The rules of Dr Stoneheart
1126 Words
By the time I folded the last sweater into the drawer, I finally felt like the room was mine, well, as much as any room inside a billionaire’s mansion could feel like home. The enormous walk-in closet still intimidated me, the bed was softer than any cloud I’d ever slept on, and the bathroom looked like it belonged in a luxury spa. But after spending the night here, after meeting Lila, after surviving my first twenty-four hours with the Westbrooks, I was beginning to settle.
I had just zipped my empty suitcase and shoved it under the bed when a firm knock sounded on my door.
Beth, the housekeeper, peeked inside. Her usual warm, composed expression was in place, but her voice carried something else, tension.
“Mr. Westbrook would like a word with you. In his office.”
A shiver crawled right down my spine.
Of course he did. The human iceberg probably wanted to reprimand me for breathing too loudly.
“Great,” I muttered to myself when Beth left. “Perfect. Just what I needed. A meeting with Mr. Freeze himself.”
Actually—no. Mr. Freeze felt too villainy. He was more… rigid. Sharp. Cold. Unsmiling.
“Dr. Glacier,” I whispered, amused with myself. “No. Dr. Iceberg. Hmm… Dr. Stoneheart.”
I snorted.
That one fit a little too well.
I’d call him that in my head from now on. It made dealing with him slightly less painful.
With a deep breath and the dignity of someone preparing to walk into a dragon’s lair, I left my room and headed downstairs toward his study. The hallway leading to it was lined with antique paintings and spotless marble floors, so pristine I felt guilty just walking on them.
When I arrived at the heavy mahogany door, I knocked once.
Silence.
I knocked again.
Still nothing.
Just as I was about to turn and leave, because clearly he called me here to ignore me, his deep voice rolled through the door:
“Enter.”
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
He didn’t even look up.
Damian Westbrook sat behind his enormous desk, sleeves rolled up, expensive pen moving briskly across documents. His jaw flexed, his brows drawn together in concentration. He didn’t acknowledge me at all, not with a nod, not with a glance, not even with the slightest twitch of recognition.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
I stood there awkwardly, shifting my weight, silently counting the seconds. I tried to breathe slowly, tried to ignore the prickling irritation climbing through my veins.
My eyes wandered instead.
His walls were covered with framed certificates, awards, medical degrees, photos with influential figures, surgeons, politicians, and foundations. One picture captured him receiving an award, his late wife beside him, glowing with pride. Her delicate hand rested on his arm, his rare smile stretching across his lips.
They looked perfect. Untouchable. Untouched by tragedy.
Until the accident.
A tight, uncomfortable pressure built in my chest. I tore my eyes away.
Another portrait showed him holding a newborn, Lila. His expression was exhausted but full of awe.
He used to smile.
So what happened to that man?
Before I could think too deeply on it, he finally set down his pen and lifted his gaze.
Cold. Sharp. Assessing.
“Sit.”
Not “please.” Not “good morning.” Not even “thank you for coming.”
Just sit.
My jaw clenched so tightly my temples throbbed, but I forced a polite smile and sank into the chair across from him. My palms dug into each other under the desk, nails biting skin to suppress the growing anger.
Damian pulled out a stapled packet of papers and slid them across the desk toward me.
“These are the rules,” he said flatly. “Your updated guidelines as Lila’s nanny. Read them carefully.”
I picked up the papers, expecting something simple bedtime, screen time, and emergency contacts. But as I skimmed, my eyebrows slowly rose, inch by inch.
Was he serious?
Lila wasn’t allowed to run in the garden.
Or jump on furniture.
Or play with paint.
Or eat sweets more than once a week.
Or get messy.
Or watch cartoons that weren’t “educationally enriching.”
Or spend more than thirty minutes outdoors unless supervised by a qualified professional.
“She’s five,” I whispered, unable to stop myself.
He continued like he hadn’t heard me.
“You are expected to adhere to everything in that packet. The grilled cheese incident this morning” he paused, and my stomach twisted in humiliation “must not happen again.”
I swallowed hard.
“You mean… making her lunch?”
“I mean making her junk food.” His tone was cutting. “Lila attends a top private academy. Their meals are balanced and approved by nutritionists. She does not need random, unregulated food. Especially not something like grilled cheese.”
“It wasn’t random,” I muttered. “Or unregulated. It was just—”
He raised a hand.
Silence.
God, I wanted to throw the packet at his perfectly structured face.
But I remembered the first time I stood up to him, how he’d fired me in a heartbeat. Then his mother reinstated me behind his back. I wasn’t risking anything again. I needed this job. Lila needed someone who actually cared.
So I closed my mouth.
Held back every retort burning on my tongue.
Despite my inner storm, I forced a smile that felt painfully stiff.
“Understood,” I said.
A lie, but a necessary one.
He nodded once and returned to his paperwork, dismissing me without words.
My nails dug deeper into my palms.
I’d never met a man who made me want to scream more. Not even my father.
I stood, headed for the door, every step controlled and stiff.
The moment I slipped outside the study and the door shut behind me, all the politeness evaporated. I let out a low growl that was entirely unladylike, pressed my back to the cold wooden door, and whispered aggressively under my breath:
“Dr. Stoneheart, my ass.”
And then, because the universe wouldn’t let me live in peace, I lifted my hand and, very maturely, gave his closed door the middle finger.
“Like hell I’m following those boring rules,” I muttered. “A kid isn’t a porcelain doll.”
I turned on my heel and stormed down the hallway, the stapled papers crumpling in my fist.
He could take his ridiculous rulebook and frame it next to all his stupid awards for all I cared.
One thing was certain:
I wasn’t raising Lila under a dictatorship.
Not on my watch.
- Writer
