The Billionaire's Nanny

The rain lashed the windows of our Chelsea penthouse, turning the streets below into a murky river. Inside, the atmosphere was no different. Cold. Grey. Suffocating. Today was our third wedding anniversary. For three years, I had occupied the space in this flat - and in Jacob’s bed - that should have belonged to her. Betsy Beaumont de Villemort, the lost Beaumont Heiress and my best friend, had been missing for just over three years, vanishing into the Scottish mist only weeks before she was due to become Mrs Jacob Miller. I looked at the gallery wall in the hallway, the silver frames mocking me. False memories. A curated life of "happy" smiles that hid the truth: I was never the lead in this story. I was the understudy who got lucky because the star disappeared. I sat at the mahogany dining table, my fingers trembling as I dragged a grainy slip of thermal paper toward me. The ultrasound. Two tiny flickers of life. I’d been so desperate to tell Jacob that we were having twins. I’d imagined his joy, his tears, the way he’d finally look at me and see me, not her ghost. That was three days ago. That was before I’d tracked his "late nights at the office" to a private suite at The Savoy. Betsy was back. My "best friend." I'd been devastated when she vanished. I’d wiped Jacob’s tears, listened to his drunken grief, and eventually, I’d accepted his desperate proposal. He'd told me he needed to marry to secure his inheritance - that their wedding had been a business arrangement he couldn't afford to lose. I’d believed that shared pain had bonded us into something real. I was a fool. I hadn't been his partner; I had been his placeholder. The sharp click of the deadbolt echoed through the silent flat. Jacob burst in, his coat damp from the rain. He was laughing - a sound I hadn’t heard from him in a while - and he wasn't alone. Betsy was glued to his side, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed, her hand resting possessively on his arm. She looked radiant - not like a woman who had been missing, but like a queen returning to her throne. "Oh, Jacob, it’s just as we left it," Betsy cooed, her sickly sweet voice slicing through the dark. Jacob didn't even notice me at first. He was too busy looking at her with a hunger that made my stomach churn. Then, he flicked the light switch. The sudden brightness was blinding. "Freya?" Jacob’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of utter annoyance, as if I were a stain on the rug he’d forgotten to clean. "What are you still doing up?" I stood up, my chair screeching against the laminate floor. I snatched the ultrasound from the table, shoving it into my back pocket with trembling fingers. Betsy, looking like she’d just stepped out of a Mayfair spa glared at me. Her eyes raked over my oversized jumper and tear-stained face with a flick of pure disgust. My so-called friend - who'd crashed on my couch and borrowed my hair brush - looked straight through me with her cold, hard eyes. "Oh, Jacob," she sighed, her voice like silk over a hidden blade. "I didn't realise you’d kept the help living in the main suite. It’s a bit... cluttered, isn't it?" Jacob let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "She won’t be here for long." He turned to me, his eyes cold as ice. I could smell Betsy’s disgusting fake designer perfume all over his suit. "It’s over, Freya. Betsy is back. I don’t need the placeholder anymore." Jacob didn't even take off his coat. He walked to the sideboard, poured himself a finger of Scotch, and looked at me with nothing but boredom. "Let’s not make a scene. You knew this was a temporary arrangement. I needed a wife to secure the Miller estate, and you were... available. Now that the real mistress of the house has returned, this.... charade.... is over." He slammed a stack of legal papers onto the table. "Sign this." "Sign it, darling," Betsy added, a sickly sweet, poisonous smile spreading across her lips. "Jacob and I have already started planning our real wedding. You’re just the final bit of clutter. Pack your things and get out." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Thanks for keeping him warm for me, but his heart was always mine." "But Jacob..." I began, my voice failing me. "Save it. I’m not interested." He turned his attention back to Betsy. I felt a hollow ache in my chest as I leaned over the table to sign my life away. I just wanted to leave before I broke completely. But as I leaned forward, I felt a sharp tug at my back pocket. "Oooh, what’s this?" Betsy chirped, waving the ultrasound in the air. Her face contorted. "Oh, Jacob. You didn’t?" Jacob’s face went pale, then turned a furious shade of red. He looked at me as if I were a stray dog that had ruined his rug. "No, my love. Never. She must have cheated. Those bastards aren't mine." "They are yours, Jacob! You know they are!" I cried, but it was too late. With a brutal twist of his hands, Jacob ripped the ultrasound in half. He threw the jagged pieces onto the floor. A sob escaped my lips as I dropped to my knees, scrambling to pick up the remains of my children's first photograph. "I would never be like