The Billionaire's Nanny

Chapter 8: A Reality That Haunts Him

I entered the study, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. The scent of old books, leather, and aged Scotch hung heavy in the air - the ultimate signature of power. Trevor stood by the far wall, his silhouette imposing as he drew the heavy velvet curtains shut against the vast estate outside. The towering oak trees were swallowed by the fabric, casting long, jagged shadows across the room.

I glanced at the mahogany desk. Resting on the very top was a leather binder with Freya Miller embossed in gold.

Surrounding it, like a grisly collage of my failed life, were scattered photographs - Jacob and Betsy clothes shopping, kissing in a crowded restaurant, leaning over a velvet tray of engagement rings.

"It’s rude to look through a man’s desk, Freya," Trevor said. His voice was a low vibration that held no real anger, only a chillingly calm observation. He didn't turn around.

"You have a file on me," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Why do you have a file on a woman you met in a coffee shop?"

Trevor finally turned. He didn't look guilty; he looked clinical. He gestured to the plush velvet armchair opposite his desk. "Sit. If we are going to do this, you need to understand that I don't leave anything to chance."

I sat promptly, my woollen jumper feeling coarse and out of place against the expensive velvet.

"Jacob is a small man with a large ego," Trevor began, leaning forward until the amber glow of his desk lamp caught the sharp, dangerous angles of his jaw. "He’s been embezzling from Stone Global for eighteen months. He thinks he’s clever because he used Betsy’s 'De Villemort' accounts to hide the trail. What he doesn't know is that I let him do it."

I gasped. "You let him steal from you?"

"I wanted to see who was pulling his strings." Trevor’s eyes darkened, a flash of predatory hunger crossing his face. "And now I know. It’s not just about the money, Freya. It’s about the inheritance. The Miller family trust has a morality clause. If it’s proven that his marriage to you was a sham - a contract for cash if you will - he loses every penny. He becomes a debt-ridden nobody by morning."

He tapped the leather file. "But for that to work, I need you to be more than a victim. I need you to be a co-conspirator."

"I don't understand," I stammered. "You said you wanted to see who was pulling his strings? That video... your ex-wife... she was helping them?"

Trevor sat upright, pushing a stack of photographs towards me. "It would seem Emily orchestrated the entire thing. She’s been in cahoots with Betsy for three years now."

Three years. The exact length of time Betsy had been "missing."

"And Jacob has known about this the whole time?" I demanded, the heat of anger beginning to rise in my chest. All those tears I’d shed for Betsy, the shared grief I’d used to comfort Jacob... none of it was real.

Trevor reached over, his large hand briefly covering mine. The contact was grounding, surprisingly warm. "No, not at first. Betsy tracked him down about eighteen months ago. His position in my company made him the perfect pawn for her and Emily to take me down. She doesn't love him, Freya. She left him for Emily. She is only back to bleed him dry - for her own ends."

The betrayal felt like a physical blow. I was three months pregnant, and the whole time I’d been playing the doting wife, he’d been having his cake and eating it with a woman who didn't even want him.

"So, what do you need from me?" I asked, wiping a stray tear with the corner of my woolly sleeve. Trevor reached into his pocket and passed me a crisp, silk-edged handkerchief.

"I need you to rise from the ashes like the phoenix you are. Your job as a nanny was just to get you through the door. I was actually going to track you down next week to tell you what he’d been up to, but fate intervened, literally crashing us together."

But I’m a nobody," I whispered. "I’m an orphan who married her best friend’s fiancé. I have nothing. How am I supposed to bring him down? And as for her... going up against French royalty doesn't sound like a good idea."

Trevor scoffed. "Royalty?" He practically spat the word. "No, Freya. Betsy is a fraud. She’s the daughter of a bookkeeper from Croydon. Her real name is Betsy Moore."

I shook my head vehemently. "No, I know she used to be a Moore but I’ve known her since school. She was discovered to be the lost Beaumont-DeVillemort Heiress just before she vanished."

"I know - but I can assure you she is a fraud. I have no clue how she did it, but I know she is not who she says she is. She placed herself in your orbit. I’m not sure why yet, but we will find out together."

I shook my head, my mind reeling.

"You are not a nobody," Trevor continued, his voice steady. "Mia adores you already. Officially, you are here as a nanny, but behind the scenes... Well... I have a plan but it will require your co-operation."

He was stone-faced, speaking with a clinical detachment that left me dumbfounded.

"Jacob called you a cheat; let’s give his lie a reality that haunts him," Trevor said, running a hand through his thick,dirty blonde hair. "We are going to introduce you to high society as my wife to be - the twins as the Stone heirs. If you agree, you will sign a non-disclosure agreement and a contract: a fake relationship, the secret affair, the whole plan."

I chewed my bottom lip, my fingers twisting the wool of my jumper. It was insane. How could Betsy have lied to me for years? Why would she? Then there was Emily Stone - why would she team up with her ex-husband’s employee’s missing fiancée?

I thought about Jacob tearing the ultrasound. The smell of Betsy’s cheap perfume. The way he’d thrown me out like rubbish. The grief died, replaced by a cold, sharp rage.

"If you need time to think..." Trevor began softly.

"No," I interrupted, my voice firm. "I’ll do it. Where do we start?"

Trevor smiled. It was a dark, almost sadistic expression - the look of a man finally getting exactly what he wanted.

"Tomorrow, a tutor arrives. You will learn the history of the families we associate with. You will learn how to walk into a room and make men like Jacob feel like ants. First, we sign the contract. Then, the real work begins."

Jacob Miller and Betsy Moore were going to rue the day they treated me like trash.