Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Lily
The security camera swivels toward me with mechanical precision, its red light blinking like an accusatory eye. I freeze mid-step, suddenly feeling like a trespasser instead of an interviewee.
"This can't possibly be right," I mutter, staring up at the imposing black gate that looms before me. The ornate silver insignia gleams in the sunlight, a symbol of wealth I can't even comprehend. Beyond the bars lies what appears to be a private paradise—meticulously manicured gardens stretching farther than I can see, exotic flowers arranged in stunning patterns, and a mansion that belongs in architectural magazines, not real life.
The rideshare driver behind me clears his throat impatiently. "Payment?" he prompts, his hand already extended through the window.
"Wait—are you absolutely certain this is Carlton House?" I ask for the third time, clutching my phone like it might somehow transport me to the modest suburban home I'd been expecting.
The driver's eyes narrow with irritation. "Lady, this is the only Carlton House in the entire city. You think I don't know where I'm going? Check your app if you don't believe me."
I tap my screen, and there it is—the pin marking our location perfectly matches the address Tilda gave me. With a defeated sigh, I complete the payment and watch as the car disappears down the street, abandoning me before this fortress of affluence.
Great. Just great.
The butterflies in my stomach have transformed into something more akin to angry wasps. What kindergarten teacher shows up to a nanny interview at what appears to be a billionaire's estate? This has to be some kind of mistake.
I dig through my purse for my phone and dial Tilda, praying she'll pick up and tell me I'm at the wrong address.
"Lily!" Her cheerful voice answers on the second ring. "How are you? Have you gone to the house yet? Isn't your interview today?"
"Tilda," I hiss into the phone, stepping away from the gate as the camera continues its relentless surveillance. "I think I'm at the wrong place. This isn't a house—it's practically a castle with security that makes Fort Knox look inviting. There's no way your friend lives here."
Her laughter rings through the phone, much too carefree for my current predicament. "If it looks like you're about to get arrested for trespassing, then you're definitely at the right place! Daniel doesn't appreciate unexpected visitors, hence the intimidating security."
"A little warning would have been nice," I snap, my nerves fraying. "You said I was interviewing with someone you knew from work. Not..." I gesture wildly at the estate before remembering she can't see me. "Whatever this is!"
"Is it really that fancy?" she asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
"Tilda, there are probably rooms in this place bigger than our entire foster home was." I lower my voice, despite there being no one around to hear me. "Who exactly am I interviewing with?"
She hesitates, which is never a good sign with Tilda. "Actually, he's my boss, Lily."
"Your boss?" I repeat, confused. "Mr. Williams? But you said he's married with grown children."
"Not him," she replies, her voice dropping. "I mean my actual boss. Like, the CEO of my company. I got assigned to a project he's overseeing, and I overheard him telling his assistant he needs a nanny. So... I recommended you."
The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water. "Wait—are you saying... Daniel Carter? The Daniel Carter? Of Paragon Corps?"
"Yes?" She sounds almost apologetic now.
My free hand flies to my forehead as I stare at the massive estate with renewed terror. Daniel Carter is a household name—the kind of billionaire whose face appears on business magazines and news segments. I'd only seen him in photographs, where he looked frustratingly perfect in tailored suits, with that confident half-smile that probably closed million-dollar deals regularly.
I didn't even know he had a child.
"Tilda, I can't?—"
My protest is cut short by the appearance of a man in a crisp black suit who materializes beside the gate, scrutinizing me as though I were a suspicious package. His expression is professionally blank, but his eyes are cold enough to send a shiver down my spine.
"I'll call you back," I whisper into the phone before hanging up.
"Who are you?" the security guard demands, his voice matching his icy stare.
I straighten my posture, summoning whatever dignity I can. "Lily Mathews. I have an interview for the nanny position at 10 AM."
"ID?"
The abruptness of his tone grates on my nerves, but I comply, retrieving my wallet and presenting my driver's license. He examines it with exaggerated thoroughness before stepping back.
Without warning, the massive gate begins to slide open with a low mechanical hum. Relief washes over me—at least I'm expected. The security guard, however, makes no move to escort me.
"Where do I?—"
"Follow the main path to the house entrance. Take the right hall, second door on the left leads to the main foyer. From there, take the east corridor to the parlor. Mr. Carter will see you there."
Before I can process these directions—let alone ask for clarification—he's already retreating to his guard station, leaving me alone on the threshold of what feels more like an exclusive resort than someone's home.
With a deep breath, I step through the gate and onto the immaculate stone pathway. Each step feels like trespassing, despite my legitimate reason for being here. The sprawling gardens on either side of me display a level of wealth I've only seen in movies—fountains, sculptures, and flowers arranged in patterns that must require an army of gardeners to maintain.
