Once His Contract Bride, Now His Hired Nanny

CHAPTER 3 – Enter the Mansion

The car they sent for her was black and glossy and far too quiet inside.

Elena sat in the back seat with her hands folded in her lap, watching the city blur past. She’d never ridden in a vehicle this clean before. There were no stickers, no rosaries, no dangling air fresheners in the shape of pine trees. Just sleek leather and the faint scent of new upholstery.

The dress the stylist had chosen for her was simple but obviously expensive: a cream-colored sheath that hugged her figure without clinging, paired with a tailored blazer. Nude heels. A discreet gold chain at her neck.

Appropriate clothes, Matteo had said.

She’d stood in front of her small mirror that morning, barely recognizing herself. Her braid had been twisted into a smooth chignon, with a few soft strands framing her face. Makeup had smoothed out the evidence of sleepless nights.

“You look like a manager,” her landlady had whispered in awe when Elena stepped out. “Or a politician’s wife.”

“Elena!” The neighbor’s kid had waved. “Teacher! You look pretty!”

She’d smiled, heart cracking. She’d told them she got a job in another neighborhood, that she might not be back often. Lies, piled on top of other lies.

Now, as the car left the familiar streets and climbed a road that wound along the cliff, Elena pressed her palm against her stomach, trying to calm the uneasy churn.

The De Luca mansion appeared around a curve like something out of a movie.

White stone walls. Iron gates. A long driveway framed by low hedges and tall cypress trees. The sea spread out behind it, blue-grey and restless, throwing light up onto the glass windows.

The car rolled to a smooth stop at the front steps.

The driver got out, hurried around, and opened her door.

“Mrs. De— Miss Cruz,” he corrected quickly.

Elena swallowed and stepped out, the heel of her shoe clicking on the stone. The air smelled of salt and something floral—jasmine, maybe, climbing up the walls.

The massive double doors swung open before she reached them.

A woman in her forties stood there, elegant in a black dress and subtle jewelry, her dark hair coiled into a bun. Her posture said in charge. Her eyes said assessing.

“Signorina Cruz,” she greeted. Her accent wrapped around the name. “Welcome.”

“Um. Hello.” Elena managed a small smile. “It’s… nice to meet you.”

“I am Rosa,” the woman said. “Housekeeper.” Her gaze flicked down, taking in Elena’s shoes, then back up, as if checking if she would track mud into the polished floors. “Come. The master is waiting.”

The master.

Elena stepped into cool marble and quiet.

The foyer soared up, a chandelier hanging like a frozen waterfall from the high ceiling. To the left, a staircase swept up in a curve. To the right, archways led into rooms furnished with soft couches and dark wood.

It didn’t smell like a home. It smelled like a hotel that was too expensive for anyone she’d ever known to book.

“Leave your bag,” Rosa instructed, nodding to a side table. “We will bring your things up later.”

Elena hesitated, fingers tightening on the strap. Everything she owned of value was in that bag: her documents, her phone, the small envelope of cash she kept for emergencies.

Rosa’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened half a degree. “No one will take it, signorina. This house is more secure than a bank.”

That thought was not as comforting as it was meant to be.

Still, Elena forced her hand to unclench and set the bag down. It felt like another piece of herself left behind.

They walked down a wide hall. Paintings lined the walls—landscapes, older men with stern faces, one or two abstract splashes of color that looked angry. Soft carpet muffled their steps.

Rosa stopped at a set of double doors.

“He is inside,” she said, then lowered her voice. “Do not let him intimidate you. He respects strength more than fear.”

The surprising advice hung in the air as she knocked twice and opened the doors.

The room beyond was a smaller version of Matteo’s office at De Luca Group—floor-to-ceiling windows, dark wood, leather chairs.

He stood by the window with his back to them, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, the late-morning light cutting along the lines of his shoulders.

“Boss,” Rosa said. “She has arrived.”

He turned.

Even in daylight, he seemed carved from shadow and sun. His tie was undone, top button open, a hint of ink peeking from beneath his cuff—tattoo lines curling around his wrist.

