Chapter 011 Lyra
I’ve been caught sooner than I expected, but I can still stall my family a few more days. Mom and Dad got back from their cruise early—Dad noticed the truck missing the second he pulled into the driveway. I’d counted on them staying gone another week. Oops.
I told them I’m crashing with a friend in the city for a bit. Technically true if you squint. The truck isn’t urgent—Dad doesn’t need it for work anymore—but sooner or later they’ll want details. Where exactly am I staying? With who? That conversation can wait until I’ve been here long enough to prove I’m not chopped up in someone’s basement. A few weeks should do it. I hope.
“What do you think?” I spin the vanity chair so Elara can see the back of her head in the hand mirror.
She squeals—actually squeals—and launches herself at me, arms tight around my neck. “I love it!”
I laugh into her hair. “Good. I was worried the Dutch braid might look too soccer-mom on you.”
“It’s perfect.” She pulls back, beaming. “It’s fun having a girl around.”
My chest goes soft and gooey. “Totally agree, kiddo.” I nod toward her hands. “Nails after piano practice?”
Her eyes go huge. “Do you have polish?”
“I will after your lessons.” I tap her nose. “I’ll grab a few colors while you’re suffering through scales and conjugations.”
She groans dramatically but she’s still smiling as we head downstairs.
Ms. Sophia is already waiting in the music room, sheet music spread across the grand piano like a fancy tablecloth. Elara skips over, braid swinging, and I give the teacher a quick wave. Sophia nods—professional, polite, zero curiosity about why the new nanny is wearing yesterday’s jeans and a slightly wrinkled sweater. Thank God for small mercies.
Once Elara’s fingers are flying over the keys, I go hunting for Niles. The man knows everything that happens in this house, including where they stashed my ancient truck.
I find him in the kitchen, murmuring something to Chef Carl about truffle oil portions. Both men glance up when I hover in the doorway.
“Hi,” I say, aiming for breezy. “Quick question—my truck keys and current parking spot?”
Niles turns fully, expression neutral. “I had it moved to one of the garage bays, Ms. Galloway. We couldn’t leave it curbside. It’s rather… conspicuous.”
Ouch. “That truck is thirty years old and paid for, thank you very much.”
“Precisely,” Niles says, deadpan.
I snort. He didn’t mean it as a joke, which somehow makes it funnier. “I’ll rescue it soon, promise.”
“This way.”
I trail him through a back hallway I haven’t explored yet. The house keeps unfolding like one of those Russian nesting dolls—every door reveals another perfectly organized space. We end up in what has to be the mud room, except nothing here has ever been muddy. Built-in cubbies, labeled bins, shoes lined up like soldiers. My fingers twitch with the urge to mess it up just to watch Niles twitch back.
He opens a drawer, retrieves my keys, and hands them over. “Will someone be retrieving it today?”
“Not yet. I need to coordinate with my dad.” I can probably buy a week, maybe ten days if I play the busy card hard.
“Please alert me when he arrives so I can notify the gate.”
“Scout’s honor.” I give him a goofy little finger gun. He does not look amused.
Anything else? Nope. I pivot to leave.
“Wait.” Niles steps sideways, blocking me. His gaze drops to the keys in my hand. “I wasn’t aware you intended to depart.”
I laugh. “It’s a quick errand, not a prison break.”
“Does Mr. Eve know?”
One word—know—sends heat licking up my spine. Permission. God, why is that hot? It shouldn’t be. I should be annoyed. I am annoyed. Sort of.
“Ms. Sophia is here,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Elara will be occupied for the next two hours. I cleared it with her.”
Niles lifts an eyebrow. “But Mr. Eve did not grant permission.”
There it is again. Permission. My stomach flips. This morning flashes behind my eyes—Cillian’s weight pinning me to the mattress, his rough voice in my ear, the way he took and took and took until I forgot my own name.
I swallow. “He’s busy running an empire. I’m trying to take things off his plate, not add to it.”
“I believe he would prefer to be informed.”
I snort again. Niles remains un-charmed.
“Look, it’s girl stuff,” I say, lowering my voice like we’re conspirators. “Medical. I’ll be back before Elara finishes French.”
His eyebrows shoot up. He steps aside so fast you’d think I announced leprosy. Men. Predictable.
“Going forward I’ll tell him,” I promise. We stare at each other for a second. “Seriously, I gotta go.”
I dart around him before he can recover. The side door opens straight into the garage—six bays, polished concrete, cars that cost more than my parents’ house gleaming under recessed lights. My battered blue pickup sits in the far corner like the kid who showed up to prom in overalls.
I climb in, crank the engine—still starts on the first try, take that, Niles—and roll out past the gate before anyone can change their mind.
The drive to the nearest pharmacy is short, but my brain won’t shut up.
This morning replays on loop. Cillian waking me with his mouth, patient and relentless until I came twice without fully waking up. Then the slow, deliberate way he pushed inside me, took my virginity like it was his right, came hard and fast, and stayed buried while he told me—calmly, possessively—that this was how it would always be.
I should be freaking out more. I lost my virginity to a man who employs me, in his bed, after knowing him less than forty-eight hours. He finished inside me without asking. Twice, actually, once this morning and again last night if you count the preview.
But I’m not freaking out. I’m… cataloging it like a wild story I’ll tell my friends someday when I’m safely back home with a nest egg and zero complications.
He’s experienced. The way he touched me wasn’t hesitant or clumsy. For him this is normal—intense, possessive sex with no strings. Temporary. Exactly what I signed up for when I took this job. I’m fine with that. Really.
Except I keep circling back to the look in his eyes right before he left for work. Something almost tender. I probably imagined it.
Anyway. Birth control. I have a prescription from my last annual—doctor handed it over with a wink and a “just in case.” Turns out “in case” arrived fast.
The last thing I need is to get pregnant by a man who, according to his own staff gossip I overheard yesterday, never planned on having kids at all. Elara was apparently a complicated inheritance situation. Another child—especially with the nanny—would not fit his spreadsheet life.
I park, grab a basket, toss in five bottles of nail polish in colors Elara will love—sparkly purple, bright teal, classic red, something with holographic glitter, and a soft pink because balance—and head to the pharmacy counter.
The pharmacist scans the prescription, raises no eyebrows, and hands over the little pink pack. I pay, tuck it into my purse like contraband, and head back to the mansion.
I’m not stupid. I know how possessive he is. I know he meant it when he said every time. But I’m also not ready to be permanently tied to a man who sees me as convenient stress relief with childcare benefits.
This is temporary. Fun. A story.
I pull back through the gates, park the truck in its sad little corner, and pocket the pills.
Just in case.