Chapter 30 Jess
Jess
The three days passed relatively quickly. I spent them homeschooling Ben in the library, reorganizing the mudroom for the third time, and perfecting my “polite coworker” smile whenever Marco and I crossed paths in the hallway.
When you’re both trying so hard to maintain boundaries that you’ve basically become strangers who occasionally discuss pasta shapes.
The night rota worked exactly as planned. Which is to say it worked because Ben never actually spiraled. She slept like a tiny starfish champion every single night. So Marco took first shift, I took second, and we tag-teamed without ever actually occupying the same room at the same time.
Very professional.
Very controlled.
Very much like two people pretending they haven’t ever had mind-blowing sex.
Nailed it.
Rosa kept us fed. Niamh managed the household logistics. Luis and Filepe maintained perimeter security, justifying their high salaries.
By day three, the paparazzi had thinned to nothing. Jag’s dawn sweep came back clean. And Elena’s temporary live-in addendum expired right on schedule that evening.
Which brings me to now.
I’m standing in my own apartment for the first time in seventy-two hours and the silence is deafening.
When you finally get your space back and realize maybe you didn’t actually want it.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Marco. You settled in okay?
I stare at the text for way too long before typing back. Yeah. All good. Quiet.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Ben keeps asking when you’re coming back.
My chest does that annoying squeeze thing. The one I’ve been pretending doesn’t happen every time I think about leaving them alone in that townhouse.
Tomorrow morning, of course, I reply. Regular schedule.
Except there’s nothing regular about any of this anymore.
I toss my overnight bag onto the bed and try to remember what normal felt like. You know, back when I wasn’t living with a billionaire and his daughter during a media siege. Back when my biggest crisis was deciding which filter made me look least like a potato.
Those were the days.
Except they weren’t. Those days were hollow. Chasing views that meant nothing. Building a brand on quicksand.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a photo. Ben holding Frederick up to the camera. Her hair is in the pineapple tie I taught her. The ringlets are perfect.
The caption reads: Frederick says goodnight.
I’m not crying. I’m absolutely not crying over a stuffed snail.
Tell Frederick I said sweet dreams, I type back. Then add: And tell Ben, too.
I set the phone down and force myself to unpack. Toiletries in the bathroom. Dirty clothes in the hamper. The laminated Brave Rules card I’ve been carrying falls out of my bag and lands face-up on the floor.
One, two, three squeeze.
Smell the cocoa. Blow the steam.
I’ve been using it myself. More than I want to admit. Especially during those long nights in the primary suite when Marco was only just outside the room and I had to keep reminding my body that we’d agreed to put us on ice.
Narrator voice: The ice was extremely thin.
I should shower. Should eat something that isn’t the emergency snacks Rosa packed for me. Should do literally anything except stand here feeling weirdly homesick for a house that isn’t mine.
Instead I pull up my notes app and add to the Brave Bites draft I’ve been working on.
Card 3: The Three-Count Touch.
When food feels scary, we make it friendly.
- Step 1: Look (name the color)
- Step 2: Touch (just one finger)
- Step 3: Smell (close your eyes)
Remember: Brave and scared can live in the same body.
It’s good. Simple. The kind of thing that might actually help a kid who’s anxious about trying new foods.
The kind of thing I never would have thought to create back when I was chasing a million subscribers and brand deals.
My phone buzzes. Amara this time. You survive the lockdown?
Barely, I type back. But I’m home now. Ben’s safe. Press cleared.
Three dots. Then: And the hot boss situation?
I groan out loud even though no one can hear me. Still hot. Still my boss. Still impossible.
You’re a stronger woman than me, she replies.
Am I though? Because I spent three nights sleeping in Marco Fiore’s house and the only thing that kept me from violating every remaining boundary was a five-year-old chaperone and a promise we made to protect her first.
Debatable, I send back.
I finish unpacking and try to sleep.
I fail spectacularly, and instead lie awake thinking about Monday.
Family Meal Monday.
I wonder whether the Brave Bites cards will land or flop.
Whether any parents will actually show up after the week we just had.
Well, they’re staff parents. His staff.
Of course they’ll show up.
Won’t they?
Monday arrives way too fast.
Drop and pickup of Ben went smoothly. No meltdowns. No media confrontations.
Now I’m at FHG headquarters at four thirty helping André set up Ben’s Corner. The kid-height stools are arranged in a semicircle. Laminated Brave Bites cards are stacked on the counter. A bowl of citrus sits ready for zesting and bubble-counting.
“You good?” Marco’s VP of Service and Training asks, adjusting the lighting.
“Yeah.” I’m arranging the cards for the third time because apparently I’ve become the kind of person who stress-organizes. “Just hoping people show.”
“They’ll show.” He sounds certain. “Word got out about the cards. Parents have been asking all weekend.”
My stomach flips. The good kind of flip. The kind that says maybe this actually matters.
When validation doesn’t come from view counts.
Wild.
Matteo, the culinary director, appears from the kitchen carrying trays of the simplified kid menu.
No lobster. Just simple pasta shapes and butter sauce.
Apple slices arranged like fans. Focaccia cut into child-sized squares.
Real focaccia. The thin, Italian kind, basically a pizza pane brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with rosemary.
“This is good,” he says, setting everything down. “Easier to execute. Less waste. Parents like it.”
“Really?” My voice comes out higher than intended.
“Really.” He almost smiles. Which for Matteo is basically a standing ovation. “The kids actually eat it. That’s the whole point, no?”
Before I can respond, the first family arrives. Then another. Then five more.
By five forty-five, Ben’s Corner is humming.
A mom with twin toddlers is doing the Three-Count Touch with cherry tomatoes.
“Look, touch, smell,” she’s coaching. “You’re so brave.”
