4

Lincoln’s POV The kitchen was spotless by six o'clock. Toby had insisted on helping wipe down the counters, while Leo reluctantly swept the flour off the dark hardwood. When the timer on the double oven finally dinged, pulling out three golden, bubbling pizzas made the entire mess worth it. Archie had retreated to the formal dining room at the end of the hall. It was a massive, cold space dominated by a long dark wood table that looked like it belonged in a corporate boardroom rather than a family home. He was already sitting at the head of the table, his suit jacket off, scrolling through emails on his phone while a silver water pitcher sat in front of him. I set the large wooden boards carrying the pizzas in the center of the table, turning around to head back toward the kitchen so they could eat as a family. "Where are you going?" Toby asked, pulling out a heavy chair. "Back to the kitchen," I said, offering a small smile. "You guys enjoy your dinner." "No way," Toby declared, folding his small arms across his chest and sitting down with a thud. "If Lincoln doesn't eat with us, I'm not eating." I blinked. "Toby, it's fine. I'm just the babysitter." "I'm not eating either," Leo chimed in, sliding into the chair next to his brother. He looked right at his father. "Lincoln made the pizza with us. He has to sit down." Archie lowered his phone, his grey eyes slicing over to me. I could see the subtle shift in his jaw—the familiar look of an executive who was used to strict boundaries between staff and family. "Mr. Greyson is an employee, boys," Archie said, his tone voice controlled and even. "He has his own schedule." "I don't care," Toby said stubbornly, picking up his fork and tapping it on the wood. "We want him here. Please, Daddy?" Archie looked between the two boys, who were staring at him with matching, unyielding expressions. He let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose before turning his sharp gaze onto me. "It seems you have acquired an audience, Lincoln," Archie said, gesturing vaguely to the empty chair across from the boys. "Sit down. Before they start a hunger strike." "Thank you, sir," I said, pulling out the chair. I sat down, feeling the sudden weight of Archie's intense gaze on me. Dinner started in relative silence, save for Toby excitedly pointing out which irregular slice of pepperoni belonged to his star-shaped pizza. "So, Mr. Greyson," Archie began, taking a small bite of his slice and chewing carefully. "What is your long-term plan? Clara mentioned you took this position on short notice. Is nannying your career?" "I'm working on my degree in child psychology," I replied, taking a glass of water. "I take night classes. Nannying pays the bills, but I actually enjoy working with kids. They’re honest." "Honest, perhaps. Expensive, certainly," Archie remarked dryly, looking at his sons. "Though I ensure my boys have everything they could possibly need. Elite tutors, private sports coaches, any educational tool they ask for." I set my glass down, looking at the two boys who were currently engaged in a quiet contest to see who could pull the longest string of melted mozzarella. "Tools and toys are great, Mr. Samuel," I said softly, looking back up to meet Archie's eyes. "But buying them everything they want doesn't replace actually being here." The dining room went dead silent. Archie paused, his fork hovering mid-air. The calm, polite air in the room instantly evaporated, replaced by a sudden, dangerous chill. He set his utensil down on the porcelain plate with a sharp clink. "Excuse me?" Archie said, his voice dropping an octave, dangerously low. "I'm just saying what I see," I replied, keeping my voice level, though my heart pounded against my ribs. "They don't act out because they're bad kids. They pull pranks because negative attention from you is still better than no attention at all." "You have been in my home for less than six hours," Archie said, leaning forward, his grey eyes flashing with cold anger. "Do not pretend to understand my family dynamic, Mr. Greyson. I work fifteen hours a day to build an empire that will secure their futures. Remember who employs you." The threat was clear: Watch your mouth, or you're out. I knew I needed this job. I knew my bank account was empty. But looking at Leo and Toby, who had both gone quiet and were watching us with wide eyes, I couldn't bring myself to back down. "I know who pays me, Mr. Samuel," I said, eye to eye with the billionaire across the table. "And I'm not going to apologize for caring about your kids' well-being. If you wanted a robot who just says 'yes sir' and ignores the problem, you hired the wrong guy." Archie stared at me. For three long, agonising seconds, I was entirely convinced he was going to fire me on the spot. His chest heaved slightly, his jaw clenching tight. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, the fury in his eyes slowly shifted into something else. A flicker of genuine shock, followed by a dark, intense curiosity. He wasn't used to people talking back to him. Everyone in his world smiled, nodded, and agreed with every word he said. "You have a remarkably loud mouth for someone on a trial period," Archie said quietly, though the harsh edge had left his tone. "Just honest, sir," I replied. Before Archie could respond, Toby wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked up at his father with absolute seriousness. "Daddy," Toby said casually, breaking the heavy tension in the room. "Lincoln should live with us forever. He makes better pizza than the chef, and he didn't even cry when we put Jell-O in his shoes." Leo nodded in firm agreement. "Yeah. He can have the guest room down the hall." I caught Archie looking over at me. The harshness in his face softened as he looked at his two sons, then back at me. I was sitting there with flour still smudged on the cuff of my shirt, leaning back in the dining chair as if I had been sitting at this table for years. Archie cleared his throat, suddenly looking away and picking up his water glass. "Let's focus on finishing dinner first, boys." Archie's POV By eight o'clock, the main floor of the house was quiet. I was standing in the doorway of the living room, completely hidden by the shadow of the tall archway, watching the scene unfolding on the large sectional couch. Lincoln was sitting in the middle. Leo was curled up against his left side, fast asleep with his head resting against Lincoln's arm. Toby was sprawled across the other end, his feet in Lincoln's lap, struggling to keep his eyes open while Lincoln read aloud from a dog-eared fantasy book he had found on the shelf. Lincoln’s voice was low, warm, and expressive, doing ridiculous voices for the different characters. Every time he made a silly sound, Toby would let out a soft, sleepy chuckle. Lincoln looked down at Toby, a warm, genuine laugh escaping his lips. It was a handsome laugh—easy, bright, and completely unbothered by the world. I stood there, frozen in the dark corridor. My eyes lingered on Lincoln’s face. I noticed the sharp line of his jawline, the way his dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, and the broad, strong frame of his shoulders underneath that simple black shirt. He moved with a natural, effortless confidence that seemed to fill the entire room. Suddenly, my heart did a strange, sharp flip in my chest. A sudden rush of heat rushed up my neck. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach—not of anger, but of something entirely unfamiliar and deeply disturbing. Attraction. I snapped out of it instantly. My breath hitched, and I quickly stepped back into the shadows of the hallway, pulling my gaze away from him as if I had just been burned. What is wrong with you? I thought fiercely, gripping the fabric of my trousers. He is your employee. He is twenty-eight years old. He is here to babysit your children. I turned on my heel and marched quickly toward my private study, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had built a billion-dollar company by maintaining absolute control over every variable in my life. I didn't lose control. I didn't get distracted. And I certainly didn't feel drawn to the sharp-tongued, arrogant young man sitting on my living room couch. I slammed my study door shut, leaning back against the cold wood, desperately trying to ignore the lingering image of Lincoln’s smile in the dark.