By the time the security guards took her by the elbows, the marble floor of the Long Island mansion felt colder than the January sidewalk back in the Bronx.

Amber’s hands shook around the small cardboard box holding her entire life at the Valentino estate—a pair of worn sneakers, a folded sweatshirt, the crayon drawing where Lily had written “AMBR I LUV YOU” in shaky letters. The foyer was a cathedral of money: double staircase sweeping up in perfect symmetry, a chandelier glittering like a frozen waterfall, polished stone reflecting every step of her humiliation.

“Please keep moving, Miss Martinez,” one of the guards murmured, not unkindly.

She didn’t look at him. She was too busy trying not to cry in front of half the household staff.

Mrs. Castellano stood at the top of the stairs like a judge delivering a sentence. Arms crossed, posture crisp, her black dress as severe as the line of her mouth. She made sure her voice carried.

“I told Mr. Valentino you weren’t suitable for this position, Miss Martinez,” she announced, each word sharp enough to cut. “Some people don’t understand that a respectable Long Island home is not a charity project.”

Someone snickered from the back. Another maid looked away quickly, cheeks flushing. A footman paused in the doorway, curious and pale.

“Coming here from that neighborhood,” the housekeeper continued, with a pointed little pause that said Bronx without saying it, “thinking you could just waltz into a family like this.”

Amber bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted metal. She had promised herself she would not cry in this house. Not in front of these people. Not in front of the woman who had waited six months—exactly six months—to get rid of her.

Six months of reading bedtime stories. Six months of singing lullabies in Spanish and English and nonsense words until two broken little hearts remembered how to laugh. Six months of tiny hands reaching for her in the dark when thunder shook the windows of the Long Island Sound.

Six months erased in one morning because the head housekeeper had decided she didn’t belong.

“Miss Martinez, this way, please,” the other guard said, shifting awkwardly. He looked young, nervous, like he knew this felt wrong but also knew his paycheck depended on not saying so.

Amber swallowed hard, adjusted her grip on the box, and took a step toward the open front doors.

And then it hit—the sound that shattered the entire performance.

A scream. High, raw, and broken.

“AMBER!”

It came from somewhere deeper in the house, down the wide hallway toward the private wing. Another voice joined it, more hoarse, already sobbing.

“AMBUH! NO! NO GO!”

Lily and Noah.

The twins’ crying raced down the polished corridor before their small bodies did, echoing off marble and glass. Staff members flinched, turned, shifted uneasily. The guards hesitated.

And somewhere in his home office, behind a thick door and a security system connected to a dozen feeds across New York, Marco Valentino lifted his head.

He knew his children. He knew their sounds. There was the whiny I want more cookies cry, the tired I don’t want to nap cry. There was the sudden sharp yelp when a knee was bumped or a toy was stolen.

This was neither.

This sound dragged him back two years and four months, to a hospital corridor in Manhattan and a doctor who wouldn’t meet his eye. His hand froze on the pen above the contract he’d been about to sign.

In the foyer, the twins appeared at the edge of the staircase, dragged along by their small legs and huge grief. Lily’s dark curls were wild, her face blotchy and already streaked with tears. Noah’s cheeks glistened, his bottom lip quivering so hard he could barely form words.

“Stop them,” Mrs. Castellano snapped. “Someone—stop those children—”

But grief moves faster than protocol.

Lily broke free of the maid who tried to catch her. She bolted down the last three steps, nearly sliding on her socked feet, and crashed into Amber’s legs with the kind of force only a desperate three-year-old can manage.

“No!” she sobbed, arms wrapping around Amber’s knees. “No leave! No leave, Amber, no!”

Noah lunged after her, colliding with Amber’s hip, tiny fists clutching at her coat.

The box tipped from Amber’s hands and spilled across the marble—her sweatshirt, a framed photo of her grandmother, a worn paperback, a steady drip of the small life she had brought into this mansion in Long Island, New York, six months earlier.

“Hey, hey,” Amber whispered, instinct overriding everything else. Her hands went to the children automatically, one on each small back. “It’s okay, baby—”

“It is absolutely not okay,” Mrs. Castellano snapped, storming down the staircase. “Children, back to the nursery this instant. Miss Martinez has to—”

“NO!” Lily screamed, voice cracking on the word. “You bad! You bad! You make Amber cry!”

The accusation landed like a slap in the silent hall. Several staff members looked at the housekeeper, then quickly away. One of the guards shifted his weight. The other swallowed.

Amber felt her own composure tremble. She tried to crouch without dislodging their grip.

“Lily, sweetheart, I have to—”

“You promised,” Noah choked out, words thick with tears. “You promised you stay. You read dragon book. You no go ‘way.”

That was the moment something inside Amber finally cracked.

She wanted to scream that she hadn’t chosen this. That she would have stayed until they were eighteen and rolling their eyes at her corny jokes if anyone had let her. That this wasn’t her decision, it was a punishment dressed up as professionalism.

Instead she took a deep breath, because they were watching. The staff. The guards. The woman who wanted her gone. Somewhere, she knew, the cameras. And maybe—just maybe—the man who owned all of it.

She brushed a tear from Lily’s cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Both of you. That doesn’t change. Even if I’m not here.”

The children wailed harder.

“Enough,” Mrs. Castellano hissed, sharp heels clicking on the marble. “This melodrama is beneath this household. You are upsetting them, Miss Martinez. Guards, remove her.”

When the hands went back to her elbows, Amber straightened. This time she did not flinch. She pried Lily’s fingers from her leg, one by one, heart splintering with each tiny sob.

“Be good,” she said hoarsely. “For your papa. For each other. Be good for me.”

The guards led her toward the front doors.

And in that moment, as his children screamed for the only person who had truly soothed them since their mother died, Marco Valentino stepped out of his office and realized that firing the nanny from the Bronx might be the biggest mistake anyone had ever made in this mansion overlooking the water of Long Island, New York.

Six months earlier, Amber Martinez had stood on the sidewalk outside these same iron gates, wondering if she’d lost her mind.

The Valentino estate looked like every rich-people house she’d ever seen in movies set on the East Coast. White columns. Perfect hedges carved into sharp lines, not a leaf out of place. A driveway that curved so long she could barely see the front door from the street. Somewhere beyond the line of trees, the gray-blue stretch of the Atlantic and the quiet wealth of the North Shore whispered money in every gust of salt air.

Her entire apartment building in the Bronx could have fit inside the garage.

She wiped her palms on the skirt of her navy thrift-store dress, adjusted the cheap blazer she’d borrowed from a friend, and pressed the intercom with a shaky finger.

“Name and purpose,” a male voice demanded, rough with boredom.

“Amber Martinez,” she said. “I’m here for the nanny interview.”

There was a pause long enough for her to imagine every reason they might refuse her entry. Wrong address. Job already filled. Background check failed. Sorry, we don’t need you; please go back to your world.

Then: “Proceed to the main house. Follow the drive. Do not leave the path.”

A small click. The iron gates slid open with mechanical ease, the sound smooth and low, like money humming.

Amber took a breath, squared her shoulders, and walked.

Her cheap flats slapped softly against the dark asphalt, then quieted when she reached the stone walkway. The air smelled like cut grass and ocean, a strange combination of luxury and wildness. Birds chirped in the perfectly manicured trees. Somewhere far off, she thought she heard the faint roar of traffic from the Long Island Expressway, a reminder that New York City was only an hour away—and also another universe.

She clutched her folder of documents to her chest: references, certifications, the diploma from her early childhood education program, printed on paper so thin it felt more fragile than the degree itself. Years of night classes. Three jobs. Hospital receipts for her grandmother’s medications. Late rent notices that had pushed her to search listings as far from the Bronx as she could stand.

Live-in nanny, competitive pay, full benefits. Must be experienced, discreet, and willing to work with high-profile family in Long Island, NY.

