Page 13 of The Billionaire’s Nanny

Grace's toast, it turned out, had to be cut into triangles, not strips, a detail Carrington discovered only because she said the wrong thing at breakfast and watched Grace's face close over it like a door.

"Strips are fine," Carrington had said, waving off the chef's question with the same reflexive efficiency she brought to everything else, and Grace had gone very quiet, and it was Lucy, three feet away, buttering her own toast with the particular unhurried patience Carrington had started to recognize as a form of translation, who'd said, without looking up, "Triangles today, Chef. Ask first next time and it saves the rework."

"They're the same toast," Carrington said, once Grace had gone to gather her backpack.

"They're not, though." Lucy wiped her hands on a dish towel and didn't make it a lecture, which somehow made it land harder than if she had. "Strips is what the second nanny did. The one who left after four days. Grace remembers what things were, right before the people who did them left. It's not really about the toast."

Carrington had absorbed that the way she absorbed a market correction—a fact she couldn't argue with and didn't enjoy—and had made a note, mentally, filed beside the others accumulating that week with the swift, methodical thoroughness she brought to due diligence. Triangles. Closet door shut, not open. Lucy had corrected her on that one too, gently, the first night Carrington had tried bedtime alone and left the door ajar out of some vague adult instinct about air circulation, only to find Grace rigid and dry-eyed and silent an hour later, staring at the two-inch gap as though it were a held breath. No milk near the syrup. The green cup, not the blue one, though no one had ever explained why, and Carrington suspected no one needed to. Favorite color: not pink, not red, nothing Carrington would have guessed from a wardrobe stocked entirely by a nanny agency's shopping service. Teal, Grace had said it herself, unprompted, over a coloring page two nights ago, the closest thing to volunteered information Carrington had gotten out of her all week, and Carrington had sat very still afterward, absurdly moved by four letters of information she should have known five weeks ago and hadn't.

She learned all of it the way she'd learned everything that had ever mattered in her life—by watching, cataloguing, refusing to ask a second time once she'd been told—except that she had needed, every single time, to be told first. That was the part she couldn't get past. Thirty years of instinct for reading a room half a second ahead of everyone in it, and she had needed a nanny to translate her own niece to her in words of one and two syllables.

She did the bedtime shift four nights that week instead of two, standing in Grace's doorway with a picture book she read badly, without the voices Clara had apparently done and Carrington had never learned, stumbling over a dragon's dialogue in a flat, over-articulated register that made Grace look at her, once, with an expression that might have been amusement if Grace had allowed herself that much yet. It was not good. Carrington was aware, with the same clinical honesty she applied to a failing product line, that she was bad at this in a way she was rarely permitted to be bad at anything, and she kept doing it anyway, because the alternative—leaving it entirely to Lucy, again, the way she'd left everything else that mattered to someone more capable—had become, sometime in the last five weeks, a thing she could no longer do and still recognize herself afterward.

She found Lucy in the kitchen a few minutes past midnight, the night before the caseworker was due.

The main house was dark except for the single light over the island, and Lucy was there in an old T-shirt and leggings, hair loose, a legal pad in front of her covered in handwriting too small and slanted to read from the doorway, a mug of something steaming beside a half-eaten plate of crackers and cheese that constituted, Carrington suspected, an entire midnight meal.

"You should be asleep," Carrington said, because it was easier than saying anything true.

"So should you." Lucy didn't look up right away, finishing whatever line she was writing before she set the pen down. "I'm making notes. In case they ask me anything specific tomorrow—Grace's routine, her progress, dates. I didn't want to be guessing in front of someone with a clipboard."

"That's not your job."

"No," Lucy agreed, "but I offered, and I meant it, and unlike some people in this house I don't take things back once I've said them." A small, tired smile took the edge off it. "Sit down, Ms. Cole. You look like you're about to fall asleep standing up, and frankly it would be a relief to see you be something other than perfectly composed for five consecutive minutes."

Carrington sat. It was not a decision she examined closely; her body simply arrived in the chair across the island, the way a marble might arrive at the bottom of a slope it had no real say in.

