The CEO’s Wet Nurse

4: I Need You In My Study Now

The gates of Enzo Mendoza’s estate took my breath away as golden wrought irons, rose majestically in the air.

Beyond the gates was a driveway that wound so far and long, I could barely see the mansion at the end of it.

Gabriela sat quietly beside me for most of the ride, her fingers moving across the screen of her tablet in fast, fluid motions.

By the time the car pulled up to the front entrance, my clammy hands had gone cold despite the warm afternoon.

Gabriela stepped out first and came around to open my door while the driver hauled out my suitcases which contained everything I owned in the world.

I carried my secondhand clothes, worn-out shoes, a hair brush for my wavy hair, knitting materials and a picture of my twin babies as newborns — all of it packed in less than an hour.

"This is where I stop," Gabriela nodded toward the massive double doors ahead of us. "Mr. Mendoza doesn't mix family with business, so everything past this point isn't mine to manage."

"Oh." I hadn't realized how much I'd been leaning on Gabriela’s presence until the thought of losing it made my stomach drop. "Thank you." I said.

She gave me faint smile like earlier today, got into the car, and was gone before I turned around to face the house.

I stood there for a moment, alone on the front steps of a mansion I couldn't believe was real, as I took cautious steps forward.

But the door opened before I could reach it.

An older woman stood in the entryway, her silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, wearing a soft grey uniform that looked put-together than anything in my luggage.

She moved toward me with a slight limp, one hip dipping lower than the other, though nothing about her expression suggested it slowed her down in the slightest.

"You must be Ivy." Her voice was warm, probably the warmest thing I’ve heard today. "I'm Beatrice. I run this house, more or less. Come in, dear, before you catch a chill standing out there."

I followed her inside, and the door shut behind me with a heavy sound.

The mansion was beautiful. It had paintings on the vaulted ceilings, the marble floors were polished to a shine and art frames hung pretty on the walls.

But there was something cold underneath all of it. There was no warmth in the air or a sign that children lived here.

It was awfully silent as my footsteps echoed against the marble tiles.

We passed a wide staircase, and my eyes caught a large family portrait hanging above the landing.

A woman with dark hair and a gentle smile, held a little girl’s hand and carried a small boy on her hip, while Mr. Mendoza stood behind them, resting his hands on the woman’s waist.

In that portrait, Mr. Mendoza almost looked like he was happy.

"Who are they?" I asked and Beatrice paused at the base of the stairs.

She followed my gaze to the painting and her face softened.

"That’s Olivia and Oliver," she said quietly. "Mr. Mendoza's children. Olivia's twelve. Oliver's nine."

I noticed she didn't mention the woman’s name but standing there, I understood she was definitely Mr. Mendoza’s late wife.

Beatrice led me up the stairs and down the hallway to the nursery. The room was decorated in yellow, and a dreamcatcher turned slowly above a white crib.

"This is Olie." Beatrice's voice dropped low as we approached the crib.

I looked into the baby crib and my chest seized.

Olie was so small, pink-cheeked, with dark lashes, and a tiny fist curled up beside his face as he slept, his chest rising and falling in small, even breaths.

He wasn’t more than a few weeks old—barely even older than my babies before I lost them.

"Since his mother passed, the formula hasn't been agreeing with him," Beatrice murmured beside me. "He's been colicky, losing weight he shouldn't be losing. The doctors were really worried.”

“I’m sorry he had to go through that.” I bent down beside the crib and watched him sleep.

“You're a timely miracle, my dear. I hope you know that." Beatrice said with a grateful tone.

I reached a hand toward the crib, wanting to stroke his soft, round cheek, but my fingers hovered just above his skin and stopped.

My heart suddenly remembered a different set of small, sleeping faces.

How was I supposed to give this aching, desperate tenderness to a stranger's child when I didn’t even have the chance to give my own babies?

What kind of person nurses someone else's child back to health while her own children are buried under the earth?

I pulled my hand back before I touched Olie’s face, as guilt curled tight and sour in my stomach.

The door opened behind us and I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The air shifted, colder and tighter the moment he stepped into the room.

Mr. Mendoza stood in the doorway, still dressed in the same tailored suit from the interview this morning.

His sharp gaze moved from Beatrice, to the crib, to me and I felt my face heat instantly, my humiliation from the boardroom rushing back to me all at once.

Neither of us said anything and he studied me the way he did earlier across the mahogany table, his jaw set tight in cold irritation or perhaps anger.

But I held his unwavering gaze and lost myself to his darkened eyes.

Beatrice cleared her throat softly beside me, and broke whatever silent standoff had settled over the nursery.

"Miss Cruz just arrived, sir. I was showing her to Olie." The old woman said.

“Thank you.” Mr. Mendoza said to Beatrice but his eyes didn't leave mine.

“Would you want me to prepare lunch now?” She asked.

"Ivy." He said my name and my heart stumbled. "I need you in my study now."

He left without waiting to see if I’d follow him and I was quickly learning, that Mr. Mendoza honestly never waited for anyone.

I looked back at Olie’s sleeping face, then followed him out of the nursery, my heart hammering with a dread I couldn't really understand.