desperate sheep

Michele’s POV

The sun is high. Too bright. It burns against the marble steps of my house and glints off the steel gate. I squint, my son shifting in my arms, his small fingers clutching the collar of my shirt.

He doesn’t make a sound, not even when the woman screams as she’s dragged across the driveway. Her voice bounces off the walls, begging, swearing she’s innocent.

I’ve heard it all before. Innocent. Misunderstood. Wrong place, wrong time. None of it matters. What matters is loyalty. And she broke it.

My men shove her into the black car. Her cries die with the slam of the door. The engine starts. Tires grind on gravel, spitting dust, and the car vanishes down the street, taking her fate with it.

Silence.

I adjust the boy on my hip, his head resting against my chest. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even look. He knows better by now. Too young to see this world, but this is the world he was born into. My world. He learns young, or he doesn’t survive.

Movement catches my eye.

A man.

He stands frozen at the end of the gate, just beyond the boundary of my house. Thin. Sweating. His clothes are rumpled, stained, like he’s been living on the street or hasn’t had time to wash in days. He holds a crumpled paper in one fist, his knuckles white. His eyes are wide, too sharp with fear, locked on me as if he’s staring at a ghost.

I take him in slowly, starting from the ground up. Dirty sneakers, scuffed jeans, shirt sticking to his chest. His shoulders sag as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him.

A desperate man.

I don’t like desperate men near my house. Desperation makes them reckless. Reckless men are dangerous. Reckless men make mistakes. And mistakes around my son are unforgivable.

Still, I hold his gaze. I let him feel the weight of me, the silence, the pressure. I don’t speak right away. Let him sweat. Let him wonder if I’m about to order his death on the spot.

Then I finally cut the silence with a question. My voice is calm, but sharp enough to pierce.

“Are you here for the nanny job?”

The words strike him like a slap. He flinches. His mouth opens, then shuts. His throat works, but only broken stammers come out.

“I—I… Y-yes. I mean… I…”

Pathetic.

My grip tightens slightly on my son’s small frame. I keep my expression flat, unreadable. I tilt my head, studying him.

“The agency didn’t say anything about sending a male nanny,” I say slowly, testing his reaction.

He coughs, nervous, eyes darting around. He looks like a cornered rat, trying to find a hole to crawl through. Then he blurts, fast, “It wasn’t the agency. I… I saw a poster. On a wall. In a store.”

My jaw locks.

I don’t put up posters. I don’t advertise my household needs in public. Which means someone in my circle is being sloppy—or someone thought they were clever. Either way, I don’t like it.

I let the silence stretch, keeping my eyes fixed on him. He shifts from foot to foot, sweat dripping down the side of his face. He’s trembling, though he’s trying not to.

Finally, I turn slightly toward the door. “I don’t trust strangers around my son.”

That should end it.

But the sound stops me.

A thud.

I glance back. The man is on his knees in the dirt outside my gate. His head bowed, hands pressed together as if in prayer. He doesn’t care about the sweat soaking through his shirt or the dust clinging to his jeans.

He’s begging.

“Please,” he says. His voice cracks, raw, almost breaking apart. “Please, I need this job. I’m not lying. I’ll do anything. Anything.”

My men stiffen beside me, waiting for a command. One wrong word from me, and they’ll drag him away, maybe dump him in the street, maybe worse.

But I raise my hand slightly. Not yet.

I take a step closer, narrowing my eyes at him. “Why?” My voice is low, steady, a blade drawn slow. “Why do you need this job so badly?”

He lifts his head. His eyes are glassy, red at the edges from exhaustion or fear, but there’s something else inside them. Fire.

“I owe people money,” he says quickly, the words spilling out too fast, tripping over each other. “A lot. More than I can ever pay back. If I don’t… they’ll kill me. They’ll cut me apart. I can’t breathe anymore. I just need a chance to fix it. I need to breathe again.”

His voice breaks on that last word.

I study him. His chest heaves with every breath. His hands shake. He looks like he could collapse any second. Yet he doesn’t stop staring at me. His fear is real, but so is his desperation.

I crouch down slowly, lowering myself with my son still resting against me. My shadow covers him, and he tilts his head up, meeting my eyes. There’s no strength in his body, but there’s something in his gaze.

“You owe people money,” I repeat.

“Yes.” His voice is barely a whisper.

“You think working for me will solve that?”

He nods quickly, almost too quickly. “I’ll work for whatever you give. I’ll keep quiet. I won’t cause trouble. Just… just let me try.”

I hold his stare. I’ve broken men stronger than him with a single look. But this one doesn’t break. His whole body is trembling, his breath uneven, but his eyes stay locked on mine.

Behind me, one of my men shifts, impatient. My son leans closer into me, curious but silent.

Finally, I straighten again, towering over the man still on his knees.

The clipboard woman by the doorway is watching. My guards wait for my order. The heat of the sun presses heavy against us all.

I move toward the gate, my shoes scraping against the stone. I unlock it myself, the metal groaning as it swings open.

The man blinks, startled, as if he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing.

I take a step back, leaving the space open, my eyes never leaving him.

“Follow me.”