you, Jacob," I snapped, glaring up at him through a veil of tears. I shoved the torn pieces into my pocket and stood, stabbing my signature onto the divorce papers. "There. I hope you and your mistress are very happy together." "I’m not the mistress, b***h," Betsy spat, her refined mask slipping. "You’re the one who stole my life. Now you’re getting exactly what you deserve." Jacob thrust an empty bin bag into my hands. "Pack your things. And I mean your things, Freya. Not the jewellery I bought you, not the designer dresses. Take that tacky locket you’re always clutching too - you might be able to get a fiver for it if you’re lucky. I’ve already frozen the accounts. You came here with a bin bag and a sob story; you can leave the same way." I retreated into the bedroom - the room that had been mine for three years - and stuffed my meager belongings into the bag. I grabbed my old photo album and the blanket and silver locket from when I was found on the side of a road as a baby - the only links to my origins. I caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked small. Broken. I lowered my hand to my stomach. “I’m sorry, babies,” I whispered. “Daddy doesn’t want us, but I promise, I will find a way through this for us.” When I walked back out, Betsy was already sipping the wine I had opened for our anniversary. She was standing by the fireplace, tapping her toe with exaggerated impatience. Jacob grabbed my arm - a grip that used to feel like a sanctuary, but now felt like a shackle - and steered me toward the door. "The locks are being changed at 8:00 AM," Jacob snapped, his hand on the handle. "Don't bother calling. My lawyers will handle the rest." He pushed me out into the cold, carpeted hallway and slammed the door. The sound of the deadbolt clicking home echoed like a gunshot. I stood there in the silence, clutching my bin bag and my locket, a ghost in my own life. I was alone in London, in late autumn, without so much as a coat, with nowhere to go and not a soul to call. My fingers brushed the inside of my pockets - a few coins and the jagged, torn halves of the ultrasound. Hardly enough for a bus fare, let alone a life. I threw the bin bag over my shoulder and headed for the lobby. The moment I pushed through the heavy glass doors, the smell of damp London pollution and stale exhaust fumes hit me like a slap. The wind bit through the seams of my woolly jumper, the November air already hardening into an icy December chill. I kept my head down, walking toward the Java Lounge around the corner. It was a warm, brightly lit sanctuary that stayed open late. Maybe, with their free Wi-Fi, I could find a women’s shelter that hadn't already reached capacity. My heart hammered against my ribs, the rhythm of a panic attack I was fighting to suppress. I stepped off the kerb, my mind a blur of Betsy’s smirk and Jacob’s cold eyes. SCREECH. BEEEEEEEEEP!. The smell of burning rubber filled my lungs. A black taxi skidded to a halt inches from my knees, the driver leaning out of his window to shout a string of incoherent, angry abuse. I stood frozen, the buzz in my head drowning out his voice. I had almost died, and for a split second, I wondered if it would have been easier if I had. "I’m sorry," I whispered, though he couldn't hear me. I raised a trembling hand in apology and stumbled onto the pavement, the rich, earthy scent of roasting coffee beans from the Java Lounge finally grounding me. I reached for the heavy brass handle of the Java Lounge door, but before I could touch it, the door burst open. I didn't have time to react. I crashed straight into a wall of solid muscle. Splash. Crash! The clang of paper cups hitting the ground and the heat of scalding liquid followed. I gasped as a latte drenched my front, the brown liquid soaking into my jumper. As my bag hit the wet pavement, the knot loosened just enough for my meager life - a few clothes and my photo album - to spill out into the rain. "I'm so sorry! I...I wasn't looking," I sobbed, dropping to my knees. I began frantically grabbing at my things, my hands shaking so violently I could barely grip them. "I'll pay for the coffee, I promise... Well, actually I can’t but... I'm so, so sorry." As I reached for my photo album, the torn halves of the ultrasound fluttered out of my pocket, landing face-up on the damp concrete. I lunged for them, desperate to hide the evidence of my shame, when a large, impeccably manicured hand appeared. He plucked the jagged paper from the ground before I could touch it. A scent hit me then - bergamot, patchouli, and a hint of dark musk. A strong, dominant and powerfully masculine cologne. I looked up, the rain stinging my eyes, and my blood turned to ice. The man was a giant, silhouetted against the warm amber lights of the café. He looked down at the ultrasound, then at my tear-streaked face. "Freya Miller?" His voice was a deep, resonant tone that vibrated in my ears. I blinked, recognition hitting me like a second taxi. This wasn't just a stranger. This was the man Jacob spoke of with terrifying reverence. The man who held the keys to the city’s financial district. "Mr Stone?" I whispered, my voice breaking.