“Elena,” he said.

The way he said her name made something flutter uneasily in her chest. Not quite warmth. Not quite cold.

“Hello,” she replied. Stupid. What else did you say to the man you were supposed to marry in three hours?

His gaze swept over her, lingering for half a beat on the dress, the hair, the nervous twist of her fingers. Something unreadable passed through his eyes.

“You cleaned up well,” he said.

It wasn’t an insult. But it wasn’t a compliment either. Just an observation.

She lifted her chin. “You pay for a stylist, you get results.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Rosa exhaled softly, as if relieved Elena hadn’t melted into a puddle of fear.

“The paperwork at city hall is ready,” Matteo said. “We’ll leave in twenty minutes. Rosa will show you the room you’ll be staying in.

For now.”

“For now?” Elena asked.

“Until after the wedding,” he said. “Then we discuss where you prefer to sleep.”

Heat flared in her cheeks. “I prefer a bed,” she said. “And a door that locks.”

This time, his low sound could almost be called a laugh.

“You’ll have both,” he said. “Rosa.”

Rosa nodded briskly. “Come, signorina.”

Elena followed her up the sweeping staircase, her hand gliding along the polished rail.

At the top, the hallway branched. Rosa led her down the left, past several closed doors, until she opened one near the end.

The room inside was bigger than Elena’s entire apartment.

A king-sized bed sat against one wall, dressed in crisp white linens. A plush rug softened the floor. A small seating area stood by the windows, which looked out over the sea. A door on one side led to a bathroom so pristine it looked fake—glass, marble, fluffy towels.

“This will be your room,” Rosa said. “For now.”

“You keep saying that,” Elena said, dazed. “What happens… later?”

Rosa hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Later, who knows? The house shifts for the lady of the house.”

Lady of the…

The title lodged in Elena’s throat.

“I’m not—” she began.

“You will be,” Rosa said. “In the eyes of the law. In the eyes of this house. The rest… comes in time. Or it doesn’t.”

She turned to go, then paused.

“I served the signor’s mother,” she said quietly. “She was strong. Like you. This house eats the weak, signorina. Don’t let it eat you.”

The warning sent a shiver down Elena’s spine.

“I’ll try not to,” she said.

When Rosa left, Elena sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her reflection in the mirrored closet doors.

Mrs. De Luca.

She whispered the name. It sounded like it belonged to someone else.

Twenty minutes later, she walked down the stairs on heels that suddenly felt too high, her pulse loud in her ears.

Matteo waited in the foyer, jacket on, tie straightened, expression unreadable. Two men in dark suits stood behind him—bodyguards, she guessed. One inclined his head when she appeared; the other didn’t bother hiding his curiosity.

“Are we late?” she asked.

Matteo glanced at the slim watch on his wrist. “No. Let’s keep it that way.”

They walked out together.

From the outside, Elena thought, they probably looked perfect. Powerful. Rich. Like a couple who had everything.

Inside, she felt like a student being marched to an exam she hadn’t studied for, with a gun pointed at her back.

The civil ceremony took less than twenty minutes.

A bored official in a municipal building read out the legal text in a monotone. Matteo answered “Yes” when prompted. Elena’s “Yes” came a fraction too late, a little too thin.

Two of Matteo’s men signed as witnesses. The official stamped the documents, shook Matteo’s hand a little too eagerly, and wished them “a long and prosperous union” without looking her in the eye.

There were no rings. No music. No kisses.

“Do you want one?” Matteo asked quietly as they stepped out into the corridor.

“A kiss?” she blurted, startled.

His mouth quirked. “A ring.”

She stared at his hands. At the bare left ring finger that no doubt kept many women hopeful that he was available.

“No,” she said after a moment. “We don’t have to pretend that hard.”

“As you wish,” he said.

He opened the car door for her. She slid inside, the thin band of the municipal stamp still feeling hot on her fingers, as if it had burned itself into her skin.

Mrs. Elena De Luca, the document had said.

The name was official now.

There was no going back.