CHAPTER 2

FREYA BROOKS POV

Forty-two dollars doesn’t get you a hotel room in this city. It barely gets you a decent meal and a ride across town.

Two weeks after my life imploded, I was living in a cramped, windowless studio apartment that smelled faintly of old cabbage and damp carpet. The storage unit held my clothes, but my dignity was still MIA. Brooks & Associates had officially erased me from their website, replacing my name with Sienna’s under the title Head of Creative Design. It made me sick to my stomach every time I thought about it.

I needed money, and I needed it yesterday. Applying to rival architectural firms was a dead end because Tristan had done a spectacular job of blacklisting me, painting me as an unstable ex-employee who tried to sabotage their biggest contract.

So, I did what any desperate, overqualified professional would do: I applied at Elite Nannies & Tutors, a high-end agency that catered to the filthy rich. My mother had been an educator, and I had a minor in child psychology. At this point, keeping a rich kid alive seemed a lot less stressful than dealing with corporate sharks.

"The client is extremely particular, Miss Brooks," the agency director, Mrs. Gable, had warned me this morning. "The pay is triple our standard rate, but there is a high turnover. No one lasts more than a week."

"I can handle particular," I told her, squeezing my hands together under the table to hide their shaking.

That was how I found myself standing in front of the iron gates of the Cross Estate.

My heart did a violent tap-dance against my ribs. Cross. As in Killian Cross. The enigmatic, terrifying billionaire who ran Cross Industries—the very man Tristan and Sienna were desperate to impress with my stolen blueprints. Talk about a twisted coincidence.

The butler, a stern man named Arthur, led me through a foyer that looked like a modern art museum. Towering glass walls, minimalist concrete, and a sweeping marble staircase that probably cost more than my entire childhood home. It was beautiful, but it felt cold. Like no one actually lived here.

"Mr. Cross is finishing a call in his study," Arthur said, his tone perfectly even. "I will introduce you to young Master Noah first. Good luck."

He emphasized the good luck in a way that made my spine tingle.

We walked down a long hallway toward a bright, sunlit playroom at the back of the house. The door was slightly ajar, and the first thing I heard wasn't crying or screaming. It was a dull, rhythmic thud, thud, thud. 

I peeked inside.

Sitting in the center of a massive plush rug was a little boy. He couldn’t have been more than four years old. He had a mop of messy dark hair and big, soulful brown eyes that looked far too heavy for his tiny face. He was staring blankly at a wall, rhythmically throwing a red wooden block against it, catching it, and throwing it again.

"Noah," Arthur said softly.

The boy didn't even flinch. He didn't turn around. It was like we didn't exist.

"He hasn't spoken a single word in two years," Arthur whispered to me, his voice dropping to a somber tone. "Not since his mother passed away. Selective mutism, the doctors call it. He handles frustration by withdrawing... or throwing tantrums that would rival a hurricane. The last nanny quit yesterday after he threw a vase at her."

I looked at the little boy. He looked so incredibly lonely in this massive, expensive room. I didn't see a bratty kid; I saw a tiny person trying to carry a grief that was too big for his body. I knew exactly what it felt like to have your world shatter and feel completely helpless to fix it.

"Leave us for a bit, Arthur," I said quietly.

Once the butler left, closing the door behind him, I didn't approach Noah right away. I didn't do that overly bright, fake-cheerful voice adults usually use with kids. I just walked over to the opposite side of the room, sat cross-legged on the floor, and opened my oversized tote bag.

I pulled out a thick pad of heavy-grade drafting paper and a tin of professional sketching pencils—the only things I refused to leave in the storage unit.

I started to draw.

The room fell into a quiet rhythm. Thud, thud, thud went Noah’s block. Scratch, scratch, scratch went my pencil. I didn't look at him, but I could feel his rhythmic throwing slowing down.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

The throwing stopped completely.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Noah turn his head. He looked at me, then at the massive pad of paper in my lap. I kept sketching, my hand flying across the page as I outlined a massive, whimsical treehouse with spiral staircases and a slide that dipped into a glowing pond. It was the kind of architecture that didn't care about budgets or reality.

Slowly—so slowly it felt like watching a turtle cross a road—Noah crawled over. He stopped about two feet away, hovering, his eyes wide as he stared at the drawing.

"It needs a flag, doesn't it?" I asked, keeping my voice low and conversational, as if we had been talking for hours. "Maybe a pirate flag. Or a spaceship launcher."

Noah blinked. He looked at the tin of pencils, then up at me.

I picked up a deep blue colored pencil and held it out to him, eraser-end first. "You want to add the spaceship?"

He hesitated, his little hand trembling slightly. He looked toward the door, then back at the paper. Finally, his tiny fingers closed around the pencil. He didn't draw a spaceship. Instead, he carefully pressed the blue pencil to the top of the treehouse and drew a tiny, shaky circle.

"A blue sun," I smiled, looking up at him. "I like that much better."

Noah’s lips twitched, just a tiny bit, the ghost of a smile threatening to break through his serious expression. He sat down right next to my knee, his small shoulder brushing against mine, totally absorbed in the paper.

A sharp, heavy footstep echoed from the doorway, breaking the magic.

"What is going on here?"

The voice was like a low-frequency rumble, commanding and entirely devoid of warmth. Noah instantly stiffened, dropping the pencil and pulling his knees up to his chest, retreating back into his shell.

I stood up, brushing off my jeans, and turned around to face the man who had just entered.

Killian Cross was even more intimidating in person than he was on the business magazine covers. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a flawless, charcoal-grey three-piece suit that practically screamed old money and absolute authority. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes—a striking, icy grey—bored into me with intense scrutiny.

"Mr. Cross," I said, holding my ground despite the sudden urge to run out the door. "I'm Freya Brooks. The new nanny."

Killian didn't look at my resume, which was resting on a table nearby. He looked down at Noah, who was now hiding behind my leg, his tiny fingers tightly gripping the denim of my jeans.

Killian’s eyebrows shot up. It was a subtle movement, but the surprise in his eyes was unmistakable. His son didn't let anyone touch him, let alone hide behind a stranger.

"He's usually screaming by now," Killian remarked, his voice dropping a fraction as he looked at me, his gaze lingering on my face for a second too long. "What did you do to him?"

"We were just working on a blueprint," I replied, gesturing to the paper on the floor.

Killian walked over, his expensive leather shoes silent on the rug. He looked down at the drawing of the treehouse and the shaky blue sun. When he looked back up at me, the coldness in his eyes had turned into something sharp, calculating, and dangerously intelligent.

"You're hired," Killian said flatly. "Arthur will show you to your quarters. Move your things in by tonight."