CHAPTER ONE
1152 Words
Elena
I should’ve known the job was cursed the moment the elevator doors tried to eat me.
With a mechanical groan and an unapologetic ding, the mirrored panels closed around me like the jaws of a steel-toothed wolf. I barely slipped in, cradling my worn leather tote and praying the scuff on my boot wouldn't be the thing that gave me away.
Penthouse level.
Of course. Because only monsters and billionaires lived above the clouds.
As the elevator ascended the glass-and-steel tower, Manhattan unfolded beneath me like a cold, glittering sea. I saw everything and felt nothing. Not the shimmer of promise, not the hum of success, not the hope I’d once carried at twenty-one when my future had been painted in oils and gold frames.
Now? Now I was here to beg for a job cleaning up someone else’s messes.
The irony would’ve made me laugh if it didn’t taste so bitter.
I checked my reflection in the elevator’s mirrored wall. My silk blouse was secondhand, my jeans frayed at the hem. I'd twisted my chestnut hair into a low knot, a few strands deliberately loose to soften the fatigue clinging to my face. I looked older than twenty-six. Not because of time, but because of everything time had stolen.
The doors slid open with a hiss.
The penthouse was a cathedral of glass and marble, cold, clinical, and echoingly silent. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the skyline, but the space felt lifeless. Like someone had designed a home out of revenge.
And then I saw him.
Alexander Thorne.
Standing at the far end of the great room, flanked by shadow and steel, wearing a tailored black suit that fit like a weapon.
I froze. My heart stuttered. I couldn’t breathe.
He turned. And the moment our eyes met, time unraveled.
Ice-blue. Unforgiving. Still capable of slicing through me like piano wire.
The man who destroyed me.
“Miss Rossi,” he said, voice like winter. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
I blinked. Once. Twice. My tongue was dry.
“You’re the employer?” I managed, gripping the leather strap of my tote like a lifeline.
He walked toward me slowly, each step calculated. “You applied to The Thorne Foundation’s listing, didn’t you? And now here you are. Nanny material.”
Bastard.
I felt the blood drain from my face, but I didn’t flinch. I couldn't afford to.
“I didn’t realize,” I lied smoothly. “The agency didn’t mention your name.”
He smiled. Cold and triumphant. “They wouldn’t. I made sure of it.”
That’s when I understood.
He hadn’t just stumbled upon my application.
He’d orchestrated this.
He knew.
Alexander Thorne, my former fiancé, knew I was desperate and he’d summoned me like a ghost he wanted to exorcise.
Or punish.
“You need a nanny?” I asked, every word laced with acid. “Is that what the cold, heartless tech god of Manhattan is now domesticated?”
He chuckled. “Temporary position. A few months. You’d live on-site, tend to a child, and keep your head down.”
“What child?”
“A boy. Four. Doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t like people.”
My stomach twisted. That was Sophie’s age.
He stepped closer. Too close. I could smell the bergamot in his cologne, could see the faint scar above his brow, one I’d once kissed in a softer life.
I didn’t move.
“You still glare like a wounded animal,” he murmured, gaze sliding down my face like a verdict. “But you showed up. That tells me you’re starving.”
I clenched my jaw. “I’m not here for charity.”
“No,” he said, “you’re here because you have no choice.”
There it was.
The truth in razor wire.
He gestured toward the marble bar. “Water? Or are you hoping I’ll throw a drink in your face like last time?”
Last time. Five years ago. When he’d screamed in front of a hundred shareholders that I was a thief, a liar, a gold-digging fraud. When I’d stood there, newly pregnant, shattered, and alone.
I smoothed my blouse. “I didn’t come for a reunion.”
“No, you came for a paycheck.” He opened a file on the counter. My résumé, printed in crisp black ink. “Interesting references. Gaps in employment. And of course your new name.”
I froze. “What name?”
“You dropped your father’s surname. You go by Rossi now. Convenient.”
“That was always my name.”
“Not when I met you.”
He knew everything. The agencies I’d lied to. The credentials I’d cobbled together from three part-time jobs and a forged recommendation. But he didn’t know everything. Not Sophie. Not yet.
“Are you going to humiliate me or offer the job?” I asked, lifting my chin.
He studied me. That same gaze I used to find intoxicating. Now it just felt like a knife against the skin.
“I’ll pay triple the going rate,” he said softly. “In exchange, you’ll do exactly as you’re told. No opinions. No rebellion. Just obedience.”
“You want a nanny or a servant?”
“I want a shadow who doesn’t talk back.”
I should’ve walked out then.
But Sophie needed her surgery. And I was out of options.
My voice was steel. “Fine. I’ll start tomorrow.”
His smile was cruel. “You’ll start now.”
“What?”
He gestured toward the hallway. “Your quarters are down the servant wing. Small, but clean. You’ll find a uniform inside the wardrobe.”
I almost laughed. “A uniform?”
“It’s what helps wear in this house.”
Help.
I felt heat rise in my throat. “You’d rather torture me than just find someone qualified.”
He tilted his head. “Who better to care for a child than a woman who lost everything?”
I walked past him without another word.
But just before I disappeared down the hall, he called after me:
“Welcome home, Elena.”
The “servant’s quarters” were barely wider than a hospital hallway. Sterile white walls. A single narrow bed. A wardrobe that looked like it had been imported from a Victorian orphanage. I closed the door behind me and sat on the bed, breathing hard.
I’d walked into the lion’s den.
Correction: I’d let the lion drag me back in.
But this time, I wasn’t the same wide-eyed girl who believed in happily-ever-after.
This time, I had a secret.
Four years old. Chestnut curls and a crooked smile.
She was why I’d come.
And Alexander Thorne had no idea his “nanny” was the mother of the daughter he never knew existed.
Let the games begin.
- Writer