She knew what people would see when they saw her name. Martinez. Bronx. Foster care. The neighborhood that got mentioned on the news when something bad happened, not when anything good did.

She also knew children. Knew tantrums and trauma and the way kids who had been hurt flinched at shadows. Knew how to coax a giggle out of a little boy who hadn’t spoken in weeks. How to sit on the floor in a tiny New York apartment and make a tent out of one sheet and two chairs and let a child feel safe for thirty magical minutes.

She was good at what she did. She just needed someone, somewhere, to look past her zip code.

The front door opened before she could knock.

Mrs. Castellano filled the doorway like she’d been born there. Crisp black dress, silver hair pulled into a perfect chignon, expression carved from disapproval and expensive skincare.

“Miss Martinez?” she asked, voice cool.

“Yes, ma’am,” Amber said, trying to smile. “Thank you for—”

“Do not thank me. I am not the one you need to impress.” Her eyes flicked over Amber’s outfit, lingering on the scuffed flats and the way a few curls had escaped the neat bun at the nape of her neck. “Follow me. Mr. Valentino is a very busy man. Try not to waste his time.”

The inside of the house was somehow even more overwhelming than the outside. Crystal chandeliers hung like upside-down ice storms. Oil paintings stared down from the walls, the kind of artwork Amber had only ever seen behind velvet ropes in Manhattan museums. The floors were a seemingly endless sea of marble, patterned and polished to a soft shine.

Her footsteps echoed despite her attempts to walk quietly.

The house staff watched her pass. A cook paused with a tray in his hands, eyes curious. A maid carrying a stack of linen glanced up, then quickly away. Two men in dark suits stood near a hallway like statues, but their eyes tracked her with the precise attention of security professionals who had seen enough of the world to know trouble could wear anything—even a navy thrift-store dress.

She heard whispers behind her back.

“Is that—”

“From the Bronx, I heard—”

“Castellano’s furious—”

She recognized the looks. Manhattan department stores. Job interviews where they liked her résumé but not her address. Foster homes that smelled like smoke and resentment. The quiet calculation of whether she was worth the trouble.

In the study, the air changed.

The room was lined with shelves of leather-bound books that looked more decorative than read, but Amber wasn’t fooled—some of the titles were in Italian, some in English, some in languages she didn’t recognize. Antique furniture glowed with the kind of shine that said people polished it for a living. One wall held a large painting of the New York skyline at sunset, the Empire State Building glowing like a promise.

“Wait here,” Mrs. Castellano said. “Touch nothing.”

The door closed behind her.

Alone, Amber forced herself to breathe slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She straightened the stack of papers in her folder even though they were already perfectly aligned.

You need this job, she told herself. For the rent. For Abuela’s medication. For the chance to stop juggling three part-time gigs that barely covered groceries.

You can do this.

The door opened with more force than necessary.

He filled the space before she even saw his face. Broad shoulders in an immaculate charcoal suit. The faint whiff of expensive cologne, something woodsy and clean. Then his eyes—dark, assessing, sharp as the city skyline at night.

Marco Valentino stepped into the study like a storm coming in off the Atlantic.

He was taller than she’d expected. Six-foot-three, if she had to guess, his presence stretching beyond even that. His hair was dark and cut with the kind of precision you only get on Madison Avenue. His jaw was strong, shadowed with just enough stubble to look intentional. A faint scar traced over his left eyebrow, the only flaw on an otherwise flawless face—and somehow that imperfection made him more compelling.

At his collar, a hint of ink peeked above the crisp white shirt. Not the swirling script of a fraternity symbol or a trendy design, but something older, darker. A reminder that this was not just a man with money, but a man with power.

Behind him came two small streaks of energy.

“Papa, papa, papaaa—”

The twins tumbled in, the mirror of their father’s eyes copied in miniature. Lily’s dark curls bounced around her face, a pink bow hanging crookedly from one side. Noah clutched a stuffed elephant by one ear, dragging it along the floor.

They were talking in rapid Italian, words tumbling over each other like marbles.

“Basta, basta,” Marco said, his voice a low rumble that hit Amber somewhere deep in her chest. “English, ragazzi. You know the rules when we have guests.”

Lily’s gaze landed on Amber.

“Papa, she’s pretty,” she announced, switching to English with only a slight accent. Her eyes were solemn despite the smile. “Is she our new lady?”

Amber’s heart squeezed.

“Lily,” Marco warned. “Manners.”

He turned to Amber fully then, and the air between them seemed to tighten.

“Miss Martinez,” he said.

“Mr. Valentino,” she replied, and was proud her voice didn’t shake. “Thank you for—”

He gestured to the chair in front of the massive desk. “Sit.”

She did. Her back straight. Her knees pressed together. Her hands folded tightly in her lap to hide the tremble.

He took his seat behind the desk, and for a moment the only sound was the distant hum of Long Island traffic and the soft thump of the twins on the sofa as they climbed up and settled in, watching everything with wide eyes.

“Your résumé is…interesting,” Marco said, flipping through the pages in the folder his assistant must have prepared. “Twelve foster placements before age eighteen. Graduated community college with honors. Completed an early childhood education program at night while working three jobs. Currently employed at a daycare center in the Bronx and as a part-time sitter for two families in Manhattan.”

He raised his eyes to hers.

“You’ve had a difficult life.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.

Amber met his gaze.

“I’ve had a real life,” she said quietly. “One that taught me patience. And how to stretch thirty dollars of groceries into a week. And how to calm a child down when the heat gets cut off in January. Your children don’t need someone who’s lived a perfect life, Mr. Valentino. They need someone who understands what it feels like when the world stops feeling safe.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Castellano appear in the doorway, lips thinning.

She’d done it. Too bold, too honest. She could practically see the “thank you for your time” forming on his tongue.

But Marco didn’t dismiss her.

Instead, something flickered behind his eyes. Respect? Curiosity? A flicker of something that looked a lot like recognition.

“Tell me,” he said slowly. “What do you know about my family?”

“I know your name,” Amber admitted. “It’s hard to live in New York and not know your name.”

His mouth tightened, just slightly.

“I know you lost your wife two years ago,” she continued, gentler now. “I know these two…” She glanced back at the twins, who watched her like she was the most interesting show on television. “…have been through something no child should have to go through. And I know you’re looking for someone who can give them more than supervision. Someone who can give them care. Real care.”

She swallowed.

“And I know that, despite what your housekeeper thinks, my zip code doesn’t disqualify me from that.”

Marco’s brows lifted barely a millimeter.

“Papa…” Lily slid off the sofa, padded over to Amber’s chair, and looked up at her. “Do you know Italian?” she asked seriously.

Amber smiled, her heart unexpectedly soft.

“No, princess,” she admitted. “But if you teach me, I’ll learn. I’m very good at learning.”

“Prin-cess,” Lily repeated, tasting the word. She beamed. “I like her.”

“That is not how we select staff,” Mrs. Castellano muttered, but Marco didn’t look at her.

Noah joined his sister, clutching his elephant.

“Do you read stories?” he asked. “With funny voices? Mama did voices.”

Something in Marco’s face flinched at the word Mama.

“I do the best funny voices in all of New York City,” Amber promised solemnly. “I have witnesses.”

Noah giggled, a small, startled sound, like a bird testing its wings.

The room shifted.

Marco sat back in his chair, studying the three of them together: his children, whose laughter had become rare coins in this house, and the woman from the Bronx who had coaxed two smiles in under ten minutes.

“The position is live-in,” he said finally. “Your quarters would be on the same floor as the nursery. Two days off per month. The salary is sixty thousand annually, plus room and board and health insurance.”

Amber’s heart misfired.

“Sixty…” She caught herself. “That’s…very generous.”

“For my children, only the best,” he said simply. “There are rules.”

