Chapter 2 - THE TERMS OF ENGAGEMENT
“Chaosville,” the boy with the scarred eyebrow declared, his arms crossing over a chest that seemed too small for such heavy defiance. “But it sounds stupid.”
“It does sound a little unimaginative,” Claire agreed, stepping entirely into the disaster zone of the playroom. She didn’t flinch at the water balloon fragments on the floor or the glaringly obvious paint stains on the Persian rug. “If you’re going to build an entire city from scratch, you might as well give it a name that demands respect. Like New Carthage. Or The Citadel.”
The three boys exchanged a look. It was a silent, telepathic conversation that only siblings who shared a womb could manage. The quiet one inside the toy chest slowly stood up. The one on the desk lowered the permanent marker.
“You’re not yelling,” the boy with the marker noted. His dark eyes were suspicious, scanning her face for the inevitable adult breakdown they were so accustomed to triggering.
“Yelling takes energy,” Claire said, casually bending down to pick up a stray Lego block. “And I haven’t had my second cup of coffee yet. I’m Claire. And unless one of you wants to introduce yourselves, I’m going to start calling you Thing One, Thing Two, and The Architect.” She pointed the Lego at the boy with the marker.
Henry Brandt, who had been hovering near the door like a referee expecting a bloodbath, cleared his throat. “Ms. Beaumont, meet Leo, Mateo, and Enzo. They are eight years old, entirely too intelligent for their own good, and currently on their final warning regarding household destruction.”
Mateo, the scarred one, rolled his eyes. “We don’t care about warnings.”
“Good to know,” Claire said smoothly. “Because I don’t give them. I have a daughter named Rosie. She’s seven. She’ll be moving in here with me. If you throw a water balloon at her, she will absolutely throw something heavier back at you. Are we clear?”
The triplets blinked. Twenty-two nannies had tried to bribe them, scold them, or psychologically analyze them. Not one had ever promised mutual combat.
“She’s hired,” a voice said from the doorway.
The air in the room instantly changed. The temperature seemed to drop, the atmosphere pulling taut like a guitar string. Claire turned around and found herself staring at the physical embodiment of the word danger.
He was incredibly tall, wearing a bespoke black suit without a tie. His dark hair was slightly messy, as if he had just run his hands through it in frustration, but his eyes—pitch-black and devastatingly sharp—were locked onto Claire. Julian Rinaldi did not look like a grieving widower or a stressed corporate executive. He looked like a man who bought governments and buried his problems in the deep woods.
“Mr. Rinaldi,” Henry said, stepping aside.
Julian stepped into the playroom, his gaze sweeping over the marker on the walls, the ripped beanbag, and finally settling on his three sons, who had suddenly become statues. Then, his eyes snapped back to Claire. He took in her cheap flats, her worn coat, and the absolute lack of fear in her posture.
“You caught a water balloon and a blueberry pancake in the span of five minutes,” Julian said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in Claire’s chest. “You’re broke, you have a kid, and you didn’t flinch when my son threatened you. What’s your angle?”
“Survival,” Claire answered flatly. “My angle is an empty bank account and a landlord who wants me out by Friday. I don’t care how much money you have, Mr. Rinaldi. I don’t care what you do for a living. I just need to get paid. And I am very, very good at keeping children alive.”
May you like
Julian stared at her. For a terrifying, endless moment, the silence was absolute. Then, a dark, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
“Henry, draft her contract. Double the salary,” Julian ordered, turning on his heel. He paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. “Have your daughter here by dinner, Ms. Beaumont. The gates lock at eight.”
