Dani Exiting the subway station onto a busy Manhattan street, I brush my hands down my khaki-green pants before patting my hair. I twisted my long, golden-brown hair into a tight ballerina bun this morning, hoping it would give me an air of professionalism. Combined with a sensible black T-shirt and minimal makeup, I’m going for the qualified-to-take- care-of-very-rich-children look. Apart from the Converse on my feet that are threatening to fall apart, I think I look the part. As soon as I get my first paycheck, I’ll update my footwear. For now, shoes with worn-down soles and holes in the toes will have to do. I’m going to meet my billionaire boss this morning. After what happened last night, the thought doesn’t terrify me half as much as it did before. I’m early when I reach his building, a huge high-rise jutting into the sky like a gleaming, glass-clad behemoth. I greet the doorman and explain who I am. I’m directed to a security desk, where I r epeat my name, say Linda Delmar’s name, and tell him what I’m doing here. Finally, after signing in and letting the gruff, mustachioed security guard with a crooked name tag identifying him as Yaurel take a copy of my identification, he makes a phone call and waves me through. “The last elevator will take you up to the penthouse,” he tells me. My shoes squeak on the marble floors, vulgar against all this cleanliness. So much gleaming white. Just like last night. Sucking in a breath, I push the thought away. I’ve successfully avoided thinking about what happened all morning, and I’m not going to start thinking about it now. Not going to think about Van der Berg’s hands on my body, or the fact that I still don’t know his first name. I won’t think about the fact that we never even kissed, and I’ll have to go to my grave never knowing how his lips tasted. And I definitely, definitely won’t think about the man leaning against a marble pillar on the other side of my room. I had enough nightmares about it last night. My imagination has gotten out of control. Logically, I know it wasn’t my ex leaning on that pillar, but the sight shocked me to my core. The first six months after I left him, Rich was everywhere I went. He was my constant shadow, terrorizing me from morning till night. He called, showed up at my house, texted, emailed. I moved and changed my phone number, and he found me within days. It got to the point where every vaguely male shape made my heartbeat kick against my ribs. At first, Rich was apologetic. He told me we’d work everything out, that he’d never ask me to do anything fraudulent again. When it became clear I didn’t want to come back to be his little s capegoat anymore, he got mean. He threatened. He screamed. He called me every nasty name under the sun. The only things that k ept me sane were the precious files I’d stolen, backed up on half a dozen clouds and hard drives and safety d eposit boxes. Yes, leaking them would ruin my own r eputation—but at least it would teach Rich a lesson. At least it gave me some last layer of defense against his manipulation tactics.
When I changed my name, Rich seemed to give up. I haven’t heard from him in over three years, but the memory of his threats is still fresh. Last night was the first time I’d panicked like that in over a year—since before I came to New York City. Stupid. I ran away. Again. It took me a full six hours to fall asle ep, and all morning to get my heart rate down to normal. Richard isn’t even in the state. He lives in Arizona and rarely travels to the city he says is nothing but a garbage pit. It wasn’t him at the event last night; even Rich isn’t wealthy enough to attend the Manhattan Summer Ball. I’m seeing his shadow in every patch of darkness again, and I know exactly why. It’s because of what I did. I got close to a man, let my guard down. I felt safe for the first time in four years, and my psyche decided to whip me in response. Rich isn’t here. It was all in my head. I just need to get to the penthouse and do the job I was hired to do. That is what will ke ep me safe, employed, financially secure, and able to finally start my life over again. The elevator door is already open, as if it’s been waiting for me to arrive. Clutching my purse to my shoulder, I take a de ep breath and enter. There’s only one button on the control panel—a circle of gold emblazoned with the letter P. Penthouse. Complete with its own private elevator. I’m entering an alternate dimension—that’s how it feels, at least. Last night was a little taste of how the other half live, and now I’ll see the inner sanctum of a billionaire’s Manhattan home. Bonnie is rich, but she’s not rich rich. Her admittedly luxurious building looks like a heap of shit compared to this place. I press the button and watch the doors slide