Of course there were.

“My children’s safety is paramount,” he continued. “You go nowhere with them without my security team’s knowledge. You speak to no one about my family or my business. You maintain absolute discretion at all times. And most importantly…”

He stood, moving around the desk toward her. He walked like he owned not just the room, but the land under it and the sky above it. Like New York bowed around him.

He stopped close enough that she could see the faint line of that scar, the gold flecks in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw.

“…you never lie to me,” he said quietly. “About anything. Can you follow those rules, Miss Martinez?”

Amber’s pulse thudded in her throat. She could feel the housekeeper’s disapproval like a physical force pressing on the back of her neck. Feel the staff lingering in the hallway, curious and hungry for gossip.

But those weren’t the only rules that mattered.

“I can follow those rules,” she said. “Can you follow mine?”

Marco’s eyebrow arched, that scar shifting slightly.

“Yours?”

She nodded, the motion small but steady.

“Lily and Noah are children, not ornaments. They need structure, yes. But they also need love. They need to get dirty sometimes. To run loud sometimes. To cry when they’re sad and not be shushed because it makes adults uncomfortable. If you want someone who will keep them quiet and spotless just so your house looks perfect, I’m not your nanny.”

The silence snapped into focus.

Behind her, she heard an audible gasp. Someone sucked in a breath. Somewhere, a clock ticked too loudly.

But she didn’t look away from him.

“If you hire me, I will protect them,” she said softly. “Not just their bodies. Their hearts. That means I will sometimes put what’s best for them ahead of what’s most convenient for this house. If that’s not acceptable, you should choose someone else.”

No one talked to Marco Valentino like that.

Certainly no one with a thrift-store dress and a Bronx subway card in her purse.

For a heartbeat, she thought she’d gone too far.

Then the corner of his mouth moved, just barely.

“You start Monday,” he said.

Behind her, Mrs. Castellano made a noise that sounded like someone had dropped a crystal glass.

Amber’s hands trembled as she gathered her folder, as Lily grabbed her hand and Noah latched onto her knee like this was already a done deal.

“Thank you,” she managed, her throat tight. “I won’t let you down.”

Marco returned to his seat, but she felt his gaze follow her as the housekeeper led her out.

What Amber didn’t know as she walked down the gleaming hallway toward her future was that in saying no to becoming decoration in this perfect house, she’d accidentally become something far more dangerous.

Indispensable.

Amber moved into the Valentino mansion on a crisp Monday morning in October, the sky over New York a clear, brittle blue that made the ocean along the Long Island shore glitter.

Her entire life fit into two suitcases and a duffel bag.

Her new quarters were bigger than any place she’d ever lived: a light-filled bedroom with a queen bed, a soft rug that looked too pretty to step on, an attached bathroom with more marble than her entire Bronx apartment building, and windows overlooking the back gardens and, beyond them, a slice of the Atlantic.

The first night, she lay awake listening to a silence that was nothing like the Bronx. No sirens. No couple arguing in the hallway. No upstairs neighbor stomping like they wore cement boots. Just the faint whoosh of air through vents and, far away, the hush of waves against rock.

It should have felt like a dream.

It felt like a test.

The first week was a carefully choreographed dance.

Lily and Noah glued themselves to her side almost immediately. They trailed after her down hallways, tugged at her hand, dragged her to the playroom, the nursery, the garden where koi fish flicked orange and white beneath the surface of a perfect pond.

“This is Mama’s fish,” Lily told her solemnly, pointing. “She said they’re lucky.”

“Then we better take good care of them,” Amber said, squatting down to their height. “Does that mean we can make wishes?”

Lily thought about it.

“Only small ones,” she decided. “Big ones we keep in here.” She tapped her chest.

Yeah, kid. Amber knew all about big wishes you had to keep locked up.

Marco was a distant orbit in those early days. He left before dawn most mornings, long before the sun rose over Manhattan’s skyline across the water. He returned late at night, usually after the twins were already asleep. When he was home during the day, the energy in the house changed. Everyone walked a little straighter. Voices dropped. The men in suits seemed to multiply.

But Amber noticed things.

The way his jaw clenched when he heard one of the twins cry. The way he paused outside the nursery door if he passed while she was singing softly in Spanish, his shadow visible under the crack for a minute longer than strictly necessary.

The way his eyes lingered on her whenever their paths crossed. Curious. Assessing. And sometimes something else—something so intense it prickled along her skin hours later.

If he was the center of gravity in this house, then Mrs. Castellano was the atmosphere. And she made sure Amber never forgot she was an outsider.

“You let them get mud on their shoes,” the housekeeper said disapprovingly one gray afternoon as Amber ushered Lily and Noah in from the backyard, rain dampening their hair. “This is not a playground in the Bronx. We have standards here.”

“They’re three,” Amber said calmly, helping Noah peel off his tiny sneakers. “If they don’t get muddy at three, they’ll do it at thirteen. And they’ll do it by sneaking. At least this way, I know where they are.”

“The other staff are complaining,” Mrs. Castellano sniffed. “They say the children are…louder. Less obedient.”

“They’re laughing,” Amber corrected. “That’s what you’re hearing. It can sound like chaos if you’re not used to it.”

“The Valentina children were not like this before.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Amber said under her breath.

The only staff member who dared show her real kindness was Maria, a young housemaid with warm brown eyes and a Long Island accent that softened when she slipped into Spanish.

“They’re jealous,” Maria confided one evening as they folded tiny shirts in the laundry room. “Before you, this house…” She shivered. “Like a mausoleum. The children never smiled. Mrs. C liked it quiet. Now there are crayons on the table and jelly on the napkins. She hates that.”

“Then she really won’t like me teaching them how to make pancakes,” Amber said.

Maria grinned. “Teach me, too. I only burn.”

On the tenth night, the house woke up.

Amber jerked from sleep to the sound of screaming.

Not the muffled cry of a child who dropped a toy. Not even the sharp howl of a bumped head. This was visceral. Raw. The sound of a nightmare dragging someone back into a moment they never escaped.

“Lily,” Amber breathed.

She didn’t bother with slippers. She ran barefoot down the hallway, heart pounding against her ribs, cotton pajama pants whispering around her ankles.

The nursery door was slightly open. Light from the hallway spilled in a thin line across the floor.

Lily thrashed in her little bed, limbs tangled in sheets, sobbing. Noah was sitting up in his, tears streaming down his face, thumb in his mouth, eyes wide and terrified.

“Hey, baby, I’m here,” Amber crooned, going straight to Lily’s bed and gathering the trembling child into her arms. Lily clutched at her nightshirt, hot tears soaking the fabric.

“Ma-Ma,” Lily hiccupped. “Mama, don’t go. Mama, no!”

Amber’s throat closed.

“I know,” she whispered, rocking gently. “I know, sweetheart. You miss her so much it hurts. It’s okay to miss her. It’s okay to cry. Amber’s got you.”

Noah scrambled across the gap between the beds, climbing into Amber’s lap. She adjusted her hold so she had both of them, one on each hip. Noah burrowed his face into her shoulder; Lily sobbed into her chest.

She didn’t see Marco until he spoke.

“They have nightmares often.”

His voice was huskier without the crisp shell of a suit and business. Amber looked up.

He leaned in the doorway, barefoot, dark pajama pants hanging low on his hips, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. For once his hair wasn’t perfectly styled; it stood in sleep-tousled waves. He looked younger and older at the same time—less like the man featured in financial articles and more like a father who hadn’t slept properly in two years.

“I didn’t hear you,” Amber said softly. Her voice was still pitched low for the twins’ ears. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” he murmured. “I heard Lily from my room. And then I heard you.”

He stepped into the nursery, the air shifting with him. For the first time, he moved without the aura of guards or business, just a man barefoot in the dim light.

