The Grumpy Doctor’s Nanny

If nerves could be bottled, I’d be the nation’s leading supplier. If you had told me a year ago that I’d be standing outside a mansion the size of a museum, palms sweaty, dressed in a secondhand blazer for a nanny interview—I would’ve laughed. But here I was. I stood at the gate of the grand Westbrook estate, hands slightly trembling, clutching the worn strap of my purse like a lifeline. The estate was massive—impossibly elegant with ivy creeping up white stone walls, and windows that gleamed like judgmental eyes in the sunlight. I adjusted my blazer, smoothed my secondhand skirt, and tried not to compare myself to the rows of roses lining the cobblestone path, as if they were judging my presence, too. This was it. The final interview. The job. A live-in nanny position for a little girl from one of the wealthiest families in the city. The Westbrooks weren’t just wealthy—they were empire-wealthy. Owners of one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the country. Generational power, old money, the kind of legacy that was wrapped in crisp silence and expensive cologne. If I landed this, I’d finally be able to stop scraping by. No more choosing between rent or food. No more running from my past on an empty stomach and unpaid rent. I buzzed the intercom and forced confidence into my voice. “Callie Hart. Here for the nanny interview.” A pause. Then a click, and the tall iron gate creaked open. Even the air felt different—richer somehow, scented faintly with manicured gardens and polished wood. The gate alone was intimidating, wrought iron and tall enough to guard secrets. Beyond it, the mansion loomed like something out of a dream—or a billionaire’s fantasy. White stone walls, tall arched windows, balconies draped in ivy. It was regal and cold like the house itself disapproved of uninvited emotions. I walked up the driveway, passing sleek cars and manicured hedges, until I reached the front door. The front door opened before I could knock. And there she stood. Sandra Westbrook. I recognized her instantly from the photo I’d seen in the article about the Westbrook legacy. But pictures hadn’t done her justice. She was a living portrait of elegance—tall and graceful with sharp cheekbones, high-arched brows, and hair swept into a silver-blonde chignon so perfect it looked carved. Her blouse was cream silk, tucked into wide-legged black trousers that looked tailored just for her. A string of pearls lay neatly against her collarbone, subtle but unmistakably real. Her expression didn’t waver—not a smile, not a flicker of warmth. Her blue-gray eyes scanned me from head to toe, not with rudeness, but with… calculation. As though she were measuring my worth with every tick of her gaze. “Miss Hart,” she said, her voice cool and smooth like glass. “You’re early.” I forced a polite smile. “Yes, ma’am. Traffic was lighter than I expected. I hope that’s alright.” She stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. “Punctuality is a virtue. Come in.” The entrance hall was even more intimidating than the exterior—white marble floors that stretched out in all directions, crowned by an enormous chandelier dripping crystals. A wide staircase curled upward to the second floor like the tail of a golden serpent. There were paintings in gold frames, portraits of stern-looking ancestors on the walls, antique furniture that gleamed under soft lighting, and not a single thing out of place. Everything here whispered old money and discipline. “This way,” she said. I followed her through a sitting room with a grand piano, thick velvet curtains, and bookshelves filled with titles in foreign languages and first editions that probably hadn’t been touched in decades. We sat in pristine velvet-facing armchairs, with a small marble coffee table between us. I sat stiffly in my seat, It was one of those rooms that made you feel like touching anything would set off an alarm—or at the very least, judgment. She poured a cup of tea with exact movements—like every gesture was rehearsed and refined. The air between us was polite but chilly. She studied me for a long moment before speaking again.“Let’s begin. You’ve worked with children?” I nodded, my voice steady. “Yes. I was a preschool teacher for a private school for three years, then worked with children in the foster care system. Most recently I was a live-in nanny for a family overseas.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why did that position end?” “The family relocated permanently and didn’t require a nanny anymore.” There was a pause. A silent moment where she digested my words and observed my composure. I didn’t flinch. I wouldn’t. Sandra Westbrook was not the kind of woman who appreciated weakness. She respected control. Grace under pressure. I could see it in the lines of her posture, in the careful way she sipped her tea. “How are you with discipline?” she asked. “I believe in gentle structure,” I replied. “Children respond better to boundaries when they’re guided with kindness, not fear.” Her lips twitched slightly. Not quite a smile. But close. “You’ll need kindness,” she said. “And patience.” She asked more questions, each more precise than the last. About hypothetical emergencies, conflict resolution, and my stance on screen time. I answered calmly, honestly, and with the soft confidence of someone who’s been through enough in life to know what really matters. And then… the temperature in the room changed. The door opened. And in walked Damian Westbrook. The photos in Forbes hadn’t done him justice either. He was tall—over six feet—with broad shoulders wrapped in a perfectly tailored navy suit that looked like it cost more than my apartment. His jaw was sharp, stubbled just enough to look effortless, and his hair was dark, combed back in a way that revealed a stubborn widow’s peak. But it was his eyes that struck me—the color of storm clouds, intense, focused, unreadable. He was the kind of man who commanded attention without saying a word. And cold. And he didn’t say a word—not to me, at least. He gave Sandra a nod and a clipped, “Mother,” then glanced in my direction with the same warmth one might give a weather forecast. “This is Callie Hart,” Sandra said, gesturing toward me. He nodded once. “The candidate?” I stood, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Westbrook.” He barely looked at it, let alone shook it. “Likewise,” he said, voice cool and disinterested. I dropped my hand, cheeks burning just slightly. “She has extensive experience,” Sandra said, clearly unfazed by his rudeness. “And a calm temperament.” “She’ll need it,” Damian muttered, pulling out his phone. He glanced at the screen, lips pressing into a flat line. “I have to take this.” With that, he turned and walked out of the room without another word. Just… vanished. I blinked, trying to shake off the wave of irritation and embarrassment. Who did he think he was? Some kind of billionaire royalty? Sandra sighed, not at all phased. “Don’t take it personally. My son is… efficient.” She continued the interview as if nothing happened, but I caught a flicker of something in her eyes—amusement, maybe. Or approval. It was hard to tell.