verdict.

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