“They miss her,” Amber said, running her fingers through Lily’s curls. “It’s healthy. It hurts, but it’s healthy. It means they loved her deeply.”

“I don’t want them to hurt,” Marco said.

His voice was rough in a way that wasn’t just sleep. He sat on the edge of Noah’s bed, close enough that Amber could see the strain around his eyes.

“You can’t protect them from all pain,” Amber said gently. “Not even in a house like this. Not even with all your…resources. You can only make sure they know they’re not alone in it.”

“You speak from experience.”

It wasn’t a question. It was another of those observations that made her feel naked.

Amber hesitated. She rarely talked about her childhood. Not in the Bronx. Definitely not in mansions.

“My mom died when I was eight,” she said quietly. “I went into foster care. Some placements were good. Some were…not. I remember the nightmares. The feeling that everything safe had disappeared overnight.”

She swallowed.

“But I also remember one foster mom—just one—who never made me feel like my grief was annoying. She’d sit on the edge of the bed and hold me until I stopped shaking. No questions. No sighing. Just…presence. It didn’t fix everything. But it made it survivable.”

Marco’s gaze went to the twins, then back to her.

“And your father?” he asked.

“Don’t know him,” Amber said. “He’s a name on a birth certificate I’ve never seen. The point is…these two might not remember every detail of their mother. Faces blur, voices fade. But they’ll remember how they felt. Safe or scared. Loved or…inconvenient.”

Her arms tightened around the kids.

“It’s our job to make sure they remember love,” she finished.

We.

The word hung between them.

Marco’s hand moved, almost of its own accord. He brushed a curl off Noah’s forehead, fingers surprisingly gentle for a man whose handshake could close deals worth more than the house she’d grown up in.

“Mrs. Castellano submitted a complaint about you today,” he said, his tone deceptively mild.

Amber’s stomach clenched.

“Did she,” she managed.

“She says you are too informal with the children,” he said. “That you allow them too much freedom. That you…do not maintain ‘appropriate distance.’”

“Do you believe her?” Amber asked quietly.

He held her gaze.

“I told her,” he said, “that if she has concerns about my children’s care, she brings them to me. Not to the staff. And that, as far as I can see, the children are happier than they have been in a long time.”

The relief that flooded her made her dizzy.

“I don’t tolerate disloyalty,” he added, his voice dropping. “From anyone in this house.”

It was a warning. It was a promise. It was something in between.

“Thank you,” Amber whispered.

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just keep doing…this.”

He nodded at the twins, now both breathing more evenly in her arms, their lashes still wet but their bodies relaxing.

“I’ll be traveling to Chicago for three days,” he added. “There is a situation that requires my attention. I will not be reachable as easily as usual.”

“The children will be safe,” Amber said.

“This is why you’re here,” he replied. Then, to her shock, he added, softer, “Make sure you are safe, too.”

Before she could answer, he slipped back into the hall.

The next morning, an envelope slid under her door while she was brushing her teeth.

Inside was a sleek new smartphone, more expensive than anything she’d ever owned, set up and ready. One contact was already programmed in: MV.

A note in the same bold, slanted handwriting as the contract she’d signed lay on top.

If anything happens with the children while I am away, call this number. Any time. About anything. – M.V.

She stared at the phone for a long moment. Then she programmed in one more number—her grandmother’s—and tucked it carefully into her pocket.

At breakfast, Mrs. Castellano’s gaze zeroed in on the phone like a hawk spotting a mouse.

“Already getting gifts from Mr. Valentino, are we?” she said with a cool smile. “How…interesting.”

“It’s for emergencies with the twins,” Amber replied evenly.

“Oh, of course,” the housekeeper said, voice dripping with disbelief. “Just remember your place, Miss Martinez. You are an employee here. Nothing more. Women who forget that tend to regret it.”

Amber held her gaze.

“I know exactly what my place is,” she said. “Right now? It’s at the breakfast table with Lily and Noah. Excuse me.”

She walked away, every step an act of defiance.

What she didn’t see was the housekeeper pulling out her own phone, screen lighting her face with a harsh glow as she typed a message to a number with no name.

Three days later, Chicago’s skyline glowed like a second constellation in Marco’s hotel window when his phone buzzed with a notification from his home security app.

Unexpected motion. East wing. Nursery level.

He checked the feed, saw nothing alarming, and told himself he was being paranoid.

That night, at 2 a.m. Long Island time, the same phone rang.

He answered on the first ring.

Amber’s voice was low but steady.

“Lily had another nightmare,” she said. “She’s okay now. She asked for you.”

He swore under his breath, quietly.

“Put the phone near her ear.”

He spoke to his daughter in Italian until her hiccups eased, then stayed on the line longer than necessary, listening to Amber’s breathing.

“Anything else?” he asked finally.

“Yes,” she said after a pause. “Come home safe.”

In his Chicago hotel room, with the lights of the American Midwest glittering outside, Marco felt something dangerous and unfamiliar move in his chest.

He came home with fatigue carving hollows under his eyes and a faint stain on his shirt collar that didn’t look like wine.

Amber saw the mark when he stopped in the doorway of the nursery, saw it and said nothing.

Their eyes met.

He saw the question. She saw the answer he wasn’t giving. Between them, Lily slept peacefully, thumb tucked in her mouth, hair spread across the pillow like a dark halo.

Something shifted.

The change came a few weeks later, wrapped in silk and trouble.

“Absolutely not,” Marco said, not even looking up from the documents on his desk.

Amber stood in the doorway of his study, Lily’s hand in hers, calm but determined.

“She was invited,” Amber said. “By name. Lily’s name is on the invitation, Mr. Valentino. She’s been talking about this children’s charity gala for two weeks.”

“It’s not safe.”

“Life isn’t safe,” Amber replied. “But this event is in Westchester. At the Rothman estate. You know them. There will be more security there than at some embassies. She needs to be around other kids her age, to feel…normal.”

“Papa.” Lily’s voice was small but focused. “I want to wear my blue dress. Like Mama’s. You said Mama wore blue when she went to dances.”

His hand froze over the paper.

Amber saw it.

“Mr. Valentino,” she said softly. “She’s four. She wants to wear a dress and eat cookies and dance to bad pop music. We can let her have this one thing.”

The silence stretched.

Marco’s fingers tapped once on the desk. She’d learned, in these weeks, that meant he was considering something he didn’t want to agree to.

“You will stay within sight of my men at all times,” he said at last.

Amber exhaled.

“Of course.”

“I will be attending as well.”

She blinked.

“You’re coming to a children’s charity gala?”

“I am a major donor,” he said dryly. “My presence was expected regardless.”

His gaze caught hers, something heat-flushed flickering behind his eyes.

“Now,” he added, “I have another reason to attend.”

Three days later, Amber stood in front of the mirror in her quarters, experiencing a full-blown crisis.

Her closet was mostly sensible clothes—jeans, leggings, soft sweaters that could survive sticky hands and spilled juice. She had one dress that wasn’t work-appropriate: the green one from her community college graduation. It had felt fancy then. Now, imagining herself walking into a ballroom full of Manhattan and Long Island wealth, it felt childish.

A knock sounded at her door.

“Special delivery,” Maria’s voice sang.

Amber opened the door to find the maid grinning, a garment bag over one arm and a large box on the cart beside her.

“From Mr. Valentino,” Maria announced.

“That can’t be right,” Amber said automatically.

“Trust me,” Maria said, wheeling the cart in. “It’s right.”

When Amber unzipped the bag, the air left her lungs.

The gown was deep sapphire blue, the color of the Atlantic at dusk. The fabric was heavy enough to fall in clean lines, but light enough to move when she walked. The neckline was elegant, not revealing. The back dipped just low enough to feel daring without being inappropriate. It was the kind of dress she’d seen on red carpets and in magazines, never on her own body.

