THE NANNY CLAUSE

If Riley Monroe had one rule for surviving Manhattan, it was simple: don’t let anyone smell desperation. But right now standing in front of a high-security glass tower on Fifth Avenue, her curls wind-whipped and her Goodwill heels already blistering she was leaking desperation like a punctured gas tank. A doorman who looked like he moonlighted as a bouncer gave her a slow once-over. “Nanny interview,” she said, offering a tight smile and flashing the temporary badge clipped to her faux-leather tote. “Carter residence. Eleventh floor.” He pressed a button without a word. The doors whooshed open with a hiss that made her stomach turn. The elevator was a mirrored box. She caught her reflection wild brown curls she hadn’t managed to tame, a peach blouse that refused to stop gaping at the chest, and hips that made skinny jeans cry. Professional? Maybe. Passable? Hopefully. Likely to be hired by a man reportedly made of stone and steel? Doubtful. The elevator dinged, opening to a penthouse lobby of black marble, curated silence, and zero warmth. A sleek woman in all navy greeted her at the glass doors. “Miss Monroe?” Her voice was crisp enough to slice bone. “Right this way.” Riley followed, her heels echoing too loudly across the pristine floors. The apartment had enormous floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, and the open-concept living room looked like a showroom that had never been touched by a child. Not a crumb, not a crayon in sight. So where was the five-year-old? “I’m Gina Torres. Mr. Carter’s executive assistant,” the woman said as they reached a modern kitchen. “He’ll join you shortly. In the meantime” A small voice interrupted them. “Are you the new one?” Riley turned. A tiny girl stood near the bookshelf, wearing a galaxy-print dress and oversized wire-rimmed glasses that were slightly crooked. She was hugging a stuffed astronaut and staring up at Riley like a scientist examining a foreign species. “I might be,” Riley said with a smile. “Depends. Do you like bedtime stories with pirates and secret snacks after lights-out?” Emma blinked. “Are you allowed to do that?” “Technically? No,” Riley whispered, crouching to her level. “But sometimes we break rules to make magic.” Emma’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. “You’ll do,” she said softly, and returned to her book. Gina blinked like Riley had just performed witchcraft. “She doesn’t usually talk to strangers.” Riley stood. “I’m not a stranger. I’m a chaos curator with a juice box license.” Before Gina could respond, a voice cut through the room like a blade. “Miss Monroe.” Riley turned. And froze. He was taller than she expected, broad-shouldered, sharply dressed, the cut of his charcoal suit practically obscene in how well it fit. His hair was dark, neat, and controlled. Everything about him screamed precision. Except his eyes were glacial blue, cool and assessing, with a flicker of something warmer buried deep. “Nathaniel Carter,” he said. No smile. Just the name. “Riley Monroe,” she replied, fighting the urge to smooth her hair. “Nanny. Occasionally sarcastic. Excellent with bedtime battles.” He didn’t blink. “You’ve met my daughter.” “We’ve bonded over snacks and star maps,” she said lightly. “Right.” He stepped forward, his gaze scanning her not in the slow, hungry way men in bars sometimes did, but like he was reading her resume through her clothes. “You came recommended by Dr. Levin,” he said. “He mentioned you had… experience with children who are emotionally detached.” Her jaw tensed slightly. “I prefer to say ‘highly observant with carefully constructed walls.’” “And what qualifies you to take those walls down?” Riley met his eyes head-on. “I don’t knock them over. I build doors.” There was a beat of silence. Emma was watching them from the couch, head tilted. Gina cleared her throat. “Shall we discuss the contract?” They moved into the dining area, and Riley tried not to gawk at the minimalist perfection of the place. Everything was white, black, or chrome. It felt like a museum. Cold. Beautiful. Unwelcoming. As Gina went over terms salary, hours, room access Riley nodded until she heard the words: “Clause Four: No personal involvement with the employer or the child beyond professional duties. No emotional or romantic entanglements. Immediate termination if violated.” Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s specific.” Nate’s voice was quiet steel. “I’ve had nannies confuse kindness for invitation. I don’t tolerate blurred lines.” Riley leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. “Good to know. So no falling in love with the boss. Got it.” Gina didn’t laugh. Nate didn’t flinch. “Do you have any objections?” he asked. She tilted her head. “Only when you think love is something that just happens. Like slipping on ice.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Everything happens when people stop paying attention.” Riley smirked. “Maybe. Or maybe when they finally start.” The room was quiet again. Emma’s voice piped up, small but firm. “Daddy, I like her.” Nate glanced at his daughter then back at Riley. Something flickered in his expression. Reluctant consideration. “You’ll start Monday,” he said. Riley rose slowly. “Looking forward to it.” He nodded once, then turned and walked out of the room like the conversation was over. Riley blew out a slow breath and turned to Gina. “Is he always that warm and fuzzy, or did I get the extra special treatment?” Gina’s lips thinned. “Mr. Carter is exacting.” “And Emma?” Riley asked quietly. “She needs more than this place gives her,” Gina said, surprising her. “Let’s hope you’re more than another short-term solution.” Riley left the penthouse with her head high, heart pounding, and a dangerous awareness settling low in her stomach. This job would pay her rent. Keep Caleb safe. Bring stability. But if the way Nate Carter had looked at her was any indication The nanny clause was already in danger.