Chapter 3 - The Babbling Broker
The next morning, the household was walking on eggshells.
Thorne stood near the kitchen island, nervously checking his pocket watch. Julian Vance had called down at 5:00 a.m.—an hour before his usual wake-up time—demanding to know the identity of the woman who had entered the east wing the night before.
“Her name is Elena Rostova,” Thorne said, addressing Julian as the billionaire strode into the kitchen, buttoning the cuffs of a crisp white dress shirt. His face was shadowed with fatigue, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable.
“She’s a night housekeeper,” Thorne continued defensively, anticipating a reprimand. “She was clearing debris from the corridor. I will ensure she is disciplined for breaching the wing’s protocol—”
“No,” Julian cut him off, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register. “Did she touch them?”
“Sir?”
“Did she attempt to console them?”
“Negative,” Thorne said, looking puzzled. “According to the logs, she ignored them entirely, cleaned the baseboards, and left the room within ten minutes.”
Julian walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the gray waters of the Sound. He didn't say anything for a long moment.
“Increase her salary,” Julian ordered quietly.
“Sir?”
“Double it. And move her living quarters to the second-floor suite.”
“Julian—that’s right next to the nursery,” Thorne protested. “If she quits like the others, we’ll—”
“She won't quit,” Julian said, remembering the steady, unbothered way she had scrubbed the wall while his sons shrieked. “She’s not a nanny. She’s unimpressed.”
That evening, Elena was quietly dusting the antique console table in the second-floor landing when she heard the heavy oak doors of the east wing creak open.
She turned around.
Trotting out of the nursery, completely naked from the waist down and dragging a discarded diaper behind him like a trophy, was fifteen-month-old Lucas. His brother Leo followed closely behind, clutching a plastic spoon and wearing a triumphant grin.
They had broken containment.
Elena stared at them. The twins stared back at Elena.
For a terrifying second, Elena imagined the alarms blaring, security guards rushing up the stairs, and Mr. Thorne firing her on the spot.
Instead, Lucas dropped the diaper, pointed a chubby finger at Elena’s taped glasses, and let out a high-pitched, explosive giggle.
“Gah-gah-ba!”
Leo dropped his spoon and fell over backward onto the plush carpet, laughing hysterically.
Elena didn't panic. She crouched down to their eye level, unclipped her hair so it fell in a messy brown wave around her shoulders, and made a loud, ridiculous popping sound with her cheek.
Pop.
The twins froze.
Elena did it again. Pop.
Lucas shrieked with absolute delight, crawled across the hallway floor at lightning speed, and planted his wet, sticky hand right on Elena’s knee.
“Well, look at you,” Elena whispered, smiling despite herself. “Escape artists, are we? Your security detail is going to have my head on a spike.”
She didn't know that three stories above, hidden in the private structural stairwell, Julian Vance was standing in the shadows, holding onto the wooden banister so tightly his knuckles turned white.
He watched as his sons—the two boys who had never once smiled at a nanny, a doctor, or even at him—scrambled into Elena’s lap, grabbing her cardigan and babbling in a joyous, chaotic torrent of toddler gibberish.
And then, Lucas leaned forward and patted Elena’s cheek.
Julian closed his eyes, a sudden, searing pain blooming behind his ribs. It was the exact gesture Clara used to make when she was calming him down after a grueling board meeting.
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He had spent millions trying to buy peace for his sons.
And all it took was a broke housekeeper with a taped-up pair of glasses to bring the music back into his house.