In the box lay a pair of heels in a matching shade and a small velvet case with delicate silver earrings that sparkled when she opened them.

On top of the tissue paper sat a note on heavy cream card.

You represent my household tonight. Dress accordingly. – M.V.

Practical. Professional. Not one word about her. So why did her hands shake as she slipped into the gown? Why did her breath catch when it fit perfectly, as if someone had measured her in her sleep?

When she descended the grand staircase that evening, the staff’s reaction said everything.

Maria made a soft sound of delight.

One of the security men raised his eyebrows appreciatively, then cleared his throat and looked away.

And Mrs. Castellano—

Well. It was rare to see the housekeeper truly stunned.

“Miss Martinez,” she said, each syllable carefully controlled. “How…unexpected.”

Lily, already dressed in a flouncy blue dress of her own, spun around.

“Amber!” she shrieked. “You look like a princess!”

Amber laughed, smoothing the gown. “Not quite, baby. But I’ll take it.”

“Bellissima.”

The word floated down from the top of the stairs, smooth and low.

Amber turned.

Marco stood there in a black tuxedo that looked like it had been cut directly on his body. The jacket hugged broad shoulders; the crisp shirt underneath was perfectly tailored. His hair was slicked back, controlled again, but there was nothing controlled about the way he was looking at her.

His eyes traveled slowly from her heels to her face, as if memorizing every inch.

“The dress fits well,” he said.

“It’s perfect,” she replied, unable to stop the truth. “Thank you. You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he said simply. He reached the bottom of the stairs, stopping close enough that she could smell his cologne. “You’re with my daughter. People will judge her based on you. It’s practical.”

His tone said practical. His eyes did not.

The drive to the Rothman estate in Westchester County was filled with Lily’s excited chatter, mostly in Italian, about cookies and balloons and whether there would be a magician. Through the tinted windows, Amber watched the landscape shift from Long Island suburbs to the still-wealthier sprawl of New York’s outskirts—stone walls, old estates, the kind of East Coast money that had been rich since before the Bronx was even a borough.

Marco sat across from Amber and Lily in the back of the car, one ankle resting casually on his opposite knee, hands folded, gaze unreadable. But his eyes flicked to Amber’s reflection in the window more than once.

The gala was exactly what she’d expected and worse.

Valets in crisp uniforms. Women in gowns that shimmered under chandeliers. Men in tuxedos conducting business over champagne. Cameras flashing occasionally as some recognizable face from television arrived. Children dressed like tiny models, their laughter contained and elegant.

Amber kept Lily close, the heels pinching just enough to remind her this wasn’t her world. Security men in discreet suits positioned themselves at key points, their earpieces buzzing softly.

Other nannies watched her with a mixture of curiosity and envy.

“That’s the Valentino nanny,” Amber heard one whisper. “The one from the Bronx.”

“Did you see the way he looked at her when they got out of the car?” another murmured. “I’d like my boss to look at me like that.”

Amber told herself to ignore them.

“Here,” Marco said, appearing at her elbow with two flutes of champagne.

She took one automatically, their fingers brushing. The contact sent a jolt through her.

“They’re bored,” he said quietly, nodding toward the women whose eyes had followed her. “People who have too much time and not enough substance. They look for stories because their lives are empty.”

“They’re not wrong,” Amber said, taking a sip. “This dress probably costs more than I made in six months at my old jobs. People notice things like that.”

“Let them notice,” Marco replied, his jaw tightening. “You earned that dress by making my children laugh again. That is worth more than any number on a price tag.”

Before she could answer, a new voice cut through the noise.

“Marco Valentino. I heard rumors you might actually leave your fortress tonight.”

Amber turned.

The woman in the red gown was undeniably beautiful. Tall, dark hair pulled into a sleek style that showed off diamond earrings. The dress clung in all the ways designers intend. Her smile was bright—but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Victoria,” Marco said, his voice cool. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

“Daddy makes sure I’m invited to everything that matters,” she said lightly. “You know how it is.”

Her gaze slid to Amber, assessing in a single sweep.

“And who is this?” she asked, tone sugar-coated with just a hint of venom. “Another one of your staff?”

“Miss Martinez is my children’s nanny,” Marco said. His hand settled at the small of Amber’s back, firm and steady. “She is under my protection.”

Under my protection.

The words had weight. Victoria’s smile tightened.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “How sweet. You always did have a soft spot for…charity cases.”

Amber’s spine stiffened.

“Come along, Marco,” Victoria added, touching his arm in a way that made Amber want to shrug it off for him. “There are donors who will be offended if you don’t let them throw money at you.”

“Enjoy the evening, Victoria,” Marco said, not moving.

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then flounced away, heels clicking like gunshots on polished floors.

“Who was that?” Amber asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

“Victoria Richi,” he said. “Her father, Antonio, controls a lot of the docks in New York Harbor. We have business together.”

“The kind that doesn’t show up in spreadsheets?” Amber asked quietly.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Something like that,” he admitted. “She has been…encouraged by her family to position herself as a suitable wife for me.”

“Oh,” Amber said.

The word felt sharp in her mouth.

“Should I be worried?” she added, trying to make it sound like a joke.

“Not about her,” he said. His thumb moved in a small circle against her back, almost absent-mindedly. “But I need you to be careful.”

“Because of your…world,” Amber said. “I’m not blind, Marco. I live in New York. I know your name doesn’t just belong to glossy business magazines.”

“My world is not kind to people who get too close to me,” he said simply.

“Your children got close to you,” she pointed out. “Should they be careful, too?”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because they are my blood,” he said. “No one touches them. Ever.”

“And the people who aren’t your blood?” she asked, looking up at him. “What do they get?”

His answer was cut off by the sound.

Gunshots.

Far away, muffled by layers of walls and wealth, but unmistakable. Amber had grown up in the Bronx. She knew that sound.

For a split second, the entire ballroom froze.

Then chaos exploded.

Guests screamed. Someone shouted. Security men moved with sudden, controlled urgency.

Marco changed in an instant.

The warmth in his eyes shuttered. The muscle in his jaw snapped tight. His hand dropped from Amber’s back; his posture shifted from man at a party to man in charge.

“Get Lily,” he said, voice low and deadly calm. He leaned in, closer than he’d ever been, his eyes burning into hers. “Do not stop. Do not look back. Take her to the panic room. Third door on the left from the main entrance. Memorize it.”

“I—”

“Amber.” Her name sounded like a command. “You know the code. You practiced it. Now you use it. Go.”

She ran.

The heels felt like traps now; the gown tangled around her legs as she sprinted back toward the ballroom.

Inside, children clustered in confused groups as adults shouted on phones and security staff formed a human wall around the exits.

“Lily!” Amber called, scanning frantically.

“Amber!” A small blue blur flew at her, nearly knocking her over. “What’s happening? Why is everyone scared?”

“We’re playing a game,” Amber lied, grabbing Lily and scooping her up. “A running game. Can you wrap your arms around my neck and hold on as tight as you can?”

Lily clung to her.

“Where’s Papa?” she asked, voice shaking.

“He’s playing the grown-up part of the game,” Amber said, forcing a smile. “He’ll meet us at the finish line. Ready?”

She ran.

The hallways that had felt endless when she first arrived now felt too short. The echoes of shouting followed them. Somewhere behind, more shots—softer, but still there.

The panic room door looked like any other heavy wooden door along the main hallway, but Amber knew better. She’d been walked through the procedure her first week, security men watching her memorize the code.

Her fingers shook as she punched it in.

The lock clicked. The door swung open to reveal a small room lined with shelves—water, first-aid kit, blankets—and a wall of monitors displaying security feeds from around the estate.

Amber dragged Lily inside and hit the interior lock.

“Amber, I’m scared,” Lily whispered, burying her face in her neck.

