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Collin My landlord did not care that I had a degree. He did not care that the company I worked for went bankrupt three weeks ago, or that my bank account had exactly forty-two dollars left in it. He just pointed at the bright red notice taped to my apartment door and told me I had five days to figure it out. I was sitting on my broken couch, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out which bill I could skip next, when my phone buzzed. It was a text from my friend Marcus. He sent a screenshot of a job posting with a single message: I know you said no more service gigs, but look at the pay. Don’t ask questions. Just apply. I tapped the image to open it. It was a listing for a temporary, live-in babysitter. My eyes scrolled down to the compensation line, and I actually laughed out loud in my empty living room. The salary was absurd. It was more money for two weeks of work than I used to make in three months at my old corporate job. I read the details carefully. The job required looking after two kids—Oliver, who was seven, and Sophie, who was five. Their father was a high-profile executive who traveled constantly and worked brutal hours. The ad clearly stated that the client’s identity was strictly confidential for security reasons. All I was told was that the family was extremely wealthy, lived in a private gated community outside the city, and needed someone immediately. My stomach churned a little. I had worked for rich families back in college, and I hated it. They usually treated you like furniture and expected you to be on call twenty-four hours a day. I swore I would never put myself in that position again. I set the phone down on the cushion next to me. "No," I whispered to myself. "You have pride left, Collin." Ten minutes later, I checked my bank app again. The forty-two dollars had not magically multiplied. I picked up my phone, swallowed my pride, and sent my resume to the email listed in the ad. The next afternoon, I found myself standing in front of a giant iron gate. After I gave my name to the security speaker, the gates slowly swung open, revealing a winding driveway lined with tall, dark pine trees. At the top of the hill stood a massive modern mansion. It was built with black stone, floor-to-ceiling glass, and sharp rectangular angles. It looked less like a home and more like an expensive museum. A woman in a crisp gray suit met me at the front door. She looked me up and down with sharp, analytical eyes before extending a hand. "Mr. Tanner? I am Mrs. Gable, the household manager," she said, her voice completely flat. "Follow me, please." I followed her through the main entryway. The inside was as grand as the outside, but as I looked around, a weird feeling settled in my chest. The house was beautiful, clean, and decorated with million-dollar art, but it felt strangely cold. There were no messy shoes by the door. No colorful drawings taped to the fridge. There were very few family photographs on the walls, and the ones I did see showed only the two children posing quietly in formal clothes. It didn’t feel like a place where real life happened. "I will be direct with you, Collin," Mrs. Gable said, stopping in the middle of a massive living room. "The pay for this contract is unusually high because the working conditions are challenging. The children have had four different nannies in the last three months. None of them lasted more than two weeks." "Why?" I asked, keeping my hands in my pockets so she wouldn't see them shaking. "Are the kids violent?" "No," she replied calmly. "They are hurting. They lost their mother two years ago, and their father is rarely here. They do not trust strangers, and they make it very difficult for anyone new to stay. Most of our applicants quit out of frustration." Before I could answer, I heard soft footsteps on the hardwood floor behind us. I turned around and saw two little kids standing at the edge of the hallway. The younger one, a little girl with big brown eyes and dark curly hair, was holding a stuffed rabbit by its ear. Beside her stood a taller boy with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He had dark blue eyes, a sharp jawline even at seven years old, and a fierce, defensive glare directed straight at me. "Sophie, Oliver," Mrs. Gable said gently. "This is Collin. He might be staying with us for a little while." Oliver didn't move. He kept staring at me like I was an enemy soldier invading his kingdom. "We don't need another one," he said, his voice small but sharp. "They always leave anyway." My heart physically ached for him. I knew that look. I remembered feeling that exact same anger when I was a kid and everything felt unstable around me. Instead of staying standing like an imposing adult, I dropped down onto one knee so I was at eye level with them. I didn't push. I didn't fake a big, loud smile like most adults do when they meet children. "You're right, Oliver," I said quietly, keeping my tone completely honest. "People do leave. And I'm not here to pretend I'm part of your family. But I am here right now, and I'm pretty good at making grilled cheese sandwiches if you're ever hungry." Oliver glared at me for another three seconds, then turned on his heel and walked away down the hall without saying another word. I stayed on my knee, watching him go. But then I felt a tiny, warm pressure against my left hand. I looked down. Sophie had stepped closer. She hadn't said a word, but her small, soft fingers had wrapped tightly around two of mine. She looked up at me through her long eyelashes, testing to see if I would pull away. I didn't. I wrapped my fingers gently around hers and gave her a small, reassuring nod. From across the room, Mrs. Gable let out a quiet breath. For the first time, her strict face softened just a little bit. "Well," Mrs. Gable murmured. "That has never happened before." An hour later, I was officially hired. Mrs. Gable walked me up a grand floating staircase to show me the guest suite where I would be living for the duration of the contract. The room was larger than my entire apartment, complete with a private bathroom, a king-sized bed, and a balcony overlooking the dark woods behind the estate. "Your duties are simple," Mrs. Gable explained, handing me a heavy set of brass keys and a sleek tablet. "Keep the children safe, ensure they eat properly, and follow the schedule outlined on this screen. I manage the household staff, so you do not need to worry about cooking major meals or cleaning." "Got it," I said, setting my small duffel bag on the edge of the bed. "And what about their dad? When will I meet him?" "Mr. Kash is currently in London closing a major acquisition," she answered, adjusting her watch. "He is extremely busy, but he is expected home sometime later this week. He prefers not to be bothered with daily details while traveling, so you will report directly to me." "Kash," I repeated the name out loud. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it. To me, it just sounded like another super-rich last name. During the two years I had spent with my ex-boyfriend back in college, I never knew him by a fancy corporate name like that. Zander had always been fiercely private about his past. He never talked about his family, never brought me to his hometown, and kept his life strictly separated from the elite world he had run away from. When we broke up four years ago, it was painful, messy, and absolute. We cut all ties, and I had never looked back. I pushed the thought out of my head. It didn't matter who the owner of this house was. All that mattered was the check I would receive at the end of the month. "For this kind of money," I whispered to the empty room after Mrs. Gable left, "I can survive almost anything." By nine o'clock that evening, the house was completely silent. I had managed to get Sophie to sleep after reading her two bedtime stories about a brave little rabbit. Oliver had locked himself in his room, refusing to talk to me, but he had at least eaten the sandwich I left outside his door. I went down to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, then headed back up to my guest room. I changed into a comfortable shirt and sweatpants, exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the day. I sat on the edge of the large bed, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the moonlight hitting the trees. For the first time in weeks, the crushing weight in my chest had lightened. I was going to be able to pay off my debt. I was going to be okay. Then, at nearly midnight, the deep silence of the house was broken. Downstairs, heavy iron doors creaked open, followed by the firm, echoed sound of expensive dress shoes clicking across the marble floor. I froze on the edge of the bed. My heart rate suddenly spiked for a reason I couldn't explain. I stepped out into the dimly lit hallway and leaned over the glass balcony railing, looking down into the main grand entrance. A tall man in a tailored dark suit was standing near the door. He was taking off his heavy wool coat and handing it to a tired-looking assistant. He looked exhausted, his dark hair slightly messier than usual, but his posture was dominant, powerful, and unmistakably familiar. He turned toward the stairs, his sharp profile caught perfectly in the amber light of the chandelier. Then, his deep, rich voice echoed up through the high ceiling, sending a sudden, cold shiver straight down my spine. "Where are my children?" My hand gripped the cool glass railing so hard my knuckles turned white. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I knew that voice. I would know that voice anywhere in the world. It was Zander.