Taming The Spoiled Brat

Julius

Finding myself as the caretaker for a pampered heiress wasn’t exactly the career path I envisioned.

I wasn’t entirely sure why I even agreed to meet with her billionaire father.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

The hefty paycheck was the sole reason I entertained the idea of speaking with him.

While I didn’t like to think of myself as motivated solely by money, it would be foolish to disregard such a lucrative opportunity without considering the details.

So, there I was, standing on the sidewalk, gazing up at the imposing structure of Channing Industries.

Somewhere up there on the top floor, possibly observing me, was the CEO, Martinus Channing. A man with interests spanning various profitable industries, from steel and oil to renewable energy and organic groceries.

When I received the email, I had to check the man’s net worth, assuming the proposed salary was a jest.

To someone worth eighty-two billion, a few million a year to oversee his child seemed insignificant. It was almost stingy. But I suppose accumulating that level of wealth requires shrewdness in compensation.

Entering the building ahead of schedule, I underwent a surprisingly thorough security screening before boarding the private elevator to the top floor.

During the ascent, I relocated the visitor’s badge from my suit pocket to my belt.

As the doors parted with a gentle chime, I found myself in Martinus Channing’s expansive, sparsely furnished office. The reception area was dominated by a sizable desk staffed by two young women, elegantly attired and minimally made up, with their hair neatly styled.

Beside the desk, a modest seating arrangement offered little distraction, devoid of any entertainment amenities.

“Mr. Finnegan,” greeted the brunette receptionist with a polite smile. “Mr. Channing is expecting you,” she informed me, leading the way toward a discreet door camouflaged within the polished oak paneling. “Please, go right in,” she invited.

“Thank you,” I acknowledged before stepping into the office.

The office space dwarfed the reception area, boasting polished floors, expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, a dedicated seating area complete with four chairs and a coffee table, a mini bar, a television, and a grand solid wood executive desk flanked by a wall of meticulously arranged bookshelves. Each book had been re-covered to sport a neutral tan hue.

Seated behind the desk was Martinus Channing himself.

In his fifties, Martinus possessed a commanding presence, his tall and well-built frame adorned in a suit that likely cost as much as a luxury car’s down payment. His watch and cufflinks were equally extravagant, to put it mildly.

With classic good looks, his dark hair featured streaks of salt and pepper, complemented by piercing blue eyes.

“I didn’t expect you to show up,” he greeted me.

“Frankly, neither did I,” I confessed, extending my hand across the desk for a handshake.

“And yet, here you are,” he remarked, gesturing to the chair beside me.

“It would appear so,” I concurred, settling into the seat as he pressed a button on his desk.

Less than ten seconds later, the door swung open, and the receptionist, a blonde, wheeled in a silver coffee cart.

“Would you like a cup?” she offered.

Sensing her eagerness to complete the task, I simply nodded. “Black.”

Swiftly, she poured us each a cup before hurrying out, leaving the cart behind.

“So, you have a job offer for me,” I remarked once Martinus took his seat.

At the mention of the job, however, he let out a sigh.

“I do,” he conceded, reaching for his coffee but merely rotating the mug on the desk’s surface.

“Now’s your chance to tell me about it, sir,” I prompted.

“Ex-military, correct?” he inquired.

“Yes,” I affirmed.

“Special operations, if memory serves.”

“Yes,” I confirmed, refraining from elaborating further even if I could.

“That’s beneficial. I believe that experience will be crucial for this role.”

His statement puzzled me.

“To protect your daughter?” I queried. “From whom?”

“Primarily from herself,” he replied, a smile devoid of warmth touching his lips. “There are threats, naturally. To my life and, consequently, hers. When you reach a certain status, there’s always someone aiming to hold you accountable for something, seeking retribution for real or perceived grievances. I’ve always had my own security for social gatherings.”

“And your daughter hasn’t?” I inquired.

“She has. Undoubtedly,” he added with a sigh. “However, Mr. Finnegan, no one has endured. I require someone committed to the job, someone who won’t abandon their duties due to a bad day.”

His daughter sounded challenging to deal with, to say the least.

Yet, if I could withstand the complaints of new recruits during my military service, I was certain I could handle a spoiled rich kid.

“I understand. I don’t quit when faced with challenges,” I assured him.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Everything I’d ever lost in life bore the marks of my determination.

“Good to hear. Regarding the position itself, it’s relatively straightforward. You’ll be with my daughter, ensuring her safety and preventing any… tricky situations,” Martinus explained.

Did he have no influence over his child?

What kind of ‘tricky situations’ could a young girl possibly encounter?

“Understood,” I agreed.

“In case it wasn’t clear in the email, this is a live-in role.”