“I know, baby.” Amber’s voice trembled. “I am, too. But look—we’re safe in here. See this? Only your papa can open that door from the outside.”

It wasn’t entirely true. There were overrides. Systems. Things she didn’t pretend to understand. But Lily needed belief, not technicalities.

On the monitors, the Rothman estate unfolded in a dozen small rectangles. In one, Amber saw guests being ushered into safe zones. In another, security restraining a man with a weapon. In another—

Her breath stopped.

The feed from a side corridor showed a familiar figure: Mrs. Castellano. She stood with her back half turned to the camera, phone pressed to her ear, gesturing emphatically in the direction of the panic room’s location.

It didn’t take a genius to put it together.

“Oh my God,” Amber whispered. “She told them. She told them where we’d go.”

“Amber?” Lily’s voice quivered. “What’s wrong?”

Amber shoved the panic down. She yanked open the drawers under the console. Flashlight. Batteries. Emergency flares. In the third drawer, just like she’d been told, lay a handgun, cold and heavy.

Her hands shook as she picked it up.

She’d never held one before. Never wanted to. The Bronx had given her enough secondhand lessons about what guns did to people. But right now, it was the only thing between Lily and a nightmare that didn’t end with waking up in a safe room.

The special phone Marco had given her buzzed in her clutch.

She grabbed it, hit the single contact with her thumb.

He answered immediately.

“Amber.”

“Marco.” She tried to keep her voice level. “On the monitors. I saw Mrs. Castellano. She’s telling someone where the panic room is. They’re coming.”

A string of Italian poured through the line—hard, sharp words she didn’t understand but felt in her bones.

“Lock the interior door,” he said. “There’s a gun—third drawer.”

“I have it,” she said. “But I don’t—Marco, I’ve never used one.”

“You point it at the door and you pull the trigger if anyone but me comes through,” he said. “Do you understand me?”

Her throat closed.

“Marco, I—”

“Do you understand?” he repeated, voice raw. Underneath the steel, she heard something she’d never heard from him before.

Fear.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I understand.”

“I’m coming,” he said. “Don’t open that door. Not for anyone. Ti proteggerò, Amber. I will protect you.”

The line went dead.

Amber sank to the floor, pulling Lily into her lap, the gun in her right hand, pointed at the door like something in a movie. The weight of it made her arm ache.

“It’s okay,” she murmured into Lily’s hair. “Your papa’s coming. We’re safe. We’re—”

The door handle rattled.

Lily whimpered, clutching Amber’s neck.

The lock beeped, the sound of someone trying to override the code from the outside.

Amber’s finger tightened on the trigger. Her heart pounded so hard she could barely hear over it.

“Amber!” a voice shouted, muffled through the heavy door. “Open up, it’s security, we need to—”

She didn’t move.

Marco’s words rang in her head.

Don’t open that door for anyone.

The lock clicked. The door began to open.

“Don’t shoot, it’s me!”

His voice.

Amber sobbed once, the sound half-laugh, half-relief. She lowered the gun a fraction of a second before Marco burst through the door, shoulder slamming it fully open.

There was blood on his shirt again. More this time. Spattered across the white fabric like an ugly pattern. His tuxedo jacket was gone, tie ripped half off. His eyes scanned the room wildly until they landed on her and Lily.

He exhaled like someone had hit him in the gut.

“Dio mio,” he said hoarsely, crossing the distance in three strides. He dropped to his knees in front of them, hands reaching out but not quite touching, as if he was afraid they weren’t real.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded. “Did anyone come in? Did anyone touch you?”

“We’re okay,” Amber said, her own voice shaking now that the danger had a face. “No one came in. Just…the door rattling. I thought—”

Her hand started to shake so hard the gun clattered to the floor. Marco picked it up automatically, eyes never leaving hers.

“You did well,” he said. “You called me. You stayed. You protected my daughter.”

“Your shirt,” she whispered, staring at the dark stains.

“Not mine,” he said shortly. “It’s over. You don’t need to see that part.”

He set the gun on the console and gently took Lily from her lap. He checked his daughter over with trembling hands, muttering in Italian, voice soft and broken.

“Piccola,” he murmured. “You’re safe. Papa’s here. You did so well.”

Lily clung to him, then turned her tear-streaked face toward Amber.

“You came,” she hiccupped. “You said Papa would come and you came.”

“Of course I came,” Marco said. His eyes met Amber’s over Lily’s head. “I will always come for you. Both of you.”

Something in the room settled with those words. Like an invisible line had been drawn and crossed.

The ride back to Long Island hours later was quiet. The NYPD and private security had done their work. Official statements had been given. Headlines were already forming in Amber’s imagination: Violence at Westchester Charity Gala—Sources Say Business Rivalry to Blame.

Lily slept against Marco’s chest, thumb back in her mouth. Amber sat across from them, the gown wrinkled, hair coming down in curls, adrenaline leaving her body in waves that made her shiver.

“You saved her life tonight,” Marco said suddenly, his voice filling the luxury car.

Amber shook her head.

“I just did what anyone would have done.”

“No,” he said. “Not anyone. Some people would have run. Left the children, saved themselves. Some would have frozen. You didn’t. You ran toward the danger. With my child in your arms.”

“I love her,” Amber blurted.

The words hung there, bigger than the space.

“I love both of them,” she added, voice quieter. “They’re…they’re mine, too. Not by blood. But in my heart.”

His expression shifted. Something in him seemed to break and reshape.

“That’s the problem,” he murmured.

She frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not supposed to love them,” he said, then grimaced. “That’s not what I mean. You are supposed to care, yes. But not like this. Not enough to put yourself in danger without thought. Not enough to become…a target.”

He looked at her straight on.

“Everyone in my world saw what you did tonight, Amber. They saw that you matter. That you are important to my children. To me. That makes you leverage.”

“Then fire me,” she said, the words cutting her own heart. “Send me away. Tell me it was a mistake. You’re good at that.”

He flinched.

“I can’t,” he said quietly.

“Why not?”

“Because they need you,” he said simply. “Because they are happy for the first time since their mother died. Because when I walk into my home and hear you singing to them, it doesn’t feel like a tomb. Because tonight, when I thought someone might hurt you, I would have burned that entire estate to the ground to get to you.”

The air went thin.

“You can’t say things like that,” Amber whispered. “I’m your employee.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then lifted again with effort.

“You are the woman who walked into my study and told me her love was more important than my marble floors,” he said. “You are the woman who held my children while they cried for a mother they can’t have, and never once made them feel like a burden. You are the woman who sat in a panic room holding my daughter with a gun in her hand, even though every part of her was shaking.”

He leaned forward, his free hand reaching for hers.

“Don’t tell me you’re just my employee,” he said. “I won’t insult either of us like that.”

Later, after doctors checked Lily and the security team swept the mansion again, after the twins were tucked into bed and the house finally quieted, Marco went to Amber’s quarters.

She stood by the window in pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt, hair loose, the New York skyline a faint glow in the distance.

“We need to talk,” he said from the doorway.

She turned, pulling the hem of her shirt nervously.

“I know,” she said.

He stepped inside. Closed the door quietly behind him.

“You’re not safe here anymore,” he said. “Not in the way you were when you were…invisible. Victoria’s people saw you. They saw what you mean to me. So did others. That won’t go away.”

She swallowed.

“So this is the part where you tell me I’m fired.”

“No,” he said. “This is the part where I give you a choice.”

He moved closer, the faint scent of his cologne cutting through the soap and fear.

“You can leave,” he said. “I will set you up in another part of the country. Another state. California, maybe. Or somewhere quiet. I’ll make sure your grandmother has everything she needs. You’ll be safe. Away from me. From all of this.”

He gestured, encompassing the mansion, the city, the unseen network of power stretching across the country.

“Or?” Amber asked.

