His Nanny, His Obsession

Chapter 4

Vincent’s pov

I found her in the small butler's pantry off the main kitchen, standing under the dim lighting of a single bulb.

She looked small— painfully small— bent over the stainless steel sink, furiously scrubbing at the dark red stain blooming across the front of her sweater.

Her hands shook as she worked, the damp cloth slipping slightly between her fingers each time she dragged it across the soaked fabric. Water spilled over the edge of the sink and ran down the front of her faded jeans, leaving darker patches along the denim.

She wasn't crying, but her shoulders were drawn so tightly that I could see the strain in the way she held herself.

I stopped in the doorway, my hand resting against the doorframe, watching her. My jaw throbbed from how hard I'd been clenching my teeth since Zara poured that wine over her.

After ten years of dealing with Zara's outbursts, I had learned how to endure most of them without reacting. The screaming, the insults, the accusations, the scenes she created whenever she didn't get what she wanted— none of it surprised me anymore.

But watching her weaponize a twenty-three year old girl's dead parents, watching the color drain from Celeste's face as her sister's name was dragged into the dirt, had pushed me closer to the edge than I'd been in years.

I reached for a dry towel resting on the marble counter and stepped into the room.

"It won't come out with cold water alone." I said, keeping my voice low and quiet so as not to startle her.

Celeste jumped, her shoulders jerking as she spun around, her eyes, wide and glassy with unshed tears, locking onto mine.

A flush spread across her neck and into her cheeks when she realized I was standing there and her first instinct was to cover the front of her soaked sweater with her hands.

She glanced around the small room, looking embarrassed and trapped at the same time.

"Mr. Acosta," She breathed, her voice rough from trying to hold back her emotions. "I... I'm so sorry. I'm just cleaning up—I'll be out of the way in a minute, I promise."

"Stop apologizing." I said softly.

I stepped closer, stepping into her space until the sweet scent of vanilla drifted off her skin and I could breathe it in more closely. I held out the dry towel.

She looked at the towel, then up at my face hesitantly. Then slowly, her small fingers reached out and brushed against mine as she took it.

It was an accidental touch, barely lasting a second, but I felt it immediately. A strange jolt traveled up my arm, and my pulse picked up before I could stop it.

I hadn't felt that feeling in a very long time.

"Thank you." She whispered, clutching the linen against her soaked chest. She kept her eyes glued to the floor between us, unable to look me in the eye. "I'm really sorry about dinner. I didn't mean to cause a scene."

"You didn't cause a scene, Celeste." I said, using her first name for the first time. "Zara was cruel. Inexcusably cruel. She had no right to bring up your file, or your family."

A faint shudder ran through her at the mention of her family, but she pressed her lips together and shook her head, forcing some form of fragile composure.

"She was just... protecting her home," Celeste said softly, her fingers tightening around the towel. "I shouldn't have walked into your room earlier, and I shouldn't have agreed to eat at the table. I should have just stayed in my room like Mrs. Pruitt said."

"This is my home, too," I countered. "And I invited you to that table. You are taking care of my son, Celeste. You are not a secret to be hidden away in the servants' quarters."

She finally looked up at me then, her soft brown eyes searching mine with a mixture of both confusion and guarded vulnerability. She was so young, so gentle, yet there was a quiet strength in her that years of foster care hadn't been able to break.

"I'll speak to Zara tonight." I added, my jaw tightening again. "She will either apologize to you or spend the next month staying at a hotel in the city."

"No!" Celeste gasped, her eyes widening in genuine panic. She impulsively reached out, her hand hovering an inch from my forearm before she caught herself and pulled it back, her cheeks turning even redder. "Please, Mr. Acosta, don't do that. Please don't fight with her because of me."

"Celeste—"

"I need this j-job," She pleaded, her voice cracking and the desperation in it made me stop. "I need to be here for Ethan. If you fight her on this, she'll make it impossible for me to stay. She'll hate me even more than she already does. Please... just let it go. I can handle it. I'm used to people being harsh."

I'm used to people being harsh…

The words stayed with me.

I looked at her and wondered how many times someone had treated her badly before she had stopped expecting anything better.

I stepped half an inch closer, towering over her in the quiet confines of the pantry. I didn't move to touch her— I couldn't, not even when I was bound to a marriage that felt like a prison sentence— but I let my gaze hold hers.

I didn't try to hide the intensity in my expression, or the heavy interest that had sparked the second she walked through my bedroom door earlier today.

"No one in this house is going to hurt you while I'm breathing." I said, my voice barely more than a whisper, but there was no uncertainty behind it. "Do you understand me?"

Celeste froze, her lips parting slightly as a soft exhale escaped her. She stared up at me, mesmerized, her heart visibly drumming against her collarbone beneath the damp fabric of her sweater.

The air between us grew intense, charged with an unspoken tension so heavy it was almost impossible to look past. She felt it too. I could see it in the way her eyes dropped briefly to my mouth before she caught herself and looked back into my eyes.

"I understand." She whispered softly.

"Go up to your room." I told her quietly, taking a step back to give her air before I did something we'd both regret. "Get some rest. Ethan wakes up early, and he's eager to meet you."

She nodded quickly, clutching the dry towel tightly to her chest. "Goodnight, Mr. Acosta."

"Goodnight, Celeste."

I stayed in the pantry until the faint sound of her quick footsteps disappeared up the staircase.

My marriage to Zara had been dead in every way that mattered for three years. What remained between us was appearances, forced public events, long periods of silence and arguments that always seemed to circle back to money, betrayal, or both.

I stayed for Ethan. I had convinced myself that enduring the mess inside this house was worth it if it meant my son could grow up with both of his parents under the same roof.

But Zara barely paid attention to him anymore. She could spend an entire evening out at a club and come home without asking how her own son was doing.

And now Celeste had walked into that mess.

Standing alone in the pantry, I knew things in this household would never be the same after tonight.

A line had already been crossed.

I turned off the light, smoothed down my suit jacket, and made my way up the grand staircase to the master suite.

The bedroom was silent when I walked in. The king-sized bed hadn't been touched, and the curtains were closed over the windows, leaving the room dim.

Zara wasn't there. She was most likely downstairs in the library, pouring herself another glass of whiskey while trying to recover whatever pride she thought she had lost at dinner.

I walked over to the vanity near the closet to unbutton my cuffs, my eyes catching on a pale glow in the dim room. Zara's phone was lying face-up on the counter, vibrating silently against the surface.

I didn't mean to look, but as I stepped closer, the lock screen lit up with a new text message.

> Unknown Number:

> Will I get to see you again tonight?