closed without a sound. The elevator whirrs and I shoot up toward the sky, my heart sinking down to my stomach. I’m so, so underqualified for this. I’ve trained and spent nearly a year working at a daycare, I’ve passed all the tests and criminal record checks, but being here feels different. After seeing Rich’s ghost at the Summer Ball last night, my instinct tells me to forget about this opportunity and run. It’s the safest way to make sure he never weasels his way into my life again. The only way I can protect myself against his controlling tendencies is by getting away from him. Logic tells me to stay. There was no way for Rich to know I was going to be at the Summer Ball. I’ll never see any of those people again. I’m going to be the invisible, anonymous nanny. I’m going to finally get a decent salary. I’ll get a little nest egg. I’ll have security—if only financially. He can’t get to me. Not now, not ever. I’m smarter than I was four years ago. I won’t let my morals be compromised. I’m stronger now. All the things I’ve told myself for four years play on r epeat in my mind, the familiar thoughts soothing my anxieties. Today, logic wins—so I’m here. When the elevator stops, my heart beats a drum inside my chest. The doors slide open and I walk out into a foyer of grey-and-black marble with chrome accents, a heavy- looking stone table laden with a vase of flowers taller than I am the only decoration in the space. Peering
around the vase, I see a door. Before I can knock, it swings open. An older woman in a maid’s uniform looks me up and down, then smiles. “You must be Miss Jenckell.” “Dani.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners. They’re an impossibly pale shade of blue, with little flecks of green. She has equally pale hair, gold streaked with white. A little heavyset and shorter than I am, the maid has a maternal aura and looks like she would give great hugs. Her smile widens. “I’m Kathryn. Come in.” Kathryn opens the door wider for me, and I st ep into another world. The penthouse is huge. A wall of windows looks out onto the city and the ocean beyond. The sun hangs just above the horizon, gilding everything in its early-morning glow. A massive open-plan living area greets me. A state-of-the-art kitchen with a big quartz-top island leads to a dining area, spilling out into a tastefully decorated modern living room with a huge cream-colored sofa. Who in their right mind would have a cream-colored sofa with two young children? I follow Kathryn and st ep onto the plushest carpet I’ve ever felt. I nearly sink into it all the way to my knees. The apartment smells like citrus and verbena, a soothing scent that niggles something in my memory. “Kitchen, dining, living,” Kathryn tells me, pointing. “The staff rooms are down this hall. Powder room—but that one’s for guests only. If you need to go, you go in the staff quarters.” She waves me forward down a hallway to the left. She opens a door into a decidedly less opulent area. “You can leave your bag in here.” She points to a small room with a single bed and a plain nightstand, a mirrored closet lining the opposite wall. Simple and bare, but comfortable. Better than my last apartment, for sure. “Assuming you make it past the probation period, this will be where you’ll sle
Ep six nights a week. You’ll get a swipe card that will allow you to use the elevator on your own, but we don’t give those out on the first day.” “Okay,” I say, then drop my bag onto the bed. “Do you stay here?” She shakes her head. “I’m here three days a week. I live at home with my family.” Kathryn leads me back into the main living space. On the opposite side of the room, across the living room area, we enter another hallway. “Talia’s room, the seven-year- old.” Kathryn points to a room decked out in purple, pink, and frills. A door leads to an ensuite bathroom and another opens onto a walk-in closet stuffed with little girls’ clothes. “Don’t let the colors fool you. She’s no delicate flower. That little girl won’t hesitate to push you off the balcony if you let her. She’s an angel, though.” I frown at the contradiction, but don’t respond. “Francis’s room.” She points to a boy’s room. Same ensuite bathroom and walk-in closet. Why a toddler would need a walk-in closet is beyond me, but I don’t question it. “Guest room.” A closed door. We walk around a corner, where a second living area opens up. This one seems a lot more kid-friendly, with toys neatly stored in boxes, a television, and a sensibly dark- colored couch. Kathryn points to a closed door just beyond the second living room. “Boss’s room. Don’t go in there.” She gestures across the hall to another closed door. “Boss’s office. Don’t go in there.” The last door is at the very end of the hallway. “Boss’s library.”