“Or you stay,” he said. “You stay and you accept my protection, fully. You accept that people will know you are under it. You accept that you will never walk alone without my men within reach. That you will be watched in ways you won’t always see. You accept that you are part of my family and my world—with all the danger that brings.”

He hesitated, then added, voice lower:

“And you accept that whatever is between us…is real. That it will grow. That I will not pretend you are just the nanny anymore.”

Amber’s heart pounded.

“You’re asking me to become your…”

She couldn’t say it.

“Mistress?” he supplied. His jaw tightened. “If that was what I wanted, I would have found someone who didn’t tuck my children into bed. I’m asking you to be part of my family. To stand beside me. Not in public, not yet. My world doesn’t allow easy labels. But in this house? With these children? With me? You will not be…hidden.”

She laughed softly, bitterly.

“Your world tried to kill me tonight,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “And I will move mountains to make sure it never gets that close again. But I can’t change what I am. I can’t wake up tomorrow and decide to be a man who files paperwork in midtown and complains about subway delays.”

He reached out, gently tilting her chin up so she had to meet his gaze.

“I can only promise you this,” he said. “I will never lie to you about who I am. I will never lie to you about what I do. I will never pretend to be gentle when I’m not. But with you—with you and with them—I will be the best version of the man I know how to be.”

Her eyes burned.

“And if I say no?” she whispered.

“I’ll let you go,” he said, the words clearly costing him. “I’ll hate it. The twins will hate it. This house will go back to being a marble tomb. But I won’t chain you to my darkness.”

Silence stretched.

“I choose to stay,” Amber said.

The words surprised even her.

“But,” she added, “we do this on terms we both can live with. I won’t be a secret you’re ashamed of. I won’t sneak down hallways like some…shadow while you play respectable businessman for New York society. The children come first. Always. And if at any point this—whatever this is—starts hurting them, we stop. No matter how much it hurts us.”

His throat worked.

“Deal,” he said.

He stepped closer. Close enough that the heat coming off his body felt like its own kind of gravity.

“You do understand what you’re agreeing to?” he asked. “I am not a simple man, Amber. I am not a safe man.”

“I grew up in the Bronx,” she said softly. “You think men in suits scare me more than men on corners did?”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“You scare me,” he said.

“Good,” she replied. “Someone has to.”

He kissed her.

It was a collision more than a question. Weeks of sidelong glances and lingering hands and words left unsaid slammed together in that small, quiet room. His mouth was hot and demanding; hers met him with equal heat. His hand slid into her curls; hers fisted in the front of his shirt.

When they pulled apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against hers.

“I haven’t felt this alive in three years,” he murmured.

“Me neither,” she confessed. “And I haven’t been shot at at any of my other jobs, so that’s really saying something.”

He laughed. A real laugh. It changed his face.

“Stay,” he said again, more a plea now than a command.

She stayed.

For a little while, the story almost settled into something like peace.

Marco made time for family dinners. The security presence became a quiet part of the background. The staff shifted; some who had been loyal to Mrs. Castellano found work elsewhere, replaced by people who seemed genuinely pleased when Lily’s laughter echoed in the hallways.

Three months passed. Halloween in the suburbs. Thanksgiving with too much food and a football game playing in the living room, Amber’s grandmother snoring gently on the couch while Noah climbed over her legs. The first snow of winter dusting the grounds and turning the ocean beyond the property into steel.

And then the text arrived.

Not on the sleek phone with Marco’s number, but on Amber’s old, cracked phone. The one that was supposed to be for her grandmother and her small Bronx life.

An unknown number. One sentence.

Does Mr. Valentino know about baby Elijah? About the son you abandoned? Some mother you are. Some nanny.

Amber’s world tilted.

Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the phone. The twins looked up from their building blocks on the nursery floor, sensing the change.

“Amber?” Noah asked. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “Of course I’m fine. Who wants snacks?”

But all day, the words slid under her skin like splinters.

Elijah.

Her son.

Her secret.

She’d been seventeen when she got pregnant. A high school senior with a part-time job at a diner and a foster placement that was more about the government check than her future. The boy had been older, charming, full of apologies and promises that evaporated the second she showed him the positive test.

Her grandmother—the one good constant in her life—had taken her in. Had sat with her during appointments at clinics in the Bronx and Manhattan. Had held her hand when Elijah was born early, tiny and struggling, hooked up to tubes and monitors in a hospital in New York.

The doctors talked about specialists. About therapies. About the cost of care.

Amber had done the math. Minimum wage jobs. Rent. Food. Medicine. Her grandmother’s health. A baby who needed more than love.

She’d made the hardest decision of her life.

She chose an open adoption with a couple from Westchester County. Sarah and James. They had a brownstone in Brooklyn and a house upstate, jobs that came with good insurance, families who cooed over the baby pictures rather than whispering.

She’d signed the papers with tears running down her face and Elijah’s tiny fingers wrapped around hers. She’d left the hospital with empty arms and a promise.

Twice a year, she got to see him. Photos every month. Videos sometimes. A small boy with her eyes and James’s dimples, running in backyards and blowing out birthday candles. Calling her Miss Amber.

She loved him enough to let him go.

How, exactly, was she supposed to explain that to a man like Marco?

Hi, I’m your children’s nanny. By the way, I placed my own baby for adoption. Hope that doesn’t make you wonder if I’ll leave yours.

Every time she’d tried to tell him, the words had stuck in her throat. It had never felt like the right moment.

Now the moment had been chosen for her.

That night, when the twins were asleep and the house quiet, she went to his study. He looked up from his laptop, the tiny smile that had become more frequent lately already forming.

“Hey,” he said. “I was just going to come find you. I thought we could—”

“I need to tell you something,” she cut in.

The smile faded. He closed the laptop slowly.

“Sit,” he said.

She didn’t. If she sat, she was afraid her knees would give out.

“Before I applied for this job,” she said, “before I finished my degree, before I even knew your name… I had a son.”

The word scraped her throat.

“His name is Elijah,” she continued. “He’s six years old. I placed him for adoption when he was born.”

Marco’s face went blank in that way that meant his emotions had gone underground.

“You have a son,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“A son you gave away,” he said.

The phrase stung.

“A son I loved enough to give a life I couldn’t provide at seventeen,” she said, voice shaking. “I was a pregnant teenager in foster care, Marco. His father disappeared. My grandmother’s health was already bad. Elijah was born early, with complications. He needed specialist care, therapies, stability. I had none of that. They did. So I chose them.”

“And you never thought this was relevant information to share with me?” he asked.

“Would you have hired me?” she shot back. “If you knew the nanny had given up her baby? Or would you have decided I was incapable of forming healthy bonds?”

He hesitated a fraction of a second too long.

“I would have respected your honesty,” he said finally.

“You say that now,” she said. “But I’ve heard the words people use. ‘Abandoned.’ ‘Gave away.’ ‘Didn’t want.’ None of that is true. But labels stick.”

“I am not ‘people,’” he snapped.

“No,” she said. “You’re Marco Valentino. Your name opens doors in New York and shuts others. You understand leverage better than anyone. You know exactly what a secret like this can do.”

They stared at each other across the space.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked finally.

“Yes,” she said. “I tried. I kept trying. But after the gala, after the panic room, after the kisses and the almosts… I was terrified. I didn’t want you to look at me like—”

She gestured helplessly.

“Like this?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed.

“Yes.”

He moved around the desk, the way he had that first day. But this time, there was no interview form between them.

“How did this come up today?” he asked. “What changed?”

She pulled out her phone, thumb trembling, and handed it to him.

He read the text. His jaw went hard enough to crack.

“She knows,” he said.

“Who?” Amber asked.

“Who do you think?” he replied. “We did a background check when you applied, as we do with everyone who works near my children. I knew there were sealed records related to a pregnancy. I chose not to dig. Not because I don’t care, but because I thought you would tell me what I needed to know when you were ready.”

