The next morning, Jocelyn stood before the looming iron gates of Anderson Estate, her stomach twisting into knots. She subconsciously straightened the hem of the pale pink skirt she'd spent the whole night ironing, hoping it was straight enough.
The mansion beyond looked like something from a glossy magazine. It had wide marble steps, walls of glass that reflected the rising sun, and gardens trimmed so perfectly they seemed unreal.
Security cameras tracked her every movement. A uniformed guard gave her a once-over that made her overly aware of her secondhand blazer and scuffed flats.
She clutched the strap of her handbag tightly. What am I doing here?
Just then, the intercom crackled. "Name?"
Her voice wavered. "Jocelyn Winston. I… I'm here for the nanny position."
The gates slid open immediately with a mechanical hum. She swallowed hard before stepping inside. Every footstep echoed in her ears as though even the ground wanted to remind her she didn't belong.
By the time she reached the massive front doors, her palms were clammy. She tugged at the sleeves of her pale pink blouse, praying she looked more like a professional and less like someone pretending to belong.
Before she could knock, the door opened. A maid greeted her with a polite smile, though her eyes held something like pity. "You must be Miss Winston. Please, follow me."
Inside, polished floors gleamed like mirrors, and chandeliers sparkled overhead. Jocelyn had seen wealth before but this… this was suffocating. It was like stepping out of reality and into another world.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash. The sound of something shattering down the hall echoed through the room.
"Give it back!" a girl's voice shrieked.
"No! You had it yesterday!" a boy shouted back.
The maid sighed, muttering under her breath, "And so it begins in the Anderson estate…"
Jocelyn blinked as a little boy—around six—raced across the hallway clutching a tablet like a trophy, nearly colliding with her. Right on his heels came a girl, slightly younger, wielding a stuffed unicorn like a weapon.
Before Jocelyn could think, the boy tripped and the tablet skidded across the marble floor, stopping right at her feet.
The boy looked up at her with wide, mischievous eyes. "Don't give it back to her!" he pleaded breathlessly.
"Don't listen to him!" the girl countered, glaring fiercely. "He always has it and never let's me use it!"
Jocelyn froze. What on earth have I walked into?
Just as she was thinking of a response, another voice came. Deep. Sharp. Commanding.
"What is going on here?"
Instantly, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Jocelyn's breath caught as the children went still. Their faces contorted with guilty, almost terrified, and she didn't need an introduction to know who had just entered.
She turned around slowly and there he was.
Alexander Anderson.
He strode into the hall like he owned not just the house but the entire world itself. His charcoal tailored suit emphasized his long, powerful frame, and the crisp white shirt beneath had a few buttons undone just enough to hint at the body beneath. He has dark hair slicked back perfectly, and a strong jaw set in stone.
For a split second, Jocelyn let herself drink in his looks. The magazines that carried his pictures really failed because Alexander looked better than all the pictures of him she'd seen.
He was the kind of man who commanded silence just by breathing.
His pair of cold, deep blue eyes landed on Jocelyn, and for a heartbeat, she forgot how to stand upright.
"You're late," he said flatly.
Her mouth opened. "I—No, I'm on time. It's—" she fumbled for her phone, her hands trembling, "eight o'clock sharp."
Alexander didn't glance at her phone. He didn't need to. His gaze swept her from head to toe, assessing, stripping her down layer by layer without ever touching her. "You don't look qualified."
The words stung Jocelyn sharper than she expected.
Her pride flared. She squared her shoulders, even though her knees felt shaky. "Forgive me, Mr. Anderson, but I wasn't aware that appearance determined childcare skills."
For the briefest second, surprise flickered across his expression. Like he was not used to being replied in the same tone as his.
Then his lips curved—not in amusement, but in something colder. Dangerous.
The boy scrambled up and laughed. He nodded and piped up, "She seems nice! Can we keep her?"
However, the girl crossed her arms, smiling smugly. "She'll quit in two weeks like the others."
Jocelyn's stomach sank. The audacity…
Alexander silenced them with a glance sharp enough to slice steel. Then his eyes snapped back to her, hard and unyielding. "Miss Winston, is it?"
"Yes." She forced the word out.
"Understand this." He stepped closer, the subtle heat of him reaching her even though she wanted to step back. "My children have already run off six nannies this year. They don't need someone nice. They need someone competent." His voice dropped lower, colder. "If you waste my time, you won't just regret taking this job… you'll regret ever walking through my gates."
The room was so silent Jocelyn could hear her pulse hammering in her ears.
Everything in her screamed to run, to escape this man whose very presence choked against her lungs. But behind his threat, she saw only the unspoken truth: money. Security. A chance to save her mother.
With that thought, her chin lifted an inch, even though her throat was dry. "Then I won't waste your time."
The air between them crackled. Alexander's eyes narrowed, dissecting her as if peeling back layers she wanted to keep hidden. His jaw ticked once, sharp. For a moment she thought he might laugh, mock her or dismiss her. But he didn't.
Instead, he leaned closer, so close she caught the faintest trace of his expensive woodsy, clean, unsettlingly cologne. "We'll see," he murmured.
Jocelyn's stomach flipped, heat racing through her despite the warning in his tone.
Then, finally, he inclined his head.
"You can stay." The finality of his words didn't make Jocelyn feel any better. If anything, it sounded like a sentence.
She exhaled shakily, though she wasn't sure if it was relief or dread.
Because one thing was certain—whatever storm Alexander Anderson was, she had just stepped straight into its path.