Chapter Two

Esmé’s POV

The glow of my laptop screen was the only light in my cramped studio apartment. I had been staring at my inbox for so long that the white background was burned into retinas.

Refresh.

Nothing. Just another newsletter and a coupon for a pizza place I couldn’t afford anymore.

“Please,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut. My bank account was a dessert, and my rent was due in 3 days. I had the credentials. I had the passion. But in this city, the elite didn’t just want a nanny; they wanted a miracle worker with a pre-degree I didn’t possess.

Ping.

The sound was small, but it felt like a gunshot in the quiet room. I didn’t breathe as I moved the cursor.

Subject: Formal Offer- De La Fontaine Holdings/ Private Residence.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I clicked it. My eyes skipped over the legal jargons, the non-disclosure agreements, and the list of rigid house rules until they landed on the only words that mattered: We are pleased to offer you the position of a Live-in Nanny.

“Oh my God,” I breathed. Then, louder, “I got it! Oh my God, I finally got it!”

I jumped up from my creaky desk chair, spinning in circles. I wanted to scream, to dance, to call someone—anyone—but there was no one to call. It was just me, my half packed suitcase, and a stack of bills that finally had an answer.

“Four months,” I gasped, wiping a stray tear that had escaped. “Four months of “no” and “we will keep your resume on file”………and I landed a De La Fontaine Contract.”

I knew the name, of course. Everyone did. Leomaris De La Fontaine was a titan, a man whose shadow loomed over the city’s skyline. But the news lately had been grim. His wife, the beautiful Lotte De La Fontaine, had passed away few days ago.

The job wasn’t going to be easy. I was stepping into a house of mourning, a place where the air would be thick with grief and the children—two five years old girls—would be lost in the woods of their own sadness.

I sat back down, the weight of the moment pressing into me. This wasn’t about the money or fancy estate. It was about the girls. Wait what did I say? Let me rephrase that….this was mostly about the money but I felt for the girls.

I knew their pain. I knew it in a way that most people never would.

I closed my eyes, and for a second, I wasn’t in my studio apartment. I was ten years old again, standing in the sterile hospital hallway, being told that both my parents were gone. Once car accident, and the world I knew had vanished.

Then came the foster system.

I spent years being moved like a piece of unwanted furniture. From one “home” to another, I learned quickly that most people didn’t open their doors out of kindness. They did it for the government checks. They saw me as a monthly payment, not a person. I was a mouth to feed and a body to work. Most were cold; some were outright abusive.

The Lancaster’s were my final straw.

I was 16 when I realized that some monsters don’t hide under the bed—they sit at the dinner table. When I finally gathered the courage to tell Mrs. Lancaster that her husband was harassing me, and that his “accidental” touches were becoming more frequent and his gaze was becoming predatory, she didn’t protect me.

She looked at me with hatred that burned. She called me a liar. A slut. A girl trying to break up a “good” home. She tortured me for weeks after that, piling up chores and hurling insults that cuts deeper than any physical blow.

So, I did what any teenage girl would do.

Run.

I hit the streets at 16 with nothing but a backpack and the clothes on the back. I have been alone ever since, building a life out of scraps and sheer will.

A grim smile touched my lips. Two years after I fled, I heard what happened to them. Karma hadn’t just knocked; it had broken their door down. The husband I had warned her about didn’t stop with me. He ended up impregnating their own daughter. I felt for the girl, but for the Lancasters, it was the ruin they deserved.

“I won’t let those girls feel like that,” I whispered to the empty room. “I won’t let them be alone in the dark.”

I turned back to the screen, my eyes scanning the rest of the message. The font was sharp, clinical, and left no room for errors.

Resumption Date: Tomorrow.

Time: 8:00Am Sharp.

Note: punctuality is not request; it is a requirement. Failure to arrive on time will result in the immediate voiding of contracts.

“8:00 Am,” I muttered, looking at the clock on the wall. It was already late. I didn’t even have time to celebrate or even process the trauma I’d just been digging up. I had to move.