“Let me guess. Don’t go in there?” “Clever girl,” Kathryn responds with a grin. We walk back out to the main living space and I put my hands on my hips. “So... where are they? I was told they’d be at home full-time until school and daycare start at the end of August.” “Grandmother has them,” Kathryn responds, plucking a feather duster from a narrow cabinet in the kitchen to dust an already-spotless countertop. “They should be back any minute.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Don’t call her ‘Grandmother,’ though. Call her Mrs. Sandringham. She goes by her new husband’s name.” I’m about to ask what my boss’s name is—that’s confidential information, apparently, and I wasn’t to learn it before coming here for privacy reasons—when the front door opens. A little girl with a mass of dark curls comes barreling through the entrance, crashing into Kathryn’s legs. The child giggles, tilting her head up. “I want cookies.” “No cookies before dinner,” Kathryn responds, touching the little girl’s nose with her duster as Talia’s lip juts out in an exaggerated pout. Behind her, a little boy with near-black hair and big grey-blue eyes waddles in. His eyes... why do they look familiar? He runs toward the cream-colored sofa just as I notice the smear of brown—dirt or chocolate or something worse—all over his fingers. I jump in front of him and redirect him toward the kitchen, saying soft words. “Let’s get your hands washed, okay?” “Good catch,” a thin, silver-haired woman says as she closes the front door. “You might not be completely useless, after all.” Wearing a perfectly pressed silk pantsuit and a string of pearls, there’s no mistaking this woman for anyone but Mrs. Sandringham. She oozes wealth and superiority. She casts an assessing glance over me, and I try to ignore the instant dryness in my mouth. Terrifying—this woman is terrifying. She arches a brow as I fumble over my words, Kathryn sliding over to grab Francis to wash his hands. The maid jerks her head toward the other woman, giving me a loaded stare. I extend a hand. “Danika Jenckell.” Mrs. Sandringham doesn’t shake my hand. She just stands there, pearls gleaming, looking at me from head to toe. “You’re supposed to be the best and brightest Ms. Delmar has to offer, are you?” My heart thunders as I drop my hands again, smoothing my palms over my no-nonsense pants. I find myself standing up straighter, like a child being inspected by a schoolteacher. “I’m happy to be here. Looking forward to getting to know the kids.” “Let’s see how happy you are in eight hours.” She snorts, then waves a hand in dismissal, turning toward the two kids. “Come say goodbye to Grandma.” Talia jumps off her chair, where she’d been drinking a glass of juice, and runs to her grandmother. Kathryn wipes off Francis’s now-clean hands and puts him down on the floor, leading him over to Mrs. Sandringham. The two kids get air kisses from their grandmother, who then barks a few orders at Kathryn before exiting. I stare at the closed door. Kathryn grins at me. “What do you think?” I gulp. “She seems... nice.” Kathryn snorts. She puts her hands on her hips and looks at the kids, then at me. “I have de ep-cleaning
and laundry to catch up on today, so I won’t be able to help you. Boss left a folder with information and the kids’ schedules. He’ll be back around six o’clock today.” “Okay.” I nod. I wonder if this is another test. Throwing me in the de ep end, maybe? As the kids drink juice in relative silence, I pull the folder toward me and arch my brows when I see the almost minute-by-minute schedule their father has outlined for them. Reading time, learning, music practice, a few minutes of free time after lunch—this seems less like summer vacation and more like intensive homeschooling. I get that children do well with a schedule, that they need discipline... but this? This seems like too much. I take a de ep breath. Not my kids, not my decision. I’m not here to judge, and I need this job. This is my fresh start. Anonymity, a salary, and a bit of stability. I’m officially no longer running away from anything. So, once the glasses of juice are finished and the kids are about to jump off their chairs to tear through the room, I herd them toward the second living area and start with the first task of the day: reading. “I don’t want to read.” Talia says, running ahead. “I want to play.” No kidding. You’re seven. She jumps onto the couch and starts bouncing up and down. “Talia, don’t jump on the couch.” “But I like it!” “You’ll hurt yourself.” “No I won’t.” She giggles, bouncing higher. “You’ll break the couch.” “We’ll just get a new one.” I cross my arms right as I notice Francis wedging himself under the TV stand, reaching for the dozens of cables tucked away under there. “Oh, no you don’t!” I grab him just before he can pull on the wires, hauling him out as he giggles, flopping in my arms like a sack of potatoes. When I turn around, Talia has disappeared. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Talia?” Silence. Francis giggles, drooling onto the nice, plush carpet. I wipe his face with the edge of my shirt. Thank goodness I wore black. “Talia?” A loud bang has me running toward the end of the hall. Talia’s busted open the door to her father’s bedroom and started burrowing under the blankets. I stand on the threshold, heart thumping. I know I need to get her, but crossing into that room seems... intimate. From the door, I can see a huge king-sized bed covered in crisp white linens. Two chairs are angled in a reading nook in the corner, and the standard ensuite and walk-in closet are visible on the opposite side of the room. Half the closet is empty. A tug pulls at my core. It’s like my whole body wants to go in there, wants to luxuriate in those sheets. The room is utilitarian, almost military in its neatness. As if the man who sle eps here has a tight hold on his control. Toeing over the threshold, I inhale sharply. “Talia, you need to come out now.” “I want to play hide and seek.” A muffled voice from under the covers. I take a de ep breath. “Reading time” isn’t exactly going to plan. If I don’t get these children under control, I’m going to be fired by the time the sun goes down. I check my watch. They’re supposed to start “Puzzles and Learning” in ten minutes. I’m already behind. You know what? Screw the schedule. When all else fails, try bribery.
“I’ll give you cookies if you come out of your dad’s room.” The bump under the covers stops moving, then shimmies toward the end of the bed. Her curly head pops up from the foot of the bed, eyes sparkling as they meet mine. “We’re not allowed cookies before dinner.” “How about this: if you help me make cookies, I’ll let you have one before dinner. Hot out of the oven. But you have to get out of that room and you have to do what I say. No more running away. No more jumping on furniture.” Talia’s eyes narrow. She pushes her hair off her face and nibbles her lip, considering my offer. She glances at me again. “How do you make cookies?” My eyebrows climb. “You’ve never made cookies before?” “We usually just buy them at the bakery.” Francis, still in my arms, tugs at my formerly neat ballerina bun. A strand of hair falls onto my neck. He laughs, then wraps his chubby little arms around my neck. “Cookie! Yummy.” I put him down. “Come with me to the kitchen, and we’ll see if we have all the ingredients. I’ll show you my family’s secret chocolate chip cookie recipe.” Talia’s lips curl into a grin right before she launches away from her father’s bed. “Secret recipe?” “It’s been in my family for generations.” Her smile widens. She hooks her arm over her little brother’s shoulders and pulls him close. “Frankie, we’re going to make cookies!” Francis’s responding smile is blinding. Something jagged in my heart smooths. My family’s secret recipe is the one on the back of the bag from the brand of chocolate chips my grandmother used to buy, but I don’t tell Talia that. Hunting through the cupboards, I find all the ingredients we need. There aren’t any chocolate chips, but I find some high-quality bars of chocolate that I’ll be able to chop. Even better. My heart fists as I gather the ingredients, remembering happy hours spent mixing and baking in Gran’s kitchen. My parents died young and it was Gran who raised me, provided for me, put me through school and made sure I worked hard enough to get a scholarship to finish my studies. She was my rock. After she died, I was adrift... and that’s when I got the job that put me face-to-face with Rich. Is there any question why I fell for his charm? I was vulnerable, alone. Gritting my teeth, I shake the memories away. Taking this job and committing to staying in the city has awoken all the gremlins in my head, apparently. I return my attention to the task at hand, smiling as Talia hops up and down. I’ve made this recipe so many times I know it by heart, so I write it down on a scrap of paper and ask her to read it. There. Reading time. “What does one ‘C’ mean?” “One cup. It’s a measurement.” I hunt through the drawers and find measuring cups, holding out the right one. “Here.”
