Chapter Three
1151 Words
Monet had spent her entire teenage to early adulthood yearning for just one thing—to be a mother. The mother she didn't have.
For the past three years, she'd been a substitute. Been a mother in every sense but in name. She was a nanny. And not for once in these three years had she let herself ponder on the maternity of the children.
Hannah was their mother.
So why did it feel like she was deserting her children?
She closed the washer, looking at her wristwatch and seeing she still had time to prepare a quick snack for the kids before they dropped home.
A late afternoon sunlight pored through the open drapes, casting a soft honey glow over the polished floor; Monet walked barefeet as she did, relieving every memory she'd gotten in every room on the ground floor.
She stopped by the den, It had been scrubbed clean by the day cleaner, who came to clean four times a week. It would take approximately 10 minutes for it to go back to its hazardous state the minute Carter came back from preschool.
Everything was starting to seem like she was seeing it from another person's point of view.
Moving to the kitchen, a bloodcurdling scream permeated the quiet home. Her hand moved to her throat and she realized she'd been the one to scream.
“Dear Lord in Heaven! You gave me a scare Mr. Abbott.”
The ghost of a smile flitted on his lips, but it was gone so fast that she must have imagined it. “I took the day off from work.”
He looked...... He looked tired. But a tired man shouldn't look this good. His suit jacket was missing; tossed carelessly over the back of the breakfast nook, the top three buttons of his navy blue dress shirt opened —a glimpse of dark curls peeked at her.
Goodness Gracious! Where had that come from?
She had seen Richard shirtless and in swimming trunks more times than she could count and even more disheveled than this, but why would today pique her curiosity?
“Is everything okay?” It was a stupid question to ask, but she didn't know what else to say.
Things had always been stoic with them. There was no awkwardness, just the constant subtle reminder that she was his employee and that the kids were involved and he was mourning the love of his life. So there was no room for blurred lines. But they'd never been awkward with one another.
Until now.
“I figured, we needed to talk about the situation.”
Monet moved around the kitchen with a slight tremor in her hands, her fingers brushing over the cool surface of the marble countertop. She was stalling—she knew it. But what could she say? What could she possibly say?
Her gaze flickered to Richard, who sat across from her, his eyes fixed on her every movement. It was as if the air between them thickened, every breath heavier than the last. She couldn’t tell if he was waiting for her to speak or if he was simply lost in his own thoughts. Probably the latter, considering the way his jaw was clenched tight, the faint lines of exhaustion deepening around his eyes.
Why does he look so good, even like this?
She shook her head, fighting off the strange tug in her chest. No. Focus, Monet.
His voice cut through the silence. “I figured, we needed to talk about the situation.”
Her stomach dropped, a familiar, hollow ache spreading in her chest. The situation. That vague, detached phrase that had been thrown around in their home for days now. She hadn’t asked, but she knew exactly what he meant: Me. The woman who’d become more than just a nanny, more than just someone who was taking care of his children.
But what was she, really? Was she still just the substitute mother, or was she something else entirely? And what was he to her? Richard Abbott was the widowed father, the man who was never going to let go of the love of his life, no matter what.
She swallowed hard, turning to the kettle. The steam hissed, releasing the slightest bit of warmth, but it did nothing to settle the chill in her spine.
She could feel his eyes on her then. Heavy, insistent, almost like a whisper against her skin. It unnerved her. It made her feel exposed.
Monet could hardly concentrate on pouring her tea. She tried to focus on the rhythmic motion of dipping the bag in and out of the hot water, but the knot in her throat made it nearly impossible to think. She finally set the cup down with a soft clink, noticing the tension in the way he was sitting—his posture too rigid, as if he was holding something back.
And then, his gaze met hers.
She didn’t flinch, but a shiver ran through her. Stop thinking like this, she silently told herself. This isn’t about you. It’s about the kids.
But even as she thought that, she could feel the question burning on the tip of her tongue, just as it always did. Am I a replacement?
She sat across from him, searching his face, waiting for a sign, any sign that he saw her as more than just the caretaker of his children. But the longer she looked, the more she realized the truth: Richard was still deeply, irrevocably in love with Hannah.
And I am nothing but the shadow she left behind.
Her chest tightened. She couldn’t help it. She’d been so sure of herself before, so determined to keep things professional. But now, in this moment, everything was fragile—like a building poised on the edge of collapse.
She wanted to speak, but the words caught in her throat. What could she say? I’m leaving soon. It’s time for me to go.
But there was still something else—a need she didn’t know how to articulate.
Instead, she stared into his eyes, trying to read him, to see if he was struggling with the same things. But all she saw was a man who was trapped in his grief, whose world was still revolving around the memory of his wife. And for a moment, she felt entirely alone in the room with him.
“How soon is the wedding?”
“We've talked about a summer wedding, so July.”
He nodded his dark head, his curls a dark constrat of Carter's, “Are you open to working part-time?”
Monet clutched her cup of tea, their eyes meeting. Her answer plain to her as day. He never considered her as anything to the kids other than a good employee. She would've loved to laugh but was certain it would come out as tears.
- Writer