Five minutes later, I'm standing in a foyer with ceilings so high they make me dizzy. The floors are polished marble, reflecting the crystal chandelier that hangs above like some extravagant indoor constellation. Everything gleams with perfection—not a fingerprint, not a speck of dust, not a single indication that actual humans live here.
But where is everyone? Shouldn't a house this size have staff milling about?
I attempt to follow the security guard's directions, but soon find myself hopelessly lost in a labyrinth of identical-looking hallways. Each door I tentatively open reveals another stunning room—a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a music room with a grand piano, a sitting room with furniture that probably costs more than everything I've ever owned.
None of them look remotely like what I imagine a "parlor" to be.
After what feels like an eternity of wandering, I push open another door and freeze. I've stumbled into what appears to be a private gym, but "gym" seems too modest a word. The space is massive, equipped with machines that would make professional athletic facilities envious. The room smells faintly of sandalwood and clean sweat, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the property's rear gardens.
I'm about to back away when a voice—deep, commanding, and undeniably annoyed—freezes me in place.
"Who are you?"
My heart leaps into my throat as I spin around. Standing in the doorway behind me is a man whose presence fills the entire room, despite his still posture. For a moment, I can only stare, my brain unable to process the sight before me.
Daniel Carter—in the flesh—is nothing like his photographs.
He's better.
And he's shirtless.
Sweat glistens on his bare torso, highlighting every defined muscle with merciless clarity. His dark hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead in a way that frames those startlingly blue eyes—eyes currently narrowed with suspicion. His jawline could cut glass, and his lips are pressed into a firm line that does nothing to diminish their fullness.
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I realize I'm openly gawking at my potential employer. But how could anyone not? The man looks like he was carved from marble by an artist with an appreciation for the male form.
"Oh!" The sound escapes me before I can stop it—a breathless, embarrassingly appreciative exclamation.
His expression darkens as he steps into the room, and I instinctively back up. Not out of fear, exactly, but because my body seems to understand something my brain hasn't caught up to yet: proximity to this man might be dangerous for reasons that have nothing to do with his wealth or power.
"I asked who you are," he repeats, his voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "Are you aware that you're trespassing?"
"No!" I blurt out, then immediately realize how that sounds. "I mean, I'm not trespassing. I'm here for an interview."
One perfect eyebrow arches skeptically as his gaze travels from my face down to my sensible heels, then back up again. The appraisal feels both invasive and thrilling in a way I refuse to examine.
"Interview?" he questions, emphasis making it clear how unlikely he finds this. "You?"
The dismissive way he says it—like I couldn't possibly be qualified for whatever position he's imagining—ignites a spark of indignation hot enough to burn through my intimidation.
"Yes, me," I respond, more sharply than intended. "For the nanny position. Your employee Matilda recommended me."
Recognition flickers across his face, but his expression remains unimpressed. "You should be in the parlor. Not wandering through my private spaces."
"I would be in the parlor if I knew where it was," I counter. "Maybe if your security had actually shown me in instead of rattling off directions like I've been here before, or if you had staff in this enormous house to guide visitors, I wouldn't be lost!"
The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I immediately slap my hand over my mouth. Did I really just snap at Daniel Carter—billionaire CEO and potential employer—in his own home?
Based on the dangerous flash in his eyes, yes. Yes, I did.
"I—I'm sorry," I stammer, mortification washing over me. "That was completely inappropriate."
"Wait in the parlor," he instructs, his tone glacial.
"I don't know where that is," I remind him, hating how small my voice sounds now.
"Then wait in the hall," he orders. "I don't want you entering any more rooms."
I nod mutely, understanding with perfect clarity that this interview is over before it's begun. No one speaks to Daniel Carter that way and gets hired. I've blown my chance at what would have been an incredible opportunity—all because I couldn't control my tongue for five minutes.
As I turn to leave, he adds, "Take the first right, then the second left. The parlor has double doors with brass handles."
I pause, surprised by the sudden assistance. "Thank you."
His only response is a curt nod before he turns his attention to a towel draped over one of the machines, effectively dismissing me.
Once in the hallway, I lean against the wall and let out a shaky breath. Twenty-seven years of life, and I've never reacted to anyone the way I just did to Daniel Carter. The mixture of intimidation, attraction, and irritation is entirely foreign to me—and completely unprofessional.
But as I follow his directions to the parlor, I can't help wondering if I imagined the brief flash of something else in those blue eyes just before I left—something that looked suspiciously like interest.