Adrian’s question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken authority. Nia didn't blink.
Adrian’s question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken authority.
Nia didn't blink. She sat up straight, crossing her hands neatly over her purse. "My sister, Maya, is nineteen. She has a rare congenital heart defect. The specialist at Columbia Presbyterian will perform the corrective procedure, but her insurance company classified it as experimental. The deposit required before they schedule the surgery is eighty-five thousand dollars. Your agency offered fifty thousand dollars upfront for a nanny who could survive three months, plus a twenty-five thousand dollar completion bonus."
Adrian leaned back, his obsidian eyes fixed on her face. He was used to people lying to him—used to prospective staff blathering on about their love for children, their deep empathy, or their religious devotion to service. He preferred cold, unvarnished honesty.
"You need money," Adrian stated plainly.
"I need eighty-five thousand dollars," Nia corrected gently. "And I have seventy-two hours to prove to you that I can handle your sons before you sign the contract and wire the advance."
"If you quit before seventy-two hours?"
"Then I get nothing, and you hire caregiver number fifteen." Nia leaned forward slightly, her eyes matching his intensity. "But I won't quit, Mr. Vale. I’ve worked with traumatized children in Chicago who had every reason to burn the world down. Your sons are terrified, grieving, and completely unchecked. That doesn't scare me. What scares me is failing my sister."
Adrian looked at her for five long seconds. The silence in the room was absolute, save for the rhythmic tick of a grandfather clock in the corner. Then, with a slow nod, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a fountain pen, and signed the preliminary agreement sitting on the side table.
"Seventy-two hours," Adrian said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. "If you last until Thursday morning, the money will be wired to the hospital by noon. If you run before then... my driver will take you to the train station."
Before Nia could respond, an explosion rocked the floor above them.
It wasn't a metaphorical explosion. A loud BANG echoed through the ceiling, followed by the tinkling of shattered glass, a high-pitched yell, and the frantic sound of running footsteps.
Adrian didn't even flinch. He simply looked at his watch. "10:14 AM. They're twenty minutes behind schedule."
"Where are their bodyguards?" Nia asked, standing up and smoothing her coat.
"Outside the doors," Adrian replied, standing up as well. "I instructed the security detail not to intervene in child management unless there is lethal force involved. The last time Marcus tried to discipline Caleb, Caleb accused him of assault and threw a vase at his head."
"Wise policy," Nia said, walking toward the study door. "Let's go meet the boys."
As they climbed the grand marble staircase, the noise intensified. The second-floor hallway looked less like a luxury residence and more like an active combat zone. Paint was scraped off the baseboards, a heavy brass sconce dangled precariously by its wires, and a thick trail of white foam stretched across the dark hardwood floor.
At the far end of the hall, four boys stood in a semi-circle around a fire extinguisher.
The oldest, Evan, was eleven. He was tall for his age, with his father’s dark hair and a sharp, calculating glare that suggested he was already planning his first corporate takeover—or criminal enterprise.
Caleb, nine, held a high-powered slingshot in one hand, his face set in a defiant scowl.
Noah, seven, was clutching a iPad like a shield, his small face smeared with what looked like strawberry jam.
And six-year-old Luke was sitting on the floor, covered head-to-toe in white chemical foam, laughing hysterically.
Standing twenty feet away was Marco, a broad-shouldered security guard who looked capable of snapping a telephone pole in half. He was sweating profusely, holding a couch cushion in front of his chest.
"I'm telling you, kid, put the slingshot down!" Marco pleaded, his voice cracking.
"Make me, pig!" Caleb yelled, pulling back the rubber band of the slingshot, which was loaded with a heavy steel marble.
"Enough," Adrian’s voice didn't rise in volume, but the sheer, icy authority in it made all four boys go rigid.
Evan turned slowly, his eyes sweeping over his father before landing on Nia. His jaw tightened. "Another one? Really, Dad? This one looks like she'll cry in twenty minutes."
"I don't cry, Evan," Nia said, stepping past Adrian before the crime boss could speak. She walked directly into the center of the hallway, her sensible heels clicking firmly against the hardwood. She didn't look at the mess. She didn't look at the broken sconce. She stopped five feet from Caleb and looked down at the slingshot.
"That's an impressive draw weight," Nia said conversationally, her hands tucked casually into her coat pockets. "A quarter-inch steel ball from that distance will shatter Marco's safety goggles and break his cheekbone. Which means he goes to the ER, your dad gets sued by the security firm's union, and you spend the next three years in a state juvenile detention facility where they don't allow sling-shots, video games, or sugar."
Caleb blinked, his grip on the rubber band faltering slightly. "I'm nine! They can't put me in jail!"
"Try hitting a former police officer with a deadly weapon and see how fast the family court judge waives your juvenile status," Nia replied smoothly. She turned her gaze to Luke, who was still sitting in the fire foam. "And you. Chemical retardant foam contains ammonium phosphate. If you lick your fingers, your tongue will swell up, your throat will close, and I'll have to perform an emergency tracheotomy with my pen knife before the ambulance arrives."
Luke’s eyes went wide as saucers. He instantly wiped his foamy hands on his pants and spat on the floor. "I didn't eat it!"
"Good," Nia said. She turned back to Evan. "I am Nia Carter. I am your new nanny for the next seventy-two hours. If you want me gone, you don't need fire extinguishers, steel marbles, or tantrums. You just have to follow three rules."
Evan sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. "We don't follow rules."
"These aren't my rules, Evan. They're yours," Nia said, pulling a small notebook and a silver pen from her pocket. "Rule number one: You do not harm the staff or yourselves. Rule number two: You complete your school assignments by 4:00 PM. Rule number three: If you want to force me out, you do it intellectually. Prove to me that you don't need a nanny, and I'll pack my bags and leave voluntarily."
Noah looked up from his iPad, his small voice piping up. "What does intellectually mean?"
"It means using your brains instead of acting like toddlers throwing rocks," Nia answered gently. She looked around the wrecked hallway. "Now, Evan, Caleb, Noah, Luke... you have ten minutes to grab cleaning supplies from the utility closet and scrub this hallway. If it's not clean by 10:30, lunch today is boiled broccoli and cold water."
Caleb’s mouth dropped open. "You can't make us clean! We have maids!"
"The maids didn't fire the extinguisher," Nia said, turning her back on them and walking toward Adrian. "Your timer starts now."
She stopped beside Adrian, who was staring at her with an expression that bordering on shock.
"Where is my room?" Nia asked him softly.
May you like
Adrian pulled his eyes away from his sons—who were currently arguing in hushed, panicked whispers about whether she was serious about the broccoli—and looked at her.
"End of the hall. On the right," Adrian murmured, his voice laced with a sudden, dark intrigue. "Welcome to the Vale estate, Miss Carter."
