3

Lincoln’s POV Cleaning lime gelatin out of a work boot takes longer than you’d think. It takes even longer when two seven-year-olds are standing over you, waiting for your resolve to snap. By three o'clock, Leo and Toby realized that the phone trick and the Jell-O hadn't broken me. Naturally, they decided to escalate. I was in the kitchen wiping down the island when I heard a faint, high-pitched buzzing coming from the hallway where I had left my dark duffel bag. I walked out into the corridor just in time to see Toby holding my bag open while Leo hovered over it with a pair of heavy-duty craft scissors. He had unzipped the side pocket and pulled out my worn, leather-bound notebook—the one containing all my class notes, budgeting sheets, and the only copy of my late grandfather's handwritten recipes. Leo had the scissors open, ready to snip the leather cover right off. "If you cut that," I said, my voice low and completely steady, "you’re going to be very disappointed with what happens next." Leo froze, the metal blades hovering an inch from the leather. He glared at me, trying to look intimidating. "We don't want you here. If we ruin your stuff, you'll leave." "Try me," I said calmly, stepping closer without rushing. "Cut it. But here's the deal: if you destroy my notebook, I'm not going to yell. I'm not going to call your dad. But for the rest of the day, every single toy, tablet, and game controller in this house goes into a locked box in my car. And you two get to sit at the kitchen table with a stack of lined paper, writing a five-hundred-word essay on why respect matters." Leo’s hands wavered. His eyes flickered between the notebook and my face, searching for a sign that I was bluffing. I didn't blink. Slowly, Leo lowered the scissors. Toby let out a breath he seemed to be holding and backed away. "You're not allowed to take our toys," Leo muttered, though his voice lacked its previous bite. "I'm in charge until five o'clock," I replied, taking the notebook from his hands and zipping my bag back up. "Which means I set the rules. And rule number one is: we don't break each other's things." Instead of screaming at them, I knelt down so I was eye-level with both of them. Their shoulders were tense, waiting for the lecture they were clearly used to getting from adults. "Look," I said softly. "You guys are smart. Really smart. But pulling stuff like this isn't going to make me run away. I'm not going anywhere." Leo's POV I hated that he didn't get mad. Mrs. Gable would have turned bright red and shrieked until her voice went squeaky. Mr. Vance—babysitter number nine—had locked himself in the guest bathroom and called Daddy crying. But Lincoln just stood there, completely calm, talking to us like we were normal people instead of kids who had just tried to ruin his notebook. "Why do you even want to stay?" I asked, crossing my arms tight against my chest. "Nobody stays. Everyone leaves because we make them leave." "I stay because I said I would," Lincoln said simply. "And because I think you two are just bored out of your minds." "We're not bored," Toby chimed in, leaning against the wall. "We're busy. Daddy is busy too. He has meetings all day and all night." Toby looked down at his light-up sneakers, clicking his heels together. "He didn't even come to our science fair last week because he had to fly to Tokyo. He's always working." I bit my lip, wishing Toby hadn't said that out loud. It made my chest feel heavy, the same way it felt every time we sat at the giant dining room table eating dinner with just the housekeepers around. Lincoln didn't say anything for a long moment. He looked at Toby, then looked at me, his eyes softening in a way that made me feel strange. He didn't look strict anymore. He just looked... sad for us. "Well," Lincoln said, breaking the silence as he stood up and rolled up his sleeves. "Your dad might be busy, but I'm right here. And I happen to make the best homemade personal pizzas on the East Coast." Toby’s eyes lit up. "With extra cheese?" "As much cheese as you can pile on without causing a structural collapse," Lincoln promised with a smirk. "Come on. To the kitchen." Lincoln’s POV For the next hour, the grand, sterile kitchen of the Samuel mansion transformed into total chaos. I pulled out flour, yeast, tomato sauce, shredded mozzarella, and every topping I could find in the massive sub-zero refrigerator. I