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 had 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 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 long time - 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 French-inflected 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?"