Chapter 1
MELODY
My Honda Civic sputters to a pathetic stop outside
expensive gates. The Kane estate looms before me like
something from a damn fairy tale—all gleaming white stone
and perfectly manicured gardens that scream "you don't
belong here" in twelve different languages.
My car gives one wheeze and then starts again, as if it's
embarrassed to be seen here.
Come on, Melody. You've got this. It's just a nanny
position. How hard can it be?
Famous last words of every horror movie victim ever.
The answer, apparently, is monumentally fucking hard,
considering the last three nannies fled faster than people
leaving a Nickelback concert. The agency's warning plays on
repeat in my head: Mr. Kane is very particular about Emma's
routine. Very protective. Very... intense.
Translation: Another control freak with daddy issues
and enough money to buy his own planet. Perfect. Just what
my life needs—another rich asshole who thinks his bank
account makes him God.
My phone buzzes with what I'm pretty sure is my
seventeenth overdue notice today. Student loans, rent, credit
cards, and that parking ticket I got for being thirty seconds
late to the meter. The holy trinity of financial destruction,
plus the bonus round of municipal revenge.
I silence it with more violence than necessary and
immediately feel guilty. It's not the phone's fault I'm broke
enough to make church mice look wealthy.
The gates swing open, and I drive up a circular
driveway that could fit my entire apartment complex. My car's
engine coughs apologetically as I park next to a lineup of
vehicles that belong in a luxury showroom— including sleek
black SUVs, a vintage Porsche, and something low and red.
Before I can chicken out, a man emerges from the
house. Mid-thirties, stocky build, with kind eyes and graying
10temples. He approaches with the easy confidence of someone
who's dealt with nervous nannies before.
"You must be Miss Brooks." His voice carries a slight
accent, warm and reassuring. "I'm Diego Morales, estate
manager. And before you ask—yes, you look exactly like
someone who's about to bolt."
I laugh despite my nerves. "That obvious?"
"Honey, I've watched three women flee this place in the
past two months. You've got that same deer-in-headlights
look." He extends his hand, callused but gentle. "Don't worry.
The house doesn't bite. The owner, on the other hand..."
"Diego!" A woman's voice calls from the doorway,
chiding but affectionate. "Stop scaring her before she even gets
Inside."
She appears like Mary Poppins's cooler sister—petite,
dark-haired, with the kind of smile that makes you want to
spill all your secrets and ask for cookies. This must be Rosa,
Diego's wife. The agency mentioned they live on the property,
which probably means they're the only reason this place hasn't
been featured on Unsolved Mysteries.
"Ignore him," Rosa says, shooting her husband a look
that promises retribution later. "He thinks he's funny. Come
in, mija. I'll get you some coffee before you meet the boss."
The house's interior stops me cold. It's gorgeous—all
soaring ceilings, marble floors, and artwork that probably
requires its own insurance policy. But it feels like a museum,
beautiful and untouchable. Every surface gleams with
perfection, not a single thing out of place.
"Intimidating, right?" Diego follows my gaze. "Jax— I
mean Mr. Kane—he's not really a mess-maker. Everything's
been like this since..."
"Since his wife died," Rosa finishes quietly, handing me
a steaming mug. "Three years ago. Emma was just a baby. She
doesn't remember her mother, and Mr. Kane... he's been
struggling ever since."
The coffee is perfect—rich, smooth, exactly what I
need. "The agency mentioned Emma's been having some
behavioral issues."
"She's not bad," Rosa says quickly, defensive. "She's
just... lonely. And smart. Too smart for her own good
sometimes. She sees everything, understands more than a six-
year-old should."
A crash echoes from upstairs, followed by the sound of
something heavy hitting the floor.
"Speaking of which," Diego mutters, "sounds like she's
redecorating again."
"Emma!" Rosa calls. "Come down here, please. Your
new nanny is here."
"I don't want a new nanny!" The voice is small but
fierce, carrying down the grand staircase. "They always leave
Anyway!"
My heart clenches. Poor kid. No wonder she's acting
Out.
"I told you she was direct," Diego says with a wry smile.
"She gets that from her father."
Footsteps thunder down the stairs, and then she
appears—a tiny tornado with dark hair and the most startling
blue eyes I've ever seen.
She's wearing paint-splattered overalls
and sneakers that have seen better days, a stark contrast to the
pristine house around her.
Emma stops at the bottom of the stairs, studying me
with the intensity of a forensic analyst. "You're shorter than
the last one."
"Emma," Rosa warns gently.