let Leo and Toby take complete control of the dough. Flour went everywhere—on the polished black granite countertops, across the stainless steel appliances, and heavily dusted over the boys' shirts and faces. Toby ended up with a giant streak of tomato sauce across his forehead, laughing hysterically as Leo tried to throw a handful of flour at him and missed, hitting the glass cabinet instead. "Look, Lincoln! Mine is shaped like a star!" Toby yelled, proudly pointing at a lumpy, wildly uneven circle of dough covered in a mountain of pepperoni. "That's not a star, that's a blob!" Leo teased, throwing a piece of cheese at his brother. "It's an abstract star!" Toby defended, tossing a piece back. I couldn't help but laugh out loud as I helped them stretch the dough, guiding their hands. Seeing them like this—not as calculated pranksters trying to ruin a nanny's life, but just as two little boys starved for attention and fun—made every bit of stress worth it. "Alright, into the oven they go," I said, sliding the tray into the commercial-grade oven. "This is way better than the salads Mrs. Gable made us eat," Leo said, leaning against the floured counter, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Just as the timer on the oven began to tick, the heavy double doors connecting the foyer to the kitchen swung open. Archie's POV I walked into the house forty-five minutes earlier than scheduled. The board meeting had ended early, and frankly, I was expecting to walk into a quiet house with a defeated Lincoln packing his bags by the door. Instead, the moment I stepped into the kitchen hallway, the rich smell of baked bread and melted cheese hit my nose. Then, I rounded the corner into the main kitchen, and my jaw dropped. "What in the world..." I breathed out. My pristine, custom-designed Italian kitchen was an absolute disaster zone. Flour coated the dark granite island like a fresh layer of winter snow. A smudge of marinara sauce was smeared across the handle of the stainless steel refrigerator. Dough scraps were stuck to the floor, and there were white handprints all over the lower cabinets. In the center of it all stood Lincoln Greyson, holding a wooden spatula, covered in flour from his apron down to his jeans. My blood pressure spiked instantly. "Mr. Greyson! What is the meaning of this? I hired you to supervise my children, not to destroy my property!" Lincoln didn't flinch. He just set the spatula down calmly. "We were making dinner, Mr. Samuel." "Daddy, look!" I turned my head. Toby ran up to me, completely unfazed by my dark expression. His face was covered in sauce, his shirt was white with flour, but his eyes were wide and bright. "We made pizzas from scratch! Mine is shaped like a star! Lincoln showed us how to toss the dough in the air, and Leo dropped his on his own head!" Toby burst into a fit of giggles, holding his stomach. Beside the oven, Leo was laughing too—a high, clear, ringing sound that echoed through the messy kitchen. I froze. I couldn't remember the last time I had heard Leo laugh like that. Over the past year, my home had been filled with quiet resentment, sharp pranks, and angry shouting matches with hired help. I had forgotten what my sons sounded like when they were genuinely happy. I looked back at Lincoln. He was standing there with a quiet, knowing look in his eyes. He didn't offer a frantic apology. He didn't try to shift the blame onto the boys. He just stood his ground, letting the sound of my sons' laughter fill the room. I looked down at the flour on my expensive hardwood floor, then at Toby’s glowing face, and finally back at the young man standing in the middle of the mess. I let out a long, slow exhale, feeling the harsh edge of my anger dissolve into something resembling profound relief. "You're going to clean all of this up, Lincoln," I said, my voice dropping its harsh edge, though I kept my tone firm. "Every single speck of flour." Lincoln offered a small, confident grin. "Already planned on it, sir." I looked at the boys, who were watching me nervously now, waiting to see if I was going to send Lincoln away like all the others. "Well," I said, pulling off my suit jacket and tossing it over the back of a pristine chair. "If there's extra pizza, you'd better set a plate for me." Leo and Toby exchanged a look of pure triumph, and for the first time in six months, nobody walked out the front door.