Becoming Mom To The Billionaire Daughter

Meeting Princess Diane.

RENNIE'S POV

The moment I stepped into the room, I was caught off guard by a hug. A small pair of arms wrapped around me tightly, and I instantly felt a deep connection.

“You must be the new nanny! Want to see my room? It’s super clean and really well arranged,” she said without taking a breath, pulling back with a bright smile.

Wait... this was the monster? The child who’d allegedly gotten twenty nannies fired in one week?

At this point, all I could think was: either this kid was an angel in disguise, or she was luring me into a trap.

So, I immediately tried acting shrewd. “What do you think you’re doing? You think you can lure me into your trap? Guess what—I’m here to stay!”

She just laughed and said, “I like you. You’re really funny!” I couldn’t tell if she meant it, so I just played along and forced out a giggle.

“What’s your name?” she asked, dragging me toward her bed.

“My name is Rennie. You can call me Renzy for short.”

Immediately, she became serious. “Aren’t you going to make me call you ‘Mom’ or ‘Aunt’ like the rest?”

At that point, I understood why nannies couldn’t stay long—because they either wanted to become the wife of the dreamy Mr. Shawn or force their way into the family through his daughter. Which was pretty messed up—grown women forcing themselves on a man who wouldn’t even think about them, even if his daughter begged him to.

I quickly pushed that thought aside. “No, I’m not interested in becoming your mom or auntie. Just call me Renzy. ‘Mom’ and ‘Aunt’ are for old women.”

She caught me off guard again and hugged me even tighter. "You're so nice, you'll be my new bestie." I decided to distract her by asking a few questions.

“So, what’s your full name?”

She replied proudly, “Diane Wolfe, princess to the king—Mr. Daddy Shawn Wolfe.”

I nearly burst out laughing. This little girl was a whole character. She reminded me of my little self, so I knew she was going to be a handful.

“Okay, princess, what grade are you in?”

“I’m currently in grade three,” she answered.

I teased, “You’re so slow, you’re still in grade three? I thought you'd be in college?”

“I’m not slow, you’re fast! I’m just seven years old,” she corrected, chuckling.

All of a sudden, “I'm hungry,” Diane grumbled, clutching her stomach. Feeding her was literally part of my job—not as the chef, but as her caretaker.

I followed her downstairs to the kitchen. The warm aroma of herbs and roasting meats hit me the moment we entered. The counters gleamed, and every utensil seemed perfectly in place.

“Hello, Matteo,” I said, spotting the chef arranging vegetables on the counter. “Diane’s hungry. Can you help us?” I pointed to Diane, who was bouncing on her toes, impatient.

Matteo didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, Miss Rennie. Diane, what would you like today?”

Diane wrinkled her nose. “I want something tasty. Not boring!”

I swallowed a laugh. “He’ll make you something special, I promise.”

Within minutes, Matteo worked like a magician. Flames flickered under the sauté pan, vegetables tumbled gracefully in a stir-fry, and the aroma of grilled steaks filled the room. He plated French soufflé and chicken broth with a variety of proteins, each dish meticulously arranged. It was a feast fit for royalty—or a very spoiled third grader.

Diane’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the plates. “I don’t like this food. Why does the chef always make boring stuff?”

I bit back a laugh. “You have to eat, Diane. No eating means no salary,” I reminded her, though gently.

She stomped a tiny foot and crossed her arms. “I want something else!”

I knelt beside her. “Okay, what do you want to eat?”

In a blur, Diane dashed back upstairs to my room and returned clutching the takeout I’d been saving for later. “It smells nice,” she said, holding the container out proudly.

I hesitated. “Diane, you can’t eat that. It’s too greasy. It’s a hamburger with double ham and extra oily fries.”

“No, no, no! I want it!” she insisted, her eyes glimmering with near tears. I didn’t want a childcare disaster on my first day, so I gave her a small bite.

Her eyes widened, and she threw her arms up. “BEST! FOOD! EVER!”

She started running around the sitting room, half-eaten burger in hand, squealing with delight. I darted after her, trying to calm her down before anyone noticed I’d given her something that was basically contraband in the house.

Before I could reach her, Mr. Shawn stepped through the doorway, looking at both of us with dark, assessing eyes.