"What? I'm just saying. The last nanny was really tall
and she kept trying to make me eat quinoa." She wrinkles her
nose. "Do you like quinoa?"
"I think quinoa is what happens when rice gives up on
life," I reply seriously.
Emma's eyes widen slightly, and I catch the faintest hint
of a smile before she schools her expression back to suspicious
Neutrality.
"Are you going to leave too?" she asks, cutting straight
to the heart of it.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I hope not. But I
guess that depends on whether you and your dad think I'm
any good at this job."
She considers this, then nods approvingly. "At least
you're honest. The last one kept saying she'd stay forever and
then she was gone the next week."
"Emma, why don't you show Miss Brooks your room
while I find your father?" Rosa suggests.
"He's in his office," Emma says, already heading toward
the stairs. "He's always in his office. Come on, I'll show you
my stuff."
As I follow her up the grand staircase, I catch Diego
and Rosa exchanging a look that speaks volumes. Whatever
happened with the previous nannies, it's clear Emma's the one
who's been hurt the most.
"This is my room," Emma announces, pushing open a
door to reveal what looks like a craft store explosion. Art
supplies, books, and toys cover every surface. It's the first space
in this house that actually looks lived-in.
"Wow," I breathe, taking in the controlled chaos. "This
is awesome."
"Really?" Emma's guard drops slightly. "Mrs.
Hendricks—that was the last nanny—she said it was messy
and tried to organize everything. I hated her."
"Mrs. Hendricks sounds like she didn't understand that
creative minds need creative spaces," I say, picking up a half-
finished painting of what looks like a dragon riding a unicorn.
"This is incredible. Did you do this?"
Emma nods, a flush of pride coloring her cheeks. "Daddy
says I'm artistic like Mommy was."
Before I can respond, a deep voice cuts through the air
like a blade.
"Emma, what did I tell you about having people in your
room without permission?"
I turn around and my brain immediately short-circuits.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
Standing in the doorway is six-foot-two of brooding
perfection wrapped in a simple black t-shirt and jeans that
somehow look more expensive than my entire wardrobe. Dark
hair that's gotten shaggy, like he's forgotten to care about
appearances. And those eyes—piercing blue that seem to see
straight through to every insecurity I've ever had.
Jaxon Kane looks like he stepped out of a magazine
spread titled "Tortured Artists Who Could Ruin Your Life."
The kind of man who's gorgeous and knows it, who's probably
used to women falling at his feet with their panties already
halfway off.
Well, joke's on him. I'm wearing my good underwear
today, and it's staying exactly where it is.
"Mr. Kane," I manage, hoping my voice doesn't betray
the fact that my lady parts just sat up and took notice. "I'm
Melody Brooks from the agency."
He doesn't move from the doorway, just studies me with
those unsettling eyes. "The contract is non-negotiable. Emma's
schedule is in the folder. Deviation isn't an option."
His voice is rough velvet, the kind that probably makes
women do stupid things. Not me, though. I've had enough of
charming men with hidden agendas.
"I understand," I reply, keeping my tone professional
despite the fact that he's being a complete ass. "I'm here to help
Emma, not reorganize your life."
Something flickers in his expression—surprise, maybe?
Like he's not used to people talking back to him.
"Daddy, she likes my art," Emma pipes up, still clutching
her dragon painting. "And she thinks quinoa is stupid."
"Language, Emma," he says automatically, but his gaze
never leaves mine. "Miss Brooks, we need to discuss
Expectations."
"Of course." I straighten my shoulders, channeling every
bit of confidence I can muster. "Should we do this downstairs?
I imagine Emma has heard enough job interviews to last a
Lifetime."
Another flicker of something—respect? Annoyance?
With this man, it's impossible to tell.
"Emma, go help Rosa with dinner," he says, his tone
brooking no argument.
"But I want to stay," Emma protests. "I want to hear if
she's going to be mean like Mrs. Hendricks."
"Emma." Just her name, but the command in his voice is
Unmistakable.
She sighs dramatically but heads for the door. "If you
make her cry, I'm not talking to you for a week," she throws over
her shoulder.
"That would be a refreshing change," he mutters, and I
catch the hint of fondness beneath the gruff exterior.
As Emma's footsteps fade down the hallway, the air in
the room seems to thicken. He's still blocking the doorway, and
I have the distinct feeling this is some kind of power play.
"Shall we?" I gesture toward the door, refusing to be
intimidated by his intimidation tactics.
He steps aside, and I have to brush past him to get out of
the room. The brief contact sends an unwelcome jolt through