Chapter 1 - Enya
The velvet cushion beneath me is too soft, too perfect. It doesn’t match the pounding in my chest or the dirt streaked across my jeans. Ren shifts beside me, small fingers curled tightly around a cold compress pressed to his forehead. His curls are damp with sweat, his knees scraped, and his nose still sniffles from the crying he swore he wasn’t doing.
I glance at the ornate grandfather clock in the corner. It ticks louder than my thoughts.
He hasn’t come yet.
The silence in the Carfano estate is different than regular quiet. It doesn’t soothe; it watches, like the high ceilings and shadowed corners, waiting for someone to slip up. The chandelier above glints gold but somehow manages to feel sterile, like everything else in this too-grand home. It’s expansive and pristine, but the kind of pristine that has no warmth to it.
Ren leans against me, seeking comfort the way kids do, with complete and unfiltered need. I slip an arm around his shoulder. The cold compress shifts, and I gently fix it back over the growing bump near his hairline.
He tripped; that’s all. We were playing in the garden near the back park, and he got too excited. One moment, he was laughing, genuinely laughing, and the next, there was blood and panic.
I held it together. I scooped him up, calmed his sobs, rushed him back to the estate, and cleaned the wound, iced the swelling, and made sure he had water and a snack. Everything a nanny should do.
But I’ve only been here a week. And I’ve never met his father alone directly. Until now.
During the interview, Cyril Carfano sat in the corner of the study, silent and still as stone. His housekeeper had done all the talking. I wasn’t even sure he was paying attention, though I felt his eyes on me the whole time. Ren had been there, too, withdrawn and wary at first, but he warmed up to me, telling me to come pay with him the next day with the sweetest smile I had ever seen.
The next day, they hired me. And the pay was too good to question it. I needed the job, the security. I was two months behind on keeping up with my student loans and barely keeping up with the minimums on three separate credit cards. My student loans wouldn’t vanish on kindness alone, and the gigs I’d been juggling—tutoring, temp jobs, and babysitting—weren’t enough. I’d been living on caffeine and luck. Landing a job in New York without even trying wasn’t just a blessing; it was a lifeline.
Ren wiggles his toes against the couch and glances at the door. “He’s coming, isn’t he?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, sweetheart. He is.”
Ren doesn’t look scared, but does get quieter. He presses his cheek against my arm, his voice muffled. “Don’t leave me, okay?”
“I won’t.”
I don't know what else to say. So, I just stay beside him and let my hand rest lightly on his back. His little body still trembles now and then.
Then the door slams.
Footsteps echo through the hall, heavy, purposeful, and without hesitation.
Ren straightens at my side like an invisible thread just pulled taut.
My stomach flips, nerves prickling beneath my skin. I press my palm against my thigh to ground myself, willing my heart to slow the fuck down. My mouth is dry, and my thoughts spiral. What if he’s furious? What if I already screwed this up?
Stop it! It’s just footsteps. Just a man.
But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like a tornado is about to enter through that door, and I’m not sure I’m ready for whatever the hell comes next.
And then he walks in.
Cyril Carfano doesn’t just enter a room; he takes control of it. The space seems to contract around him, like it’s bending to accommodate him. He’s tall, over six feet, and carries himself with the kind of confidence that isn’t loud or performative. My heart starts racing, and I internally scream for it to calm down.
He’s just a human!
I look up to meet his eyes.
His dark brown hair is neatly combed back, but silver streaks at his temples hint at both age and stress. He has a stubble, and I notice that his features are harsh but striking. But it’s his eyes that freeze me, pale grey, like winter frost. They land on Ren first. Then on me.
And suddenly, it’s like a visceral sensation slices through me. His eyes lock onto mine, and it feels like every secret I’ve ever kept is laid bare under that pale, merciless gaze. My breath catches, shallow and tight in my chest. My hands twitch at my sides, and I force them still, pretending not to feel the heat rising in my cheeks. My skin goes cold. It’s not anxiety, exactly; it’s the awareness of danger, of being seen too clearly by someone who doesn’t miss a damn thing. Like I’ve just been marked. And not in a way that can be washed off.
“What the hell happened?” His voice is rough—low and sharp. Like gravel dragged across marble.
I rise slowly. “He fell…in the park. He was running too fast and tripped on uneven ground.”
Carfano steps forward, each movement purposeful. His suit is charcoal, tailored to perfection, but not a single detail softens him. He moves like a man who has never stumbled in his life.
“You were supposed to be watching him,” he says.
I meet his gaze, feeling every cell in my body scream Don’t say anything stupid. “I was. I am. Kids fall, Mr. Carfano. He’s fine. I patched him up and got him home.”
Ren clutches my hand again. Tighter.
Carfano sees it.
His attention lingers on Ren for a heartbeat longer, then slides back to me. “You let him run wild in public?”