He exhaled slowly, the sound more like a growl.

“But someone else went looking. Someone who wanted leverage against you. And through you, against me.”

“Mrs. Castellano,” Amber whispered.

“She had access,” he said. “She knew how to ask the right questions. She found just enough to be dangerous. And now she—or whoever she’s working with—is starting to tighten the screws.”

“What do we do?” Amber asked, suddenly exhausted.

“We protect him,” Marco said.

She blinked.

“Elijah?” she asked.

“Who else?” he said. “Whatever else is between us, he is your blood. That makes him under my umbrella. I will have security placed near his home and his parents discreetly. They will not know they are being guarded. But he will not be used as a tool to hurt you. Or me.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” he said. “And I will.”

He stepped closer.

“Does he know about you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said softly. “They tell him age-appropriate things. That I was very young. That I loved him. That I wanted him to have the best life. He calls me Miss Amber.”

His expression flickered.

“Does it hurt,” he asked, “watching him call someone else Mama?”

“Every time,” she said truthfully. “I leave their house and I cry the whole train ride back to New York. But then I look at the pictures. I see him smiling. And I know I did the only thing I could do.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Finally, he said, “I am still furious you did not tell me. I feel…betrayed, Amber. You kept a part of yourself locked away while I was…” He broke off, jaw tight. “While I was falling for you.”

Her breath hitched.

“You don’t mean that,” she said.

“Don’t ever tell me what I mean,” he said, voice low. “I don’t throw words like that around. Not with you. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I know it’s dangerous. I know it’s making me weak in ways I can’t afford. And I know I still do not regret letting you into this house.”

He handed the phone back.

“But we do not lie to each other again,” he said. “Not about anything.”

“I swear,” she whispered.

Two days later, headlines in the local New York tabloids reported that a longtime employee of the Valentino family had been found in the Hudson River. Authorities leaned toward suicide, citing financial stress and personal turmoil.

Amber didn’t ask questions. Marco didn’t offer details.

Some truths you didn’t need spoken.

She visited Elijah the following week, riding the Metro-North train from Harlem up along the Hudson, watching the water roll by. Marco’s security team stayed two blocks away from the tidy suburban house, invisible but present.

Elijah ran to her when she stepped onto the grass, his cheeks flushed, his lungs strong and healthy.

“Miss Amber!” he shouted. “Look! I can ride my bike without training wheels now!”

He was six, wild and sunshine and smiles. Loved. Safe.

“Look at you,” she said, tears prickling. “You’re amazing.”

Later, as they sat on the back porch and watched Elijah chase bubbles, Sarah said gently, “You seem…lighter.”

“I told someone about him,” Amber said quietly. “About Elijah. Someone important.”

“And?” James asked.

“He didn’t judge me,” Amber said. “He was angry I didn’t tell him sooner. But he…understands. As much as anyone can, anyway.”

“You deserve that,” Sarah said warmly. “You deserve someone who sees the whole of you. Not just the neat parts.”

Amber thought of a man in Long Island whose hands could be dangerous and gentle in the same hour. A man whose world was violence and whose arms had become her safest place.

“I think I might have found that,” she said.

Months passed. Winter thawed into a chilly New York spring. The Valentino mansion felt less like a fortress and more like a home.

Marco proposed in the garden, not with fireworks or photographers, but under a tree the twins climbed daily.

“There will be no church,” he said. “No public promises. My world does not allow that. Not yet. But I want you wearing my ring when you tuck them in at night. I want them to know you are here to stay. I want you to know you are not…temporary.”

“Is this a proposal?” she teased, tears already blurring her vision.

“This is me,” he said, voice unsteady, “asking you to build a life with me. With all my flaws. With all my darkness. You walked into my house, Amber, and you didn’t just care for my children. You changed me. I didn’t think that was possible.”

She said yes.

They married quietly—at a small chapel on Long Island, attended only by Lily and Noah, her grandmother, Sarah and James and Elijah. The latter called Marco “Mr. Marco” with solemn respect and asked a hundred questions about the twins.

On the way back to the mansion, Lily insisted on calling Amber “Mommy Amber” at least twenty times until it stuck.

Eight months after that first day in the foyer, Amber stood in the doorway of the twins’ room and watched the family she’d somehow collected.

Marco sat in the middle of the bed, back propped against the headboard, a child under each arm. He was reading a story in Italian, his accent crisper, more old-country. Lily followed along, chiming in on her favorite parts. Noah’s head rested against his father’s chest, eyes heavy.

Amber leaned against the frame, one hand resting on her flat belly.

“Amber!” Lily spotted her. “Come read with us!”

She climbed onto the bed, sliding under Marco’s arm as if she’d always belonged there. Noah shifted automatically, settling with his head in her lap.

When the story ended and both twins were half-asleep, Amber said softly, “I have news.”

Marco’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

“Good or bad?” he asked.

She took his hand. Guided it to her stomach.

“Good,” she said. “Very good. You’re going to be a father again.”

For a man who rarely let his guard slip, his expression was astonishing. Shock. Hope. Fear. Joy. Vulnerability.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

“That’s what three tests in the bathroom say,” she replied, laughing through tears. “I’m pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

Lily sat straight up.

“Like a real baby?” she asked. “Like a tiny one?”

“Yes,” Amber said. “A tiny one that will grow and kick and keep me up at night.”

“I want a sister,” Lily declared.

“I want a brother,” Noah mumbled, not opening his eyes.

“We will see what we get,” Marco said, voice thick. He leaned over and kissed Amber’s forehead. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?” she asked.

“For everything,” he replied. “For loving my children when they were broken. For loving me when I was worse. For choosing this life when you could have run.”

That night, when they were finally alone in their bedroom, bodies tangled together, New York glittering outside their window, Amber thought about the path that had brought her here.

The Bronx. Foster homes and cheap apartments. A baby she loved enough to let go. A mansion in Long Island where she’d walked in as a nanny and was now falling asleep as a wife. A world that should have chewed her up and spit her out, and instead had shifted around her.

“Do you ever regret it?” she asked in the dark. “Choosing someone like me?”

He turned his head, looking at her like she was the only thing in the room.

“Every day I regret not meeting you sooner,” he said simply. “You are the bravest person I know. You walked into a house that had nothing to offer you but money and danger, and you gave it your heart.”

She smiled against his shoulder.

“Do you ever regret choosing this life?” she asked him. “Being who you are?”

“Yes,” he said. “But then I see my children asleep in their beds. I see you laughing with them in the sunlight. And I think…maybe all the wrong I did was leading me here. To this.”

A year after she’d first been escorted toward those front doors with a cardboard box and two screaming children clinging to her legs, Amber stood in the same foyer as Mrs. Amber Valentino.

No guards at her elbows this time.

Lily raced down the stairs, hair braided, shoes on the wrong feet, giggling. Noah chased behind her with a toy car. Marco stood halfway down, watching his family with a soft smile that would have made half of New York’s underworld think twice about crossing him.

“Ready?” he asked.

Amber nodded.

They had a train to catch. A little boy in Westchester turning seven, waiting to blow out candles with all his parents—adoptive and biological—watching.

Family, she had learned, wasn’t about blood alone. It was about who showed up. Who stayed. Who ran toward you when the world turned dangerous.

She reached for Marco’s hand.

“I love you,” she said.

“I know,” he replied, eyes warm. “And I will spend the rest of my life deserving it.”

Outside, the Long Island air smelled like salt and possibility. Somewhere between the Bronx and Manhattan and this mansion overlooking the water, Amber had rewritten her story.

Not from poor girl to princess. Not from nanny to trophy wife.

From survivor to architect of her own life.

And in a world where headlines loved to scream about crime and scandal in New York, there was something quietly, fiercely radical about that.