A live-in position?

So, if I agreed to this, it meant committing to a year, at the very least, of continuous work. No breaks. No personal space. That was a significant commitment. But with the salary offered, it made more sense. Could I handle that? Sacrifice a year of my life for a hefty paycheck at the end? I believed I could.

“Your expenses will be covered entirely,” Martinus assured me. “You won’t have any financial burdens during your tenure.”

“Okay,” I acknowledged, nodding. “And what about time off?”

“You may select one day per week, excluding weekends,” he specified.

That seemed like an unusual stipulation. Perhaps he preferred weekends for family outings and wanted an extra set of eyes around for his daughter’s safety. But it didn’t matter much to me; I didn’t have any weekend plans myself.

“Will there be other staff hired to assist?” I inquired, pondering the possibility of a nanny or additional personnel for childcare, leaving me as an extra pair of eyes.

“A driver, naturally,” Martinus confirmed. “Cleaning staff will visit twice a week. Occasionally, there may be in-home spa services such as massages or facials.”

In-home spa treatments for a child? Such was the lifestyle of the affluent, I supposed.

“You’ll have your own room and private bathroom, but the common areas will be shared,” Martinus added.

“Will your wife be present?” I asked, not enthused about being solely responsible for the child’s care. I wasn’t an au pair.

“My wife passed away many years ago,” Martinus replied, his expression briefly clouding with sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” I offered, feeling as though I had reopened a wound. “What are your typical hours, then, sir?” I inquired.

“My hours?” Martinus seemed perplexed. “I fail to see the relevance.”

Good grief. Was he oblivious or simply detached from his daughter’s welfare? No wonder she posed a challenge.

“It would be helpful to know when you’ll be present,” I explained patiently.

At this, Martinus frowned. “Present? No, no. My daughter has her own condo, Mr. Finnegan.”

“Do you not reside with your daughter?” I inquired, attempting to suppress the indignation in my tone, though not entirely succeeding.

“Mr. Finnegan, may I address you as Julius?” Martinus asked.

“Of course.”

“Julius, how old do you assume my daughter is?” he queried.

“I couldn’t say. But I’m beginning to suspect significantly older than I initially presumed.”

Martinus emitted a dry chuckle as he reclined in his chair.

“I had a suspicion, given your inquiries,” he remarked, leaning forward to retrieve a photograph from his desk. “Saige is twenty-four,” he informed me, turning the image for my perusal.

The girl depicted in the photo didn’t appear to be twenty-four, more resembling someone in their early teens, with elongated limbs and a wide grin, sporting icy blue eyes akin to her father’s.

“Twenty-four,” I echoed, furrowing my brows. “Why then does she require live-in assistance?” I questioned.

“Saige maintains… irregular hours,” Martinus replied, choosing his words cautiously. Perhaps a bit too cautiously. There seemed to be a hidden subtext.

“And by that, you mean…” I prompted.

Another sigh from Martinus.

And more stirring of his mug.

“Alright, son. Here’s the situation. Saige has become somewhat… rebellious since reaching adulthood. She frequents parties, staying out until all hours of the night. For her safety, our family’s reputation, and my own peace of mind as a father, I require assurance that she isn’t spiraling out of control. Hence, I’ve been hiring individuals to monitor her activities since she graduated college.”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t yet found someone up to the task. Saige can be… challenging. I need someone who can manage her.”

“I see,” I acknowledged, my thoughts racing as I processed this new revelation and contemplated a considerably different role on the spot. “Was Saige responsible for dismissing the previous guards?” I inquired.

“Technically, she lacks the authority to dismiss any of you,” Martinus clarified. “She’s well aware of the consequences if she fails to comply with this arrangement.”

That was affluent language for he’d cut off her financial support. Spoiled princesses like her couldn’t survive without their monthly allowances, even if they contributed nothing to earn it.

“And yet?” I prodded, noting the present vacancy in the position.

“Saige can be… obstinate if she doesn’t get her way. I believe the former guards simply reached their limit and departed.”

“So, if I accept this role, and at some point, she instructs me to vacate her apartment…”

“You aren’t obligated to comply. She might protest and make your time with her unpleasant, but she won’t involve the authorities or even the doorman to forcibly remove you. She knows better.”

“I understand,” I acknowledged, taking a deep breath.

She sounded like a nightmare.

The question remained: could I endure her for a year to secure a substantial portion of my retirement savings?

I’d served in the military.

I’d endured extreme conditions, enduring cramped quarters with individuals I despised for extended durations. I’d experienced misery and frustration day in and day out.

But I had persevered.

There was no way one pampered heiress could be too much for me to handle for a year.