“He was being a child in a park,” I reply, my voice low but firm. “He laughed. He played. And yes, he ran. For once, he acted like a little boy.”
His eyes narrow, studying me like I’m a piece on a chessboard he doesn’t recognize.
I shift slightly, my voice quieter now. “Maybe he just…needs a little more than rules and quiet. A chance to breathe. To feel like a kid.”
He doesn’t say anything right away—just keeps staring at me. More like staring into my soul. Like I’ve crossed some invisible line I didn’t even know was there.
Then he takes another step toward me, not enough to be threatening, not quite, but enough to make every nerve in my body stand on edge.
“You don’t get to tell me how to raise my own damn kid,” he says, his voice low enough so it doesn’t reach Ren but sharp as a blade.
I swallow hard. “I didn’t mean to—”
“He doesn’t need your opinions. He needs safety. Stability. Not some stranger deciding what’s best for him after a week.”
Before I can find a reply, a small voice interjects.
“But I like going to the park,” Ren says, his voice timid but sure.
We both look at him. He’s sitting straighter now, eyes darting between us.
“I like it when we play hide and seek there. It’s fun.”
Cyril’s jaw works like he’s grinding back a thousand unsaid things. He looks at Ren again, longer this time. There’s no softening in his face, but I can physically sense the restraint in his body. His shoulders lower, almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t need to. But he glances at me once more before turning away, and it feels less like dismissal, more like a man figuring out where his edges end and someone else’s begin.
“He calmed for you,” he says finally. It’s not a compliment, more like a data point.
“I didn’t ask him to,” I say, softer. “He just did, after a while.”
Carfano stares at his son. Ren stares back, unblinking.
“You need to be more careful in the future.”
I blink. “With him?”
His gaze sharpens. “With everything that concerns him. You’re in my house, with my son. That means your mistakes aren’t just yours anymore.”
His words land like a harsh slap. Like a warning carved into stone.
I cannot afford to lose my job after just a week of working.
“I understand,” I say quietly, gulping to push down the rising bile in my throat.
He studies me a moment longer, and for a second, I can’t breathe. He’s too much: too tall, too still, too intimidating.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” I say and gently extract myself from Ren’s grip. He lets go reluctantly.
I go outside the door, enough to give them space while still being close if Ren needs me.
I’m not eavesdropping, but I hear everything from the hall.
“Did you tell her anything about me?”
Is that what he’s worried about? His secrecy?
I want to roll my eyes, but I remember this man is the reason my student debts are lowering.
“No, Papa. I just cried. She said it was okay.” Then, Red adds, “She held me when it hurt. That’s all.”
I smile. My heart aches for him, for whatever shadows wrap around this family like thorns.
After a few minutes, I step back into the room. Carfano straightens. His suit remains immaculate, and his posture is unyielding. He turns to me with that same icy calm.
“Miss Hart.”
“Yes?”
He nods once. “Don’t leave his side.”
And just like that, he’s gone. The door shuts behind him, and I finally exhale.
Ren tugs at my hand. “He didn’t yell at you.”
“No. He didn’t.”
“He yells at everyone.”
I sit down beside him again and pull him into my lap. His small body curls into mine with surprising trust.
“Maybe he’s not used to people yelling back,” I murmur, brushing a hand over his hair.
Ren giggles in amusement and rests his head on my shoulder. He smells like soap, blueberries, and innocence.
The afternoon drifts by in quiet stretches. I fix Ren a small snack, cut-up strawberries and a bowl of blueberries, which he eats slowly, picking the roundest ones first.
“Can I draw now?” Ren asks, his voice soft but hopeful.
I nod, smiling. “Of course you can. Want your sketchbook?”
He grins and scrambles off the couch to grab it from the low shelf. “Only if you sit next to me.”
“Deal,” I say, settling onto the rug beside him.
I pick up a book, flipping through the pages, but my brain fails to register the words. Instead, I glance at him, tongue poking out in concentration as he presses crayons to paper with a focus only kids seem to have. The house remains still, the kind of stillness that has me on the edge of my seat.
Ren yawns once, then again, curling up next to me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I cover him with the soft throw blanket draped over the armchair and run my fingers gently through his curls.
By the time his breathing evens out, he’s warm and heavy against me. His sketchbook slips from his fingers and lands open on the rug. I glance down at the page, a park in crayon lines, a woman with long hair, a boy with curly scribbles for hair, and a tall figure drawn in black standing off to the side.
I smile faintly. Ren’s always drawing weird little stories. Sometimes, it’s dragons; other times, it’s astronauts on fire escapes. Today, it’s a quiet shadow man in the trees.
He shifts in his sleep, his fingers curling against my arm.
I brush a crumb off the corner of the paper and shake my head.
It’s just a kid’s drawing. Nothing more.