Chapter 2: For Now

The address Camilla had given her looked like it belonged on a postcard.

Wrought iron gates. Perfectly trimmed hedges. Marble steps leading to a massive door that caught the afternoon light and held it—cold, reflective, untouchable.

A world apart from hospital disinfectant and eviction notices. From everything that had just collapsed behind her.

Bianca adjusted the strap of her bag. The fabric bit lightly into her shoulder—familiar, grounding.

She inhaled once.

Then pressed the intercom.

“I’m here for the nanny position.”

Her voice came out steady. Clean.

A soft click answered.

Then—

the gates slid open with a low mechanical hum.

Bianca stepped inside.

Her heels struck the marble driveway in quiet, rhythmic beats that echoed faintly through the open space. Each step seemed amplified, as if the place demanded awareness from anyone who entered it.

A uniformed staff member approached, posture straight, expression neutral.

“Miss Floris?” he asked, clipboard in hand.

Bianca gave a small nod.

“Follow me, please. Mr. Collins is expecting you.”

The air shifted as she crossed into the estate—cooler, filtered. The faint scent of polished wood lingered beneath something lighter. Citrus, maybe.

Inside, the quiet was deliberate.

Soft classical music threaded through the space, low enough to fade into the background, precise enough to be intentional.

Nothing here was accidental.

Bianca noticed it.

Registered it.

Let it pass.

They stopped at a large oak door, dark and polished to a near sheen. The butler knocked twice—controlled, measured—before opening it.

“Mr. Collins,” he said. “Your appointment.”

The room beyond felt heavier.

Warmer—but not welcoming.

Vincent Collins didn’t look up immediately.

He stood near the desk, tall, composed, every line of his posture deliberate. When his gaze finally lifted—

it assessed.

Sharp. Direct. Unwavering.

Too young.

That was the first conclusion.

And the easiest one to make.

Not Edna Floris.

Not even close.

“Who are you?”

His voice was low, controlled, carrying without effort.

Bianca didn’t hesitate.

“I’m Bianca Jackson. I’m covering for Mrs. Floris.”

A pause.

The space between them tightened, subtle but unmistakable.

“Continuity,” Vincent said. “Explain how you provide it.”

No softness. No wasted breath.

Bianca inhaled once.

“I’ve worked multiple jobs while putting myself through school,” she said. “Waitressing. Night shifts. Cleaning.”

Her fingers brushed once against the seam of her bag—then stilled.

“I manage schedules. I adapt quickly. Caring for a child isn’t beyond me. It’s structure, attention, consistency.”

Vincent didn’t move.

“Your age. Your workload.” His voice lowered slightly. “When do you sleep?”

“I prioritize.”

Simple. Direct.

“Efficiency isn’t about time,” she added. “It’s about control. I’ve been managing difficult schedules for years. This isn’t new.”

Silence followed.

Not empty—evaluating.

Vincent let it stretch, watching how she held it.

She didn’t shift.

Didn’t fill it.

Didn’t break.

“You believe that qualifies you to care for my daughter?”

The emphasis was subtle.

But it carried weight.

Bianca met his gaze.

“I don’t believe it,” she said evenly. “I know it.”

A flicker crossed his expression—gone almost instantly.

“She needs stability. Attention. Patience,” Bianca continued. “I provide all three.”

Her tone remained calm—but firmer now.

“You don’t hire someone who fits your standards. You hire someone who can meet them.”

A brief pause.

“That’s me.”

Vincent leaned back slightly, the leather chair giving a quiet creak.

His fingers steepled once.

“And references?”

“I have them,” she said. “But if you prefer—”

A beat.

“—observe me instead.”

Something in the room recalibrated.

“Judge for yourself.”

Silence settled again.

Longer this time.

Measured.

Vincent’s gaze remained fixed on her.

Then—

“No.”

The decision landed clean.

Final.

Bianca’s chest tightened—barely perceptible. For a fraction of a second, something flickered beneath her composure.

Not doubt.

Recognition.

“I don’t hire inexperienced candidates,” Vincent said. “And I don’t hire divided ones.”

Each word precise.

“This role requires full attention.” A pause. “You don’t have it.”

Bianca drew a breath—

ready to answer—

The door slammed open.

“Daddy…!”

Emotion rushed in with it.

Sophie stumbled forward, cheeks flushed, tears streaking down her face, breath uneven.

“You didn’t keep your promise!”

The room’s control fractured.

Vincent stilled.

Completely.

Not a step. Not a word.

But something in him halted—like a system without command.

Bianca moved.

Immediately.

She crossed the distance and crouched, bringing herself to Sophie’s level.

“Hey… it’s okay,” she said softly.

Her voice changed—warmer, slower.

“I’m here. Tell me what happened.”

Sophie sniffled, her breathing uneven.

Bianca didn’t rush her.

Her hand moved gently along the child’s back in small, steady circles.

Grounding.

“You can be upset,” she murmured. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.”

The tension shifted.

Subtly—but undeniably.

Sophie’s breathing began to slow. Her shoulders loosened, fingers curling into Bianca’s sleeve.

Then—

she looked up.

Eyes still wet. Wide.

Sophie’s arms tightened around Bianca, small fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeve as if anchoring herself there.

“You’re so pretty…” she whispered, her voice still soft from tears.

A pause.

“Are you my new nanny?”

Bianca stilled for half a second.

The question settled between them—honest, unguarded.

Then she lifted her gaze.

To Vincent.

A silent question.

He was already watching.

Every detail.

The steadiness of her hand. The absence of urgency. The lack of performance.

And Sophie—

still holding on.

Not out of habit.

Not out of instruction.

But instinct.

Her small frame leaned into Bianca without hesitation, as if the decision had already been made somewhere Vincent had no control over.

Her eyes lifted toward him now—wide, expectant.

Waiting.

Trusting.

It had taken the others days to reach that point.

Some never had.

And yet—

within minutes—

this woman had done it.

Not through effort.

Through instinct.

Vincent’s gaze sharpened slightly.

That alone did not make her suitable.

Trust could be gained.

Lost just as easily.

Consistency mattered more.

Control mattered more.

This was not a decision about her.

It was a decision about Sophie.

Temporary.

Conditional.

If she failed—she would leave, like the others before her.

Nothing more.

Vincent exhaled once.

Measured.

Resolved.

“Yes.”

The word cut clean through the room.

Sophie went still.

Vincent’s gaze remained on Bianca.

“She will be your nanny.”

A beat.

“For now.”

Control returned.

Distance held.

But the decision had shifted—and this time, it held.

Sophie lit up instantly, warmth flooding back into her face as she threw her arms around Bianca.

Bianca steadied her with ease, one hand resting lightly against her back, feeling the small rise and fall of her breathing.

A faint smile touched her lips.

Not relief.

Not gratitude.

Something quieter.

Certain.

Vincent had already turned away, the soft rustle of his suit the only sound as he returned to his desk.

Posture composed. Expression unreadable.

But the room no longer felt the same.

Something had changed.

Subtle.

Irreversible.

He had misjudged her.

And Vincent Collins did not make the same mistake twice.

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