Nanny Job

Erin’s Pov

Two million and an Advance payment.

I keep repeating it in my head like maybe it will sound less insane the more I think about it. Two million for a nanny job? Nobody pays that much for watching some kid. Unless the kid is a prince or cursed or maybe both.

But right now do I even have a choice?

Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe it’s human traffickers waiting to throw me in a van. But even if it is… isn’t that better than the loan sharks? At least traffickers keep you alive long enough to sell you. Loan sharks don’t waste time. They’ll cut you open, take what they want, and leave what’s left rotting in an alley.

I laugh under my breath, the sound shaky and ugly. This is my life now, measuring which death would hurt less.

I crumple the edges of the poster in my hand and stare at the address printed at the bottom. My chest tightens. My legs want to move, but they also want to collapse. I don’t know which urge will win.

But then I think about the faces of the men chasing me, their gold rings, their thick knives. I see the scars on their arms, proof of how many they’ve carved up before me. My stomach twists so hard I nearly throw up.

I can’t go back to that.

So I walk.

The sun is high, burning down on me, hot against the back of my neck. Afternoon traffic clogs the street, horns honking in uneven bursts. I move past corner stores and cracked sidewalks, ignoring the voices around me.

My eyes stay on the paper, on the crooked little letters spelling out the street I’m headed to.

Every step is heavier than the last. Sweat sticks my shirt to my back. My legs ache like I’ve been running all week instead of just today. My mind keeps whispering that maybe I should just give up and go back to the loan sharks and let them have me. At least that way, the waiting ends. No more running, no more starving, no more pretending I can fix any of this.

But then another voice cuts in. The stubborn one. The one that says I didn’t crawl this far just to hand myself over. Not yet.

So I keep going.

The streets change around me. The broken concrete smooths out, the trash disappears, the air even smells cleaner. I’m on the rich side now. Big houses with sharp fences line the road, gates tall enough to block out the rest of the city. Cars glide past, polished so bright the sun bounces off them like glass.

I keep my head down. My clothes are a mess, my shoes scuffed, my face probably looks like I slept in a dumpster. Everyone here looks like they stepped out of a magazine. If anyone notices me, they’ll know instantly that I don’t belong.

I follow the address until I stop in front of a gate bigger than the others. Black iron, towering above me, too clean, too heavy. I stare at it and feel my chest squeeze tight. This must be it.

But suddenly, all the fight drains out of me.

My legs hurt, my throat is dry, and my heart feels like a hollow drum. Maybe I should just forget about this. Walk away. Let the poster flutter into the gutter where it belongs.

Maybe I should just give up and go back to the loan sharks and let them have me. At least it would be over.

I start to turn, already telling myself this was a mistake, when a sharp banging sound makes me freeze.

I whip my head around.

There’s a woman at the gate, pounding her fists against the metal. She’s dressed in black, her hair a mess, tears streaking her face. Her voice is raw, breaking with every shout.

“I didn’t steal anything!” she cries. “Please, you have to believe me….I didn’t do it!”

The gate opens with a slow groan, and two men in black suits appear. They grab her arms without a word, pulling her back from the gate. She kicks, thrashes, but it doesn’t matter. They’re stronger, calmer. The kind of calm that says they’ve done this a hundred times.

She screams again, pleading, but her words bounce uselessly off the walls of the mansion behind the gate.

Then he steps out.

A man in a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, black pants neat against his frame. His hair is half slicked back, half messy, like he couldn’t decide if he cared or not. Tattoos curl faintly along his arms where the fabric ends.

In one arm, he carries a boy. Six, maybe seven years old. The kid presses his face into the man’s shoulder, clutching his shirt tight with both hands.

The woman keeps crying, swearing she’s innocent, but the men drag her toward a black car waiting by the curb. They shove her inside as if she weighs nothing. The door slams, the engine roars, and the car pulls away, her voice swallowed by the sound.

My body is stiff, locked in place. I shouldn’t have seen that. I shouldn’t even be here.

The man in the white shirt turns. His eyes sweep the street, sharp and slow. And then they land on me.

It feels like being cut open without a knife. His gaze strips me bare, moves from the top of my head to the dirt on my shoes, then back up again. I grip the poster so hard it nearly tears in half.

I can’t breathe, My legs feel like jelly. My hands are wet from sweat. The paper crinkles loud between my fingers. I try to tuck it into my pocket but the poster is bent and dirty. I want to drop it. I want to run. But my feet do not move.

His voice came out like a growl or something, low and dangerous but carefully controlled.

“Are you here for the nanny job?”