Chapter 5: Veronica's POV

I stared at the phone in my hand, the screen still glowing with Leonard's number. 

Ten grand a month. 

It echoed in my head like some bad joke from a movie I wouldn't even audition for anymore. 

My thumb hovered over the call button, but my feet wouldn't stay still. I started pacing the tiny living room of my apartment, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. 

The floorboards creaked under me, same as always, like they were tired of holding up my mess.

What was I even doing? 

Yesterday, I'd puked on the guy's tuxedo. 

Today, he was offering me a lifeline. Or a leash. I could already picture it, Mason's smug face if he found out. 

"See? Told you you're desperate." 

And Hattie? She'd probably frame it and hang it in her dressing room: Exhibit A, Stepsis the Failure.

I stopped by the window, peering out at the alley below. A stray cat knocked over a trash can, scattering wrappers like confetti for nobody. 

My reflection stared back from the glass, dark circles under my eyes, hair a tangled mess from the bar crawl I barely remembered. I looked like I'd lost a fight with life. Which, yeah, pretty much nailed it.

The money. God, the money. Rent was due in a week, and my landlord had already sent that slimy email about "upgrading tenants." 

Translation: Kick out the broke ones. I'd been here before. Too many times.

Flashback hit me like a slap. Two years ago, right after Dad's funeral. Stepmom's voice, all sugar and steel: "Darling, the house is just too full now. With Hattie's career taking off, we need the space." 

I'd begged. On my knees in the foyer, clutching my duffel bag like it was a shield. "Please, this is my home too." 

Her laugh, cold, like ice cracking. "Home? Sweetie, you were always the guest. Pack light." 

Hattie watched from the stairs, smirking, her nails tapping the banister. "Don't worry, V. You'll land on your feet soon enough. Or a couch. Whatever."

I'd ended up here. 

This shoebox with the leaky faucet and the neighbor who blasted K-pop at 3 a.m. I'd clawed my way through waitressing shifts, audition cattle calls, anything to keep the lights on. 

And for what? 

To get spit-roasted by my boyfriend and stepsister in one afternoon?

No. Not again. I couldn't let them win. Not by crashing on Mia's couch or busking scripts on street corners. 

Ten grand meant a buffer. 

A real shot at lawyers for the inheritance fight. 

Maybe even a decent headshot session. 

Hell, maybe I'd eat something that didn't come from a vending machine.

But Leonard Armani? That man was a walking storm cloud. Tall, sharp edges, eyes that saw too much. The way he'd caught me last night, arm like iron around my waist... No. Stop. 

He was my potential boss, and also Angel's dad. 

Off-limits in every zip code.

My phone buzzed in my hand. I jumped, nearly dropping it. It was an unknown number. Heart slamming, I answered before I could chicken out.

"Veronica Hales."

His voice. Deep, even, like gravel wrapped in silk. "Leonard Armani. I wasn't sure you'd call."

I swallowed hard, leaning against the wall for support. The paint flaked under my palm, another eviction waiting to happen. 

"Yeah, well. About that offer. The nanny thing." I gave a slight pause. I could picture him: Suited up in some massive office, city skyline behind him, not a hair out of place. 

"You've had time to think?"

Think? More like spiral. "Look, Mr. Armani—"

"Leonard," he cut in, soft but firm. Like he was correcting a kid. Or testing me.

I bit my lip. "Leonard. This isn't... I mean, I'm not a nanny. I'm an actress. Or I was trying to be. This job? It's a means to an end. Save up, get back on my feet. But I need ground rules. Boundaries."

Another beat of silence. Then, "Go on."

My voice came out shakier than I wanted. Damn nerves. "No overtime without notice. I have auditions, real ones, and I can't drop everything if some director calls. And no family drama. Whatever's going on with your cousin or... anyone. I don't want to get sucked into that mess. I'm there for Angel. That's it."

He chuckled. Low, almost surprised. It sent a weird flutter through my stomach. "Family drama. Mason mentioned you're.. familiar with that."

Mason. Of course he'd poisoned the well already. "He mentions a lot of things that aren't quite true. But yeah. I know drama. And I'm done with it."

"Fair enough." 

No argument. No pushback. Just that cool acceptance, like he'd expected the fight. "No overtime. I'll clear your schedule for auditions, send me the dates. As for family... Mason's not an issue. And Angel? She's the priority. Always."

I exhaled, slow. It felt too easy. "The pay. Ten grand. That's... a lot. Why me? You don't even know me."

"I know enough. You saved her life yesterday. Without hesitation. And she lit up like I've never seen. That's worth more than references."

Angel. 

The kid's face flashed in my mind, those big eyes, the way she'd clutched my hand like I was her anchor. Mute, yeah, but her silence screamed trust. "Okay. But on a trial basis, right? A month. If it doesn't work—"

"A month," he echoed. "You'll have a contract by noon. Elias will handle onboarding tomorrow. Eight a.m. sharp."

