Chapter 1 - The Terms of Engagement
Adrian Moretti looked at Claire Donovan for a long, silent moment. The rain outside lashed against the heavy glass windows of the study, casting long, weeping shadows across the polished mahogany floor. He leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers interlacing over his chest.
"Because every other nanny arrived with glowing recommendations, impeccable resumes, and an absolute conviction that they could handle my sons," Adrian said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "They lasted less than two days because they treated my children like a job. They followed the rules. They tried to impose discipline. And they broke the moment they realized my sons do not care about rules, and I do not care about their feelings."
Claire squeezed the strap of her damp purse. She could feel the cold water from the triplets' bucket prank soaking through her bra, chilling her to the bone. "And you think I'll break too?"
"I know you will," Adrian stated flatly. "The only difference is that you are desperate enough to let them try for forty-eight hours. You need the twenty thousand dollars to save your apartment in Queens. You have a daughter to feed. Desperation makes people resilient, Ms. Donovan. But my sons are relentless."
"Let's make a deal then, Mr. Moretti," Claire said, stepping closer to the desk, ignoring the puddle forming around her wet shoes. "If I leave before Sunday at six, you owe me nothing. But if I stay, I want an advance on that check the moment the clock strikes forty-eight hours. No payroll processing delays. No corporate red tape. Direct wire."
Adrian’s lips twitched into the ghost of a humorless smile. "Agreed. Mrs. Gable will show you to your room. You have thirty minutes to dry off before the boys' dinner. If you cannot get them to the table, your time starts ticking backward."
Thirty minutes later, Claire stood in the doorway of the massive, industrial-grade kitchen. She had changed into her only other clean outfit—a pair of dark jeans and a plain black sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, damp ponytail.
The triplets were already there, sitting on high stools at the marble island. They looked like a set of perfectly matching porcelain dolls, designed by a dark artist. Noah, Caleb, and Miles. They were completely identical, down to the slight cowlick in their dark hair and the piercing intensity of their gray eyes.
On the counter sat three untouched plates of chicken cutlets and steamed broccoli. Mrs. Gable, the elderly housekeeper, stood in the corner, looking exhausted.
"We don't eat green stuff," Caleb announced, pointing a fork at Claire. "The last nanny tried to make us eat it. We hid it in her shoes."
"Good to know," Claire said calmly. She walked over to the counter, picked up Caleb’s plate, and dumped the broccoli straight into the trash can. She did the same for Noah and Miles.
The kitchen went dead silent. Even Mrs. Gable gasped.
"What are you doing?" Noah asked, his eyes wide. "Dad says we have to eat vegetables."
"Your dad isn't here," Claire said, leaning against the counter. "And frankly, I don't care if you get scurvy. If you want to eat just the chicken, eat the chicken. If you don't want to eat the chicken, don't eat it. But if you get hungry at midnight, the kitchen is locked, and I have the only key. Your move, boys."
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Miles, the quietest of the three, stared at Claire for a long time. He picked up his fork, stabbed a piece of chicken, and put it in his mouth. Noah and Caleb exchanged a bewildered look, then slowly followed suit.
From the shadow of the hallway, Adrian Moretti watched the exchange, his eyes narrowing. No nanny had ever ignored his dietary directives for the children. More importantly, no nanny had ever made his sons look so utterly confused.