“What’s that?” She points to a line on the sheet of paper. “That’s one half of a cup.” I hold up the proper measuring cup. “Do you know fractions?” She tilts her head, little dark brows drawing together. “No.” Ha! It’s learning time, too. Take that, schedule! I explain fractions and ask her to measure out the flour while Francis and I start on the granulated and brown sugars. I’m not sure Talia understands, but then she reads out the recipe perfectly, even matching the right measuring cups to the measurements. Smart girl. That counts as solving a puzzle, right? We measure and mix together, then shape the cookies onto a baking sheet. Talia gives me a big smile before digging into the bowl of dough to eat a chunk. I chuckle at the pure mischief on her face. “Technically, you could get sick if you eat too much raw cookie dough, but I think a little bit is okay.” I wink. Francis bangs on the kitchen counter with his fists. “Me too!” “Okay, okay. Just a little.” I give him a taste, then put the first tray of cookies in the oven. By the time we’ve shaped the second batch of cookies, the entire penthouse smells like chocolate chip cookie deliciousness. Talia jumps up and down in front of the oven, squealing as she stares at the cookies baking. “We made those! Frankie, we made those!” Hooking her arm around her little brother’s neck, she cuddles him with violent excitement. I’d tell her to be careful, but Francis laughs in her arms. She beams at me as I grin, then clear them out of the way so I can take the first batch out and put the second batch in. “Don’t touch! They’re hot. We need to let them cool.” “Don’t touch!” Francis r epeats, reaching for the hot cookie sheet. I dodge out of his way and put the sheet out of his reach. Talia hops from one foot to the other, but listens. She clasps her hands behind her back as a sheen of excitement gleams in her eyes. In that moment, I understand what Kathryn meant. An hour ago, Talia was a terror, not listening to anything I said. Now, with an ounce of respect established between us, she’s sweet as can be. We shape the third batch, and I get the kids to help me put the dishes in the sink. The whole kitchen is covered in flour and sugar. Francis dropped an egg, so there are shards of egg shell around a sticky patch on the floor. The whole place is a mess, but the kids are quiet, nearly in awe as they stare at the cookies baking. I glance at the clock. Two hours down, and no major disasters. I let out a breath of relief. As long as I get this place cleaned up before the boss comes home, I might just survive. “Here.” I grab two cookies from the first batch. “They’re cool enough to eat. You can have just one before dinner tonight as a reward for being such good bakers.” Talia and Francis smile so brightly, I wonder how long it’s been since they did something as simple and heartwarming as baking. My heart squeezes as I give them the gooey, chocolatey treats. Today is going well—apart from the mess, obviously. But... this job could work out. I can do this.
Just as I start taking in the fine dusting of flour covering every surface in the kitchen, the front door opens. Talia jumps up and squeals. “Daddy!” “Hi, princess,” a familiar voice says, and a jet of ice shoots through my veins. “I came home for lunch to check up on you. What’s that on your shirt? What are you holding?” “Umm... flour. We made cookies. We used one and a half cups of flour and I measured it out and everything. Here, taste!” “Did you, now.” A pause. “Mm... delicious. You made these?” “Uh-huh. We used fractions.” I know that voice. The smell in this apartment—I realize why it was familiar. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I stand in the kitchen, covered in flour and sugar and egg, unable to move as the sexy stranger from last night walks around the corner. His eyes meet mine, and the smile on his lips dissolves. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He stands there as Talia says something, tugging on his arm. Francis runs over and jumps in his father’s arms, who picks him up without even looking. He’s still staring at me. Anger flashes across his face. Confusion. Shock. The timer on my phone rings, jolting me out of my stillness. I spin around and pull out the last tray of cookies and start transferring them to a cooling rack. Anything to avoid that piercing gaze. But when the cookies are transferred, I turn around to see him still standing in the same spot, staring at me. His eyes blaze, hands curling into tight fists. “Dani,” he rasps. “What the hell are you doing at my house?”