Chapter 3 - The Weight of a Billion Dollars
Adrian sat at the head of the table, a black leather portfolio open beside his laptop, his tie slightly loosened. When Caleb and Noah skidded into the dining room panting and arguing over who touched the banister first, Adrian’s gaze snapped toward them, then flicked to me as I strolled in behind them with my hands in my pockets.
"Nia," he said, his voice dropping an octave into that heavy, gravelly register that made local politicians sweat on evening news broadcasts. "What are they doing in the dining room at 2:00 PM? Homeschooling modules are scheduled until three."
"We declared a truce for grilled cheese," I said cheerfully, pulling out a chair three seats down from him. "And education can wait an extra twenty minutes. A growing anarchist cannot plot world domination on an empty stomach."
Caleb scrambled into his seat, while Noah climbed up beside him, his eyes darting nervously toward his father. Adrian’s jaw tightened. He looked like a man who spent his entire life managing hostile takeovers and criminal syndicates, completely unequipped for the petty, high-stakes diplomacy of raising four motherless boys.
"Miss Carter," Adrian began, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "My security detail reported hearing what sounded like an industrial riot on the third floor."
"Percussion practice," I corrected, picking up a napkin and laying it across my lap. "Very good for hand-eye coordination and rhythmic synchronization. You should invest in a drum kit. Channel that destructive energy into something with a backbeat."
Evan walked into the room just then, his hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, looking every bit the brooding eleven-year-old rebel. He stopped dead when he saw me sitting comfortably at his father’s table—or rather, the table he usually dominated through sheer intimidation.
"Why is she sitting there?" Evan demanded, pointing a finger at me. "That’s my seat."
"There are twelve chairs at this table, Evan, and unless you have royal blood or a contagious skin condition, you can sit anywhere you like," I replied, taking a sip of water. "Or you can stand in the corner and pout. Your choice."
Evan’s face flushed dark red. He opened his mouth to launch a verbal missile, but before he could speak, Adrian’s voice cut through the room like a razor blade.
"Sit down, Evan."
The boy froze. He looked at his father, saw the absolute, unyielding wall in Adrian’s eyes, and slowly, grudgingly pulled out the chair directly opposite me. He sat down so hard the silverware rattled against the porcelain.
"If you throw a single piece of cheese at her," Adrian said softly, staring straight at his oldest son, "I will personally auction off your Xbox, your skateboard, and your sneaker collection to a local orphanage. Do I make myself clear?"
Evan’s eyes widened in sheer horror. "You wouldn't."
"Try me," Adrian replied.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. For all Adrian’s cold, intimidating exterior, he was completely wrapped around his sons' little fingers—and they knew it. That was why they pushed. They pushed because every other adult in their lives had either quit, walked away, or treated them like ticking time bombs. They were testing the perimeter, waiting for the moment Adrian would finally lose patience and send them away to a boarding school in Switzerland.
That was when I realized why I couldn't fail this job.
My sister, Maya, was twenty-one, lying in a sterile hospital room in New York, waiting for a organ that cost more than my entire life’s earnings. Adrian Vale was paying me ten times my usual rate—enough to cover the remaining balance of the surgery upfront, provided I survived one week in this fortress of dysfunction.
I looked across the table at Evan, whose jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.
"Hey, Evan," I said softly.
He glared at me. "What?"
"I heard you’re the best pitcher in Greenwich."
Evan blinked, caught completely off guard. "Who told you that?"
"Nobody. I caught your fastball in the foyer without dropping my bag. Anyone who throws like that either plays Little League or spends four hours a day brick-wall pitching against the garage." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. "After lunch, I’m going outside to check out the grounds. If you think you can throw hard enough to knock me on my backside, meet me by the south lawn. Bring your fastest slider."
Evan stared at me, suspicion warring with bruised pride in his eyes. "You think you can hit my slider?"
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"I think you pitch like a coward unless you're throwing at someone's head," I said sweetly. "Prove me wrong."
Adrian dropped his fork against his plate with a sharp clink. He looked at me with a mix of disbelief and sheer wariness, as if I had just invited a grizzly bear to tea.