"I keep thinking about how this reads," she admitted, and heard herself say it before she'd decided it was safe to. "The whole file. A woman who built a company instead of a family, suddenly handed a child she doesn't know how to raise. It reads like exactly what it is."

"It reads like a woman who's trying." Lucy pushed the plate of crackers an inch closer, an offer rather than an instruction, and Carrington took one without quite meaning to. "I've worked in four other houses, Ms. Cole. I've seen guardians who weren't trying at all, who signed the papers because it was easier than the alternative and then handed the whole thing to whoever they hired, permanently, without a second thought. You are not that. You cut your own week in half for a caseworker you've never met. That's not nothing."

"It's the bare minimum."

"Most people don't manage the bare minimum. That's sort of the tragedy of the bare minimum—everyone assumes it, and almost no one does it." Lucy wrapped both hands around her mug, and Carrington watched steam curl up past her knuckles, an unremarkable domestic image that she found, absurdly, difficult to look away from. "Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer."

"You never wait for permission before asking. I've noticed."

"Fair." The ghost of a smile again, quicker this time. "What did you want to be, before all this? Before Cole Developments. When you were young enough that it was still a question with more than one answer."

Carrington considered lying, out of habit, the way she considered lying to every reporter who'd ever asked her something adjacent to a real question. She found, instead, that she answered.

"A marine biologist." She heard how absurd it sounded, said aloud in her own kitchen at midnight, thirty years and an empire away from the girl who'd wanted it. "I had a fish tank until I was fourteen. Clara used to make fun of me for talking to it. She said I named all of them and then couldn't tell them apart, which was true, and which she found endlessly funny."

"What happened?"

"Our father happened." Carrington heard the flatness in her own voice and didn't correct it, because there was nothing to correct it into that would have been honest. "He believed in one kind of ambition, exclusively, and it didn't involve tide pools. Clara went the other way entirely; she let herself want things regardless of whether he approved of them. I decided it was more efficient to want the things he approved of instead. Efficient." She turned the word over, faintly disgusted with it now that it was out in the air between them. "I've called a great many things efficient over the years that were really just easier than being disappointed twice."

"That's the most honest thing you've ever said to me." Lucy's voice had gone quiet, without the careful professional distance she usually kept folded into it even at her most direct. "Thank you for telling me. You didn't have to."

"I'm aware." Carrington looked at her—really looked, the way she looked at a balance sheet when she suspected the real number was buried three tabs deep—and found herself, not for the first time that month, cataloguing details she had no legitimate use for: the loose piece of hair Lucy kept tucking behind her ear and losing again to the same stubborn curl, the crescent of cracker crumbs on the plate between them, the fact that Lucy hadn't once, in this entire conversation, treated her like an employer to be managed rather than a person to be spoken to. "Why do you do that? Ask questions you have no professional need to ask."

"Because I like you," Lucy said, simply, as though it cost her nothing to say, though something in her face suggested it cost her a great deal. "Not the file. Not Ms. Cole, CEO. You, at midnight, with cracker crumbs on your sleeve and a fish tank you used to talk to. I like her considerably more than I expected to, given the reputation."

The kitchen went very quiet. Carrington was aware of the refrigerator humming somewhere behind her, of the clock over the stove ticking through several seconds she didn't count, of the specific, dangerous stillness of a room in which two people had just admitted something and were deciding, separately, whether to survive the silence that followed or fill it.

She thought, with the sudden, total clarity of a woman finally reading her own numbers correctly after weeks of refusing to look at them: this was never going to stay temporary. Not the arrangement, not the nanny, not whatever this was across a kitchen island at midnight with a caseworker's visit twelve hours away. She had told herself, hiring Lucy Harper five weeks ago, that this was a staffing decision—solve the missing variable, acquire the asset, move forward. She understood now, watching Lucy watch her back without flinching, without performing anything for anyone, that some part of her did not want a way out of this house even a little. Did not want, if she was honest, a version of her life that didn't include this exact kitchen, this exact silence, this exact woman across from her at midnight with her guard down for the first time since the interview.

It should have terrified her more than it did.