Chapter 2:Meeting Princess Diane.

RENNIE'S POV

The moment I stepped into the room, I was caught off guard by a hug.

A small pair of arms wrapped around me tightly.

“You must be the new nanny! Want to see my room? It’s super clean and really well arranged,” she said without taking a breath, pulling back with a bright smile.

Wait... this was the monster? The child who’d allegedly gotten twenty nannies fired in one week?

All I could think was: either this kid was an angel in disguise or she was luring me into a trap.

So, I immediately tried acting shrewd and said, “What do you think you’re doing? You think you can lure me into your trap? Guess what—I’m here to stay!”

She just laughed and said, “I like you. You’re really funny!” I couldn’t tell if she meant it, so I just played along and forced out a giggle.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“My name is Rennie. You can call me Renzy for short.”

Immediately, she became serious. “Aren’t you going to make me call you ‘Mom’ or ‘Aunt’ like the rest?”

At that point, I understood why nannies couldn’t stay long—because they either wanted to become the wife of the dreamy Mr. Shawn or force their way into the family through his daughter. Which was pretty messed up—grown women forcing themselves on a man who wouldn’t even think about them, even if his daughter begged him to.

I quickly pushed that thought aside. “No, I’m not interested in becoming your mom or auntie. Just call me Renzy. ‘Mom’ and ‘Aunt’ are for old women.”

She caught me off guard again and hugged me even tighter. I decided to distract her by asking a few questions.

“So, what’s your full name?”

She replied proudly, “Diane Wolfe, princess to the king—Mr. Daddy Shawn Wolfe.”

I nearly burst out laughing. This little girl was a whole character, and I knew she was going to be a handful.

“Okay, princess, what grade are you in?”

“I’m currently in grade three,” she said.

I teased, “You’re so slow, you’re still in grade three?”

She laughed. “I’m not slow, you’re fast! I’m just eight years old.”

All of a sudden, she said she was hungry. Feeding her was literally part of my job—not as the chef, but as her caretaker.

We went to the kitchen downstairs. I couldn’t see Mr. Shawn anywhere, so I assumed he must be at work.

I asked the chef if he could prepare a meal, and he immediately said yes. In less than five minutes, I saw grilled steaks, stir-fried vegetables, French soufflé, and chicken broth with about five kinds of protein. It was the kind of meal you’d expect at a five-star restaurant—not for a third grader.

The moment Diane saw the food, her face twisted in disgust. “I don’t like this food. Why does the chef always make boring stuff?”

That made me laugh, but I quickly remembered—it was my job to make sure she ate. No feeding meant no salary.

I begged her one more time, but she still refused. “What do you want to eat?”

All of a sudden, she ran upstairs to my room and came back holding the takeout I’d been saving for later. “It smells nice,” she said.

I was planning to give her some, but then I remembered—what if she had dietary restrictions? Most billionaire children always had those. They were either lactose intolerant, grease intolerant, or something else entirely.

“Diane, you can’t eat that. It’s too greasy. It’s a hamburger with double ham and extra oily fries.”

“No, no, no! I want it!” she insisted, her eyes threatening to spill tears. And I didn’t want a childcare disaster on my first day, so I gave her a bite.

Immediately, she became obsessed with it and shouted, “BEST! FOOD! EVER!”

Diane started running all around the sitting room with a half-eaten burger. I was trying to calm her down before anyone found out I’d given her something that was basically contraband in their home.

Before I could reach out to grab her, Mr. Shawn came in through the door, looking at both of us.