8
785 Words
Lena had faced many things in life—eviction notices, bad Tinder dates, jobs that paid in “experience”—but nothing, nothing, prepared her for the morning drop-off at Rosewell Academy.
It was 7:45 a.m.
She was wearing jeans and a hoodie with a suspicious coffee stain.
Everyone else was dressed like they were going to a Vogue brunch for CEOs.
“Okay, Max,” she muttered as she parked Damien’s absurdly expensive SUV. “Game plan: you survive the first-grade circle of doom, and I don’t get side-eyed into oblivion by women named Trish.”
Max unbuckled his seatbelt like a tiny commando.
“I’m gonna fight a dragon today.”
“Perfect. Just make sure it doesn’t sue.”
She stepped out and was immediately hit by a wall of coordinated chaos—chauffeurs, designer strollers, nannies in matching uniforms. And then the PTA moms.
Like a pack of rich-lady lionesses, they stood near the school gates. Pearls. Perfect hair. Eyes sharper than stilettos.
Lena nodded at them in passing.
“Morning.”
The blonde in the middle looked her up and down.
“You must be new.”
“Is it that obvious?” Lena grinned.
The woman blinked. Not used to sarcasm before coffee.
“Which one’s yours?”
Lena blinked back.
“Oh, I’m just the nanny.”
A pause. A sniff.
“How… quaint.”
Max popped out of the SUV like a missile.
“LENA LOOK I BROUGHT A LIZARD!”
“Oh God,” she whispered.
“His name is Sir Slaps-A-Lot!”
The PTA queen visibly recoiled.
Lena gave a tight smile.
“So nice meeting you.”
8:30 a.m. — The Café Downstairs
She was not going to let rich mom energy ruin her morning, so she grabbed coffee from the place near the school—where the lattes cost more than her entire old neighborhood’s rent.
She was mid-sip when someone slid into the chair across from her.
“So how’d your first elite drop-off go?”
She didn’t need to look up to know it was Damien.
Of course he looked disgustingly good. Black sweater, perfect hair, stubble that belonged in a cologne ad.
“I got judged so hard my soul is bruised.”
He chuckled.
“They’re harmless.”
“Says the man who doesn’t know what it’s like to wear non-athleisure leggings and be mistaken for a dog-walker.”
“You do have that ‘treat pouch’ energy.”
“Wow,” she said flatly. “Thank you.”
He sipped his espresso. Watched her over the rim of his cup.
“You’re good with them.”
“The kids?”
“Yeah. But also the chaos. You adapt.”
Lena tilted her head.
“You’re complimenting me again. Is that allowed?”
He smiled—actually smiled—and Lena’s brain betrayed her with a flutter.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
They sipped in silence. But not awkward silence. The nice kind. The kind where the air buzzes just enough to make you wonder what they’re not saying.
11:00 a.m. — Back at the Penthouse
Lena had just started folding laundry (aka the Mount Everest of Small Socks) when Elise popped her head in.
“FYI, someone named Blair is on her way up.”
“Who’s Blair?”
“Apparently,” Elise said with a smirk, “Damien’s ex.”
Lena dropped a sock.
“Excuse me?!”
11:15 a.m. — Trouble in Heels
Blair swept into the living room like a Chanel-scented hurricane. Long legs. Perfect eyeliner. Smile sharp enough to draw blood.
“Oh,” she said, eyes landing on Lena. “You must be the new assistant.”
“Nanny,” Lena corrected.
“Cute,” Blair said, already turning away. “Where’s Damien?”
Lena crossed her arms.
“He’s not home. Do you want to leave a message or just continue aggressively shedding glitter on the furniture?”
Blair’s eyebrow twitched.
“You’re funny.”
“Thank you. It’s how I mask my rage.”
They stood in stilettoed vs. socked silence until Damien walked in, paused, and sighed.
“Blair.”
“Damien.”
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to check on the kids.”
“You haven’t checked on them in two years.”
Blair’s eyes flicked to Lena.
“You have a new situation, I see.”
“Her name’s Lena,” Damien said. “And she’s not a situation.”
Lena blinked. Blair narrowed her eyes.
And suddenly, it was clear: this wasn’t a random visit.
This was a test.
And Lena?
She passed without even trying.
- Writer
