The baseball sat heavy and scuffed in my palm, the red stitching coarse against my skin. Above us, the second-floor gallery fell utterly silent, save for the rhythmic, defiant chewing of bubblegum from a kid with messy brown curls and an oversized hoodie.

Friday afternoon.

The sun was shining brightly over Greenwich, melting the last stubborn patches of snow on the south lawn. Inside the mansion, the air smelled of lemon polish, fresh flowers, and yeast—because Mrs. Gable had finally decided to come out of the guest cottage, and Evan had spent two hours learning how to bake a lasagna without setting off the smoke detectors.

I stood in the private study on the first floor, staring at a slip of white paper sitting on Adrian’s mahogany desk.

It was a cashier’s check.

The exact amount required to cover the remaining balance of Maya’s surgery at Mount Sinai, plus six months of post-op recovery care.

The door opened softly, and Adrian stepped inside, closing it behind him. He walked over to the desk, stopping just inches away from me.

"The hospital called an hour ago," Adrian said softly. "Maya’s surgery is confirmed for Monday morning. My private jet will pick you up Sunday night and fly you straight to Manhattan."

I looked down at the check, then up into his dark, steady eyes. My throat felt tight, thick with emotions I had spent years locking away behind walls of pragmatism and exhaustion.

"I can't take this as a gift, Adrian," I whispered. "It’s too much."

"It’s not a gift," Adrian replied, his voice dropping into that low, rumbling register that made every pulse point in my body race. "It’s a contract. You signed on for one week to survive my boys. Today is Friday afternoon. Technically, you still have forty-eight hours left."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you firing me?"

"I’m renegotiating," Adrian said, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. "I don't need a nanny anymore, Nia. The boys don't need a caregiver either. They need someone who doesn't run away when things get loud. Someone who stands her ground when the wolves show up at the gate."

"And what do you need, Mr. Vale?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Adrian reached out, gently lifting a strand of hair that had fallen across my cheek, his fingers brushing warm against my skin.

"I need the woman who caught my son’s fastball and told me to shut up in my own house," he murmured. "I need the last caregiver this family will ever hire."

Before I could answer, the study door swung wide open with a loud bang.

Evan stood in the doorway, holding a baseball and a glove, with Caleb, Noah, and Luke crowded behind him like a cheering section.

"Hey!" Evan yelled, trying to look very tough and entirely unimpressed. "The driveway’s clear, the snow is gone, and Dad’s meetings are over. If you’re done having adult conversations, we have a score to settle on the south lawn."

I looked at Evan, then back at Adrian, a slow smile spreading across my face.

"Tell your general," I told Adrian, stepping past him toward the door, "that I’m going to strike him out so hard he’ll feel it in his grandchildren."

Adrian laughed—a rich, deep sound that finally banished every shadow from the house—and followed us out into the sun.

The fourteen caregivers before me had all tried to survive the Vale estate by changing the boys.