His Nanny, His Obsession

Celeste’s pov The third floor of the Acosta estate felt less like a home and more like a maze built by someone who hated having guests over. I clutched the keyring in my hand against my chest, my fingers tracing the edge of the key marked Nursery. Mrs. Pruitt, the housekeeper who had greeted me at the front gates with a facial expression that could have scared off a burglar, had given me very clear directions: Up the grand staircase, past the portrait gallery, second hallway on the right, third door on the left. That sounded simple enough… Except I had taken a wrong turn somewhere after the portrait gallery, where row upon row of dead Acostas stared down at my faded denim jacket with disgust. Now, I was standing in a hallway so long and silent I could hear the panicked beating of my own heart. "Ethan?" I called out softly, keeping my voice low. "Ethan, sweetie, are you in here?" There was no response. I swallowed and looked down at myself, smoothing the front of my jeans with both hands. This was my shot. My only shot. Twenty-two years of moving from one foster home to another had taught me not to get attached to anything. I had learned how to pack my entire life into trash bags without knowing when I'd be told to leave again. I had learned that a place could feel safe one day and be gone the next. That was why this job mattered so much. A live-in nanny position for the son of a wealthy business tycoon meant a regular paycheck, a private bedroom with a door that actually locked, and, for once, a chance to finally build a life that couldn't be ripped away from me. I just needed to find the kid first. Stopping in front of a pair of double doors, I noticed a narrow strip of light spilling out onto the runner rug. I knocked twice. No answer. "Ethan?" I whispered, pushing the right-hand door open. "Mrs Pruitt said I could—" The words died in my throat. This wasn't a nursery. I was currently standing in a master suite, easily larger than my last three apartments put together, bathed in the soft golden glow of the late afternoon sun. And standing in the center of the room, completely oblivious to my presence until the door clicked open, was Vincent Acosta. He was half-dressed. A white dress shirt hung open over a chest that looked like it had been sculpted by Aphrodite himself, exposing lean, hard muscle and the dark line of hair disappearing into the waistband of his black trousers. His long fingers were frozen on the middle buttons of his shirt. Then his head snapped toward the door, and his eyes locked onto mine. They weren't dark brown like the portraits I had seen in the hallway. They were gray, sharp and striking against his dark hair and lashes. For what felt like an eternity but was probably only just a few seconds, neither of said anything. I forgot what I had been about to say. My lungs seemed to stop working, and my heartbeat became impossible to dismiss. I should have apologized. I should have backed away, closed the door and gone looking for the nursery elsewhere. But I was entirely paralyzed, pinned beneath a gaze so intense it was almost like I could feel it on my skin. "I—" My voice came out broken and barely audible. "I'm sorry, I was looking for—" "What the f**k is going on out here?" The sharp voice coming from behind me snapped me out of my daze. A woman stepped out from the adjoining bathroom, clutching a plush silk robe around herself. Her hair was completely disheveled, her eyes bloodshot, and her pale face showed every sign of a terrible hangover. Zara Acosta. She took one look at me standing in the doorway, then looked at her husband whose hands were still resting on his open shirt. "Who the hell are you?" She demanded, the sound echoing through the enormous room. I stumbled backward, my heel catching on the rug. "I'm Celeste! Celeste Lawson! I'm the new nanny—I was looking for Ethan's nursery and I got lost—" "A nanny?" Zara stared at me as though the word itself offended her. She crossed the room in a few quick steps, her expression becoming more hostile with every second. "You look like a stray cat someone dragged in from the street. Who the hell let you up here?" "Mrs. Pruitt—" "I don't give a damn about Pruitt!" Zara cut me off, her voice rising to a pitch that made me flinch. She swung around to face Vincent. "Is this what we're doing now, Vincent? Hiring little street rats to wander into our bedroom while you're half-naked?" Vincent didn't react. He didn't even look startled. He simply lowered his gaze to his shirt and continued fastening the buttons one at a time, his movements unhurried. "Lower your voice, Zara." He said, deep and controlled, with no irritation or panic behind it. "Miss Lawson made a mistake. The third floor is confusing." "Oh, Miss Lawson made a mistake?" Zara mocked, throwing her hands in the air. "How convenient. A pretty little thing just happens to lose her way straight into the room my husband is dressing in." "I was looking for Ethan," I said quickly, my hands shaking as I held up the keys… a pathetic attempt at showing evidence. "I swear, I didn't know—" "Shut up!" Zara hissed, whirling back around to glare at me. She stepped closer, so close I could smell the stale scent of whiskey and a suffocating perfume clinging to her skin. Her eyes narrowed, scanning me from my scuffed sneakers up to my slightly messy brown hair, the disgust on her face so prominent it made my stomach tighten. She seemed personally insulted by my existence. Then, she slowly turned her head and looked back at Vincent. By then he had finished buttoning his shirt. He was standing there, towering and unreadable, his gray eyes still fixed entirely on me, ignoring his wife completely. The silence between them was extremely tense, probably built up from years of resentment and unspoken warfare. A small smile pulled at the corner of Zara’s mouth, but there was nothing pleasant about it. She looked back at my face, then back at her husband's passive expression, a quiet realization dawning behind her bloodshot eyes. "You have one week." She hissed at him. Then she turned her blazing eyes back onto me, her voice dropping to a threatening whisper that sent a shiver straight down my spine. "One week, Miss Lawson. Pack your bags when it's over."