The CEO’s Wet Nurse

5: Look At Me When I’m Talking To You

Mr. Mendoza’s personal study was exactly what I’d imagined.

The floorboard was made with dark wood, a black curtain covered the floor-to-ceiling windows, and a black bookshelf and leather couch stayed at the far corner of his study.

It was obvious he’d been mourning the death of his wife but no personal items were on his desk.

No photographs of himself, his children, or his late wife. Nothing at all, except a bunch of files and his laptop.

Mr. Mendoza didn't sit behind his desk right away. He stood at the window for a moment, and tucked his hands inside his pocket.

Behind him, I stood by the doorway not knowing whether I was meant to sit, speak, or simply exist quietly until instructed otherwise.

How was I supposed to work under someone who wouldn’t even look at me or speak kindly to me?

"Sit," he ordered firmly, without turning around and I sat down on a chair opposite his desk.

He moved to his own chair and pulled a folder from his desk drawer. It was my medical record from the clinic this morning, along with a printed copy of my contract.

He sat down and opened the folder without a word, reading my medical report in silence for what felt like an unbearably long time.

His eyes scanned down the page but gave away no expression as his face tightened like cold stone.

I sat with my hands folded in my lap, trying not to fidget under the weight of his attention even though he wasn't actually looking at me.

"You will start feeding the baby tonight," he spoke eventually, more to the paper than to me. "Beatrice will show you the routine."

"Okay," I nodded.

He closed the folder, set it aside, and finally looked up at me. My heart pounded loudly in my ears and I wondered why he scared me so much.

Judging from his looks, Mr. Mendoza seemed to be in his late forties or fifties but despite his age and his greying hair, he looked strong and rough around the edges.

"There are rules in this house." He said and leaned back on his chair. "And I expect you to obey every one of them."

I nodded.

“Use your words, Ivy.” He said.

“Yes, sir.” I swallowed and lowered my eyes to my hands.

“Now… look at me when I’m talking to you.” He ordered again and I slowly averted my gaze to him.

"Under no circumstance are you permitted to enter my bedroom." His voice didn't raise up at me but it became deathly dangerous.

And somehow I understood that this rule ran deeper than privacy.

"I understand, sir." I drew out a shaky breath.

"You do not photograph or post anything involving my children, this house, or myself, in any form, on any social media platform." His eyes flicked briefly to the phone in my hand.

"If I find you've violated this, your contract will be terminated immediately, and you will be liable for damages."

I swallowed hard. "I wouldn't—"

"You do not bring visitors into this house. Friends, family, anyone. If you have a personal errand, you must clear it with Beatrice first." He cut me off.

I didn't have any friends left to invite anyway, not after three years of following Ramon from city to city.

The rule landed less like a restriction and more like a joke at my own expense, but I kept that thought to myself.

"You do not bring peaches into this house, whether it’s fresh, dried, in a lotion, in a candle, I don’t care. It’s not allowed."

"My daughter, Olivia… she has a severe allergy to peaches.” He explained and for the first time, a soft and more human emotion flickered across his face.

"Yes, sir."

"You do not discuss this family with staff members or with anyone else outside these walls.” He leaned forward, his dark eyes still fixated on me. "Is that clear?”

I nodded then corrected myself quickly, “Yes, sir.”

He slid over the contract and a pen. “Sign it.”

I glanced down at the paper in front of me and tried to concentrate on the $50,000 salary per month. I really needed the money to get on my feet again.

So I signed the contract.

"Any violation of these terms constitutes a contract breach and you’ll be responsible for the damages." He added a final warning.

"Yes, sir." I said and mentally began counting down to six months. I couldn’t wait to be out of here, the entire mansion was suffocating and cold.

Mr. Mendoza looked down at the laptop in front of him and began typing, the conversation apparently over in his mind.

But he never said I could leave and I couldn’t just stand up and excuse myself… I didn’t know what the hell to but stare at his sculptured face.

I sat there in the silence he’d left me in, my whole body tense with the awkwardness of not knowing whether to speak or simply leave.

"Why are you still sitting there?" He asked, eyes still glued to his laptop.

“I’m sorry.” I stood up and turned toward the door, as my cheeks flushed, feeling every bit as stupid as I did this morning.

Reaching for the door knob, I caught his reflection in the window and saw him watching me fully, in a way he hadn’t done all day.

Mr. Mendoza wasn’t bent over his laptop the way I'd left him, because the second I turned my back, he was staring dangerously at me.