BABYSITTING MY BULLY

New Accessory

POV DARCIE

The Sterling gate wasn’t just a gate; it was a physical punch to the gut. Black wrought iron, taller than two men, closing behind me like a trap. Like the final nail in the coffin of my old life. My dad had promised we’d work things out. He’d promised the house, my school, everything would be fine. Dad lied.

My backpack felt heavier than usual, not just with books but with the weight of every broken promise. I dug my nails into my palms, trying to focus on the biting chill of the Aurelia evening instead of the tremor in my hands. New mission: survive the Sterlings. New reality: I was their charity case, Charles Sterling’s personal babysitter. His babysitter. The thought made bile rise in my throat.

The path to the front door was paved with imported stone, flanked by perfect hedges that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. My sneakers scuffed against the pristine surface, leaving tiny, defiant marks. The house itself wasn't a house; it was a fortress of glass and steel, glinting under the setting sun like a monstrous diamond. It screamed "we own everything," and apparently, that now included me.

I knocked. A sharp, almost aggressive rap. No answer. I waited, the silence pressing in on me, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic – a sound I suddenly missed with an ache in my chest. I knocked again, harder. Still nothing. Great. First day, and I was already stranded on the doorstep, feeling every ounce of my forced humility.

Just as I was about to consider finding a hidden service entrance – because of course there'd be one – the door swung open. Not by Mrs. Sterling, the ice queen with blonde hair that defied gravity, but by him.

Charles Sterling.

He was leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips that was sharper than any knife. His hair, golden and perfectly messy, fell over eyes the color of a stormy sea. He was wearing a dark blue varsity jacket with a gleaming 'S' on the chest, a white t-shirt stretched over a chest that looked like it could stop a truck, and ripped jeans. He looked like every single billboard model, every popular movie star, every reason why I hated St. Jude’s Academy. And now, he looked like my personal warden.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice a low rumble that always made the girls at school go weak at the knees. For me, it just made my hackles rise. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, look what my dad bought. Right on time, Miller. Almost thought you’d try to make a run for it."

My backpack slid a little, threatening to fall, but I clutched it tighter. "Unlike some people, Charles, I actually respect my obligations." My voice came out steadier than I expected, a small victory.

He pushed off the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, blocking my path. His eyes raked over me, from my worn-out jeans to my faded hoodie. I felt naked under his gaze, even though I was fully clothed. He always had a way of making me feel like the dirt under his expensive sneakers.

"Obligations, huh?" He chuckled, a humorless sound. "Or desperation? Don't pretend this is about respect, Darcie. This is about staying out of the Valley. About keeping a roof over that pretty little head of yours."

My cheeks flushed. He hit too close to home. But I wouldn’t let him see it. "And this is about you not flunking out of senior year, Sterling. So, unless you want to lose your precious football scholarship, I suggest you let me in so I can start earning my keep."

His smirk faltered for a second, replaced by a flash of something I couldn't quite decipher – annoyance? Surprise? It was gone before I could name it. He stepped aside, a dramatic sweep of his arm.

"Be my guest, peasant. Just don't track mud on the marble. My mother has an allergic reaction to anything less than spotless."

I walked past him, my shoulder brushing his. The contact sent a jolt through me, a strange mix of revulsion and something else I immediately tried to suppress. The house was even bigger on the inside. A grand staircase swept upwards, chandeliers sparkled like captured stars, and silence—a heavy, expensive silence—pervaded everything. It was the kind of silence that whispered secrets, the kind that made you feel small and insignificant.

"Don't get used to this," Charles said from behind me, his voice cutting through the quiet. "You're not a guest, Miller. You're an accessory. My father's latest attempt to control me. And believe me, I'm going to make you regret signing that paper."

I turned, meeting his stormy gaze. My heart was pounding, but I forced myself to stand tall. "We'll see who regrets what, Charles. I'm not afraid of you."

He took a step closer, invading my personal space. His eyes bored into mine, searching for a crack, a sign of weakness. "Oh, you will be," he whispered, his voice dangerously low. "Trust me. By the time this year is over, you'll be begging to go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."

I didn't flinch. "Bring it on, Sterling. I'm a survivor. You're just a spoiled rich kid playing king in his castle."

And with that, I pushed past him, determined to find my own damn way in this gilded cage. This was going to be a long, brutal year. But if Charles Sterling thought he could break me, he had another thing coming. I had faced worse than a pretty boy with a nasty streak. I just hadn’t faced him living under the same roof. Yet.