Tomorrow. Already? My apartment spun a little. "Wait, that's—"

"See you tomorrow, Veronica."

The line clicked dead. I stood there, phone hot against my ear, his voice echoing. See you tomorrow. It hung there, not quite a command, not quite a question. 

More like... a promise? 

No. 

Ridiculous. 

He was just being polite. 

Efficient. 

Billionaire boss mode.

I sank onto the bed, more like a futon that sagged in the middle, and let my head fall into my hands. What had I just done? Sold my soul for a paycheck? Or grabbed the rope before I drowned?

The buzz again. This time, a text. Hattie's number. My stomach twisted before I even opened it.

‘Heard you snagged a gig wiping noses for some rich stuff. Nanny? LOL. How the mighty have fallen. Enjoy the diapers, Cinderella. Your carriage is officially a pumpkin. 💅’

I stared at the words, heat rising in my cheeks. Mighty? Fallen? She'd stolen my role, my guy, my dignity, and now this? Mocking the one good thing I'd clawed out of the wreckage?

My fingers flew before I could stop them.

‘Better than sleeping my way to scraps. At least my "gig" comes with actual pay, not just IOUs from directors. Enjoy your spotlight while it lasts, Hattie. Pumpkins rot too.

Then I hit send, and tossed the phone like it burned. Regret hit half a second later, but screw it. She started it. Always did.

The screen lit up again. Not Hattie. Mia.

Girl, you alive? That bar story sounds fake. Call me. NOW.

I laughed, a real one this time. Mia. My one constant since drama school. The barista who'd slipped me free lattes during all-nighters and talked me off ledges after bad callbacks. I hit the call button, collapsing back on the futon.

She picked up on the first ring. "V! Spill. You sound like death warmed over."

"Worse," I groaned. "Betrayed, broke, and... employed?"

"Employed? Wait, what? Last I heard, you were dodging Mason's creepy texts and drowning in cheap tequila."

I filled her in, the set slap, the bed horror show, the street save, waking up in Stranger Danger's mansion. 

Leonard's offer. 

The ten grand. 

Her gasps and curses filled the pauses like punctuation.

"Holy shit, V. A billionaire? With a kid? That's straight out of one of your scripts."

"Not my script," I muttered. "More like a nightmare with a paycheck."

She snorted. "Nightmare? Honey, that's a rom-com waiting to happen. Brooding dad, broken actress, adorable mute sidekick. Cue the montages."

"Mia. Boundaries. I set them. No drama, no overtime. In and out. Save the cash, fight for Dad's house, get an agent who doesn't hate me."

"Uh-huh. And the hot dad? Those boundaries include 'no eye-fucking in the kitchen'?"

I groaned louder. "There will be no eye-fucking. He's... intense. Like, the arctic intense. And fifteen years older. And my boss."

"Details," She drawled out in a mock singing. "Send pics. For research."

"Mia!"

"Fine, fine. But seriously, I'm so proud of you. This is you fighting back. Hattie's text? Block her ass. She's scared. You rising? That's her kryptonite."

Scared. Yeah, right. But Mia's voice had that edge, the one that always yanked me out of spirals. "Thanks. I needed that."

"Anytime. Now go pack. Or nap. Or both. Tomorrow's day one of Veronica 2.0."

We hung up, and the apartment felt... quieter. Less like a cage. I stood, slower this time, and grabbed a box from the closet. 

Soon, I started folding clothes, jeans, tees, that one nice blouse from better days. Each fold felt like a decision, and each stack a step away from the edge.

Hattie's text burned in my pocket, but Mia's words drowned it out. Fighting back. Yeah. For Angel. For me. For the girl who'd believed in spotlights once.

By dusk, the box was half-full. I glanced at the clock, 7 p.m. Too early for bed, too late for regrets. My phone sat silent. No more buzzes. 

Good.

I flopped back with a quiet sigh, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Tomorrow. Leonard's voice wrapped around the word again. See you tomorrow.

What had I gotten into?

The text came at 8:47 p.m. Not Hattie this time. Elias, the butler from the mansion. Contract attached. Review and sign digitally. Welcome aboard, Miss Hales. I'm looking forward to having you around, and I'm sure everyone else feels that way too.

I opened the file. It was completely clean, and very straightforward. No hidden clauses I could spot. Pay direct-deposited on the 1st. Room and board included. Benefits, health, even a small 401k match. 

It read like a dream. 

A practical one.

Signed. Sent.

Now it was real.

I curled up under the thin blanket, the city's hum filtering through the walls. Sleep tugged, but my mind raced. Angel's smile. Leonard's grip last night, steady, warm. Mason's sneer. Hattie's laugh.

Tomorrow.

For once, it didn't sound like the end. 

More like... a start.