Another kid is zesting lemons with intense concentration while his dad counts the bubbles in a glass of sparkling water.
Ben’s at the craft table in the actual corner, coloring with Frederick propped beside her. She’s wearing her navy school jumper even though school is over. Comfort uniform.
I crouch next to her. “How’s Frederick doing?”
“He’s helping.” She shows me the picture. It’s a snail with a lot of shell spirals. Like a page’s worth. “He says the bubbles are working.”
My throat goes tight. “He’s very wise.”
“I know.” She goes back to coloring like it’s the most important job in the world.
I stand and scan the room. André’s managing check-ins with his usual grace. Parents are actually putting their phones away without being asked. The “no filming, no kid faces” signs are working.
Lucy Hammond-Blackwell appears beside me holding a tablet. She’s not staff family. But her billionaire husband knows Marco well.
“This is lovely,” she says quietly. “Really lovely.”
“Thanks.” I’m trying to sound professional even though I want to do a victory lap. “It’s been a journey.”
“I want to talk micro-grants.” She pulls up a spreadsheet. “For expansion. Kid-confidence workshops.”
I blink at her. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.” She tilts the screen so I can see the numbers. “This model works. It’s replicable. And it doesn’t exploit the families it serves.”
When someone gets it without you having to explain.
“I’m in,” I tell her. “As long as it stays private. No posting. No pressure to perform.”
She smiles. “Works for me. Off-camera, opt-in only. No content requirement.”
After she leaves, I just stand there for a second letting it sink in.
This is real.
This matters.
And no one’s asking me to turn it into content.
Marco appears at my elbow. I didn’t hear him approach but suddenly he’s there and I can smell that bitter orange and espresso combination that should not be this distracting.
Professional thoughts only.
“It’s working,” he says quietly. His voice has that rough edge that does things to my panties I absolutely cannot think about right now.
“Yeah.” I force myself to focus on the room instead of his stupid attractive forearms. “I think it is.”
“Matteo’s in love with the simplified menu.” He’s watching the families with that intense focus he usually reserves for restaurant operations. “Says it’s changed the kitchen flow.”
“Good.” My face heats up. Why am I blushing? This is a professional conversation about menu execution. Nothing to blush about.
Except he’s standing close enough that our shoulders are almost touching.
Ice. We agreed to ice.
Extremely thin ice.
“Jess.” My name in his voice still does that flutter thing to my stomach.
I look at him. “Yeah?”
He pauses. Like he’s weighing words. “I appreciate you. Thanks. For this. For all of it.”
“I’m just doing my job.” The deflection is automatic.
“You’re doing more than your job.” His eyes find mine. Dark. Full of want. “You know that.”
Before I can respond, a parent approaches with questions about the Brave Bites cards. I excuse myself and spend the next five minutes explaining the Three-Count Touch and demonstrating the breathing technique.
When I look up again, Marco’s across the room talking to André. His back is to me but I can see the tension in his shoulders. The way he’s holding himself too carefully.
He understands how thin the ice is, too.
The evening winds down. Parents collect kids and diaper bags and half-eaten focaccia wrapped in napkins for tomorrow. Ben helps me stack the Brave Bites cards with Frederick supervising.
“Did it go good?” she asks seriously.
“It went very good.” I hand her the last card to add to the pile. “You were a big help.”
“Frederick was, too.”
“Obviously. He’s basically running this operation.”
She giggles. The sound is so pure it makes my chest ache.
By seven thirty, the space is clean. André’s doing final checks. Matteo’s already back in the kitchen prepping for tomorrow’s actual restaurant service. Lucy’s gone but she left me a folder with grant information and a note that says “Call me.”
I find myself standing in Ben’s Corner alone, looking at the small craft table where Ben was coloring in between tastings earlier.
My phone buzzes. Marco. Ben wants to know if you’re coming for bedtime story.
I check the time. Seven thirty-five. I could catch the subway. Be there by eight fifteen. Do the Italian story and the Brave Rules squeeze and be home by nine.
Or I could maintain boundaries.
Not blur work and personal any more than we already have.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Then I type: Be there in forty.
Boundaries are important. Professional distance protects everyone.
But so does showing up for a kid who asked for you.
I grab my bag and head for the exit. Jag’s waiting by the Range Rover like he somehow knew I’d say yes.
“Marco called ahead,” he explains when I raise an eyebrow.
Of course he did.
The drive is quiet. I watch the city slide past the window and think about how different my life looks now compared to six months ago.
No followers counting on me. No algorithm to chase. No brand deals or sponsored posts or carefully curated highlight reels.
Just a job that matters. A kid who needs me. And a man I absolutely cannot have but can’t seem to stop wanting.
When you realize you traded the wrong kind of everything for the right kind of something.
We pull up to the townhouse. The front is dark but I can see lights on the upper floors. Ben’s probably already in pajamas. Frederick’s probably already claimed his spot on her pillow.
I text Marco: Here.
The door opens before I can knock. He’s there in jeans and a plain black T-shirt that should be boring but absolutely isn’t.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” My voice comes out steady even though my heart is racing.
“She’s upstairs. Waiting.”
I move past him into the hallway and catch that cedar and espresso scent that lives in my memory now.
Professional.
You are a professional.
Ben’s door is open. She’s already in bed with Frederick. When she sees me, her whole face lights up. “You came!”
“Of course I came.” I settle onto the edge of her bed. “Frederick texted me. Said it was urgent.”
She giggles and hands me the Italian story book.
I read about brave knights and patient princesses and dragons who just needed someone to understand them. When I finish, we do the Brave Rules squeeze. One, two, three. Then the breathing.
Her eyes are already heavy.
“Night, sweet girl,” I whisper.
“Night, Jess.” She’s nearly asleep already. “I’m glad you’re here for me.”
Me too, kid.