Chapter 10

Mason

By the end of the week, my body was falling apart.

Two of my fingers were bandaged from knife cuts just on my second day on duty. By the time I cut myself for the third time that week, I gave up on bandaging them and focused on surviving the week instead. My back ached every time I had to bend down, and the kids weren't making it any easier, either.

"Dad, the eggs taste like salt," Mara had complained on Thursday, pushing her plate away.

"Mom doesn't burn the bottom of the toast," Ethan had chimed in, staring blankly at the dark crusts.

It didn't help that I had to wake up two hours earlier every day to clean up before the kids opened their eyes.

I couldn't even sleep in on my days off because I had to make up for time lost on days I was busy with them. I hadn't smiled in a week. My temples throbbed continuously, and I was barely functioning on cold coffee and four hours of broken sleep.

Then I finally had enough.

On a nice Tuesday afternoon, sitting in a private dining room with the managing director of Merc Global, Mr. Hill, I was only minutes away from closing a multi-million-dollar deal.

"If we lock in the Euro-Zone routing by Q3, Mr. Blake—"

My phone vibrated against the tablecloth. I glanced down.

St. Jude's Elementary.

I hit decline and flipped the phone face-down. "Apologies, Mr. Hill. Continue."

"Right. As I was saying, the quarter—"

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I rejected it again. "My assistant is handling incoming calls today. Please, go on."

Three seconds passed before the phone screen lit up again, buzzing loudly like a swarm of hornets. Hill paused, his eyes narrowing as his expression hardened.

"Is there an emergency, Mr. Blake?" Hill asked, his tone dripping with impatience. "Because if your mind is elsewhere, we don't need to waste each other's afternoon."

"It's nothing," I gritted out, snatching the phone off the table and pressing it to my ear. "What is so urgent?"

"Mr. Blake?" Miss Harris's panicked voice cut through the receiver, loud enough to bleed into the quiet room. "You need to come to the school immediately. It's the parent-teacher conference."

"I am in the middle of a high-level client meeting!" I hissed, keeping my voice low. "Call Catherine!"

"Mrs. Blake informed us yesterday that you'll be in charge today," Miss Harris replied firmly. "Ethan is crying in the hallway because every other parent is here, and he says you promised. We cannot hold the slot past 2:00 PM."

I froze.

Today?

I looked up. Hill was already standing, buttoning his suit jacket with deliberate, icy precision.

"Mr. Hill, wait—"

"I don't do business with men who can't manage their own schedules, Blake," Hill said coldly, grabbing his briefcase. "Let's not waste any more time."

He walked out, the door closing with a soft, final click.

I didn't close the deal. I got humiliated over a fifteen-minute school assembly.

That evening, standing in the middle of the living room, I reached my absolute limit.

"No more," I growled into the air. "Fuck this."

If Catherine thought she could trap me with a domestic roster, she had forgotten who she was dealing with. I had capital. Unlimited capital.

By Thursday morning, I had an army ready at my beck and call. A deep-cleaning team arrived at 6:00 AM on my assigned days, scrubbing every inch of my private areas. A private chef from a five-star catering agency took over meal preps, setting gourmet dishes on the dining table. A high-end tutoring firm sent two Ivy League grads for homework sessions, and a premium agency provided two full-time nannies to handle the kids' bath times and bedtime routines.

When Catherine walked down the stairs on Friday morning, she found me sitting comfortably on the sofa, sipping fresh espresso while two uniform-clad women neatly packed the kids' lunchboxes in the kitchen.

I raised my cup to her, letting a smug, slow smirk spread across my face.

"Morning, Catherine," I said smoothly. "Quiet in the house today, isn't it?"

Catherine paused on the bottom step, her eyes sweeping over the bustling kitchen staff and the nanny lacing Mara's shoes on the rug. Then she looked at me, a faint, unreadable curve touching her lips.

"Enjoy your shift, Mason," she said quietly, stepping past me toward the front door.

"Oh, I am," I called after her, leaning back against the plush cushions. "It's amazing what proper management can accomplish when you actually know how to delegate."

She didn't answer. The front door clicked shut.

I'd finally won.

But my peace didn't even last a day. At 8:00 PM that night, the illusion shattered into a thousand pieces.

"I don't want it!" Mara screamed, shoving a gold-rimmed bowl of truffle-infused wild mushroom risotto off the table. The porcelain shattered against the hardwood floor. "It has green things! Mom makes the yellow noodles!"

The private chef stood by the island, looking completely bewildered. "Sir, it's a French classic—"

"Just make some plain pasta!" I snapped, rubbing my throbbing forehead.

Before the chef could even turn on the burner, the head nanny rushed down, looking harassed and disheveled.

"Mr. Blake, we have a problem upstairs," she said breathlessly. "Ethan refuses to lie down. He keeps screaming about a story regarding a blue dragon, and he says I'm not doing the voice right."

"Then read the book!" I yelled.

"I read it three times, sir!" she cried out over the sound of Ethan's muffled wailing echoing down the stairs. "He says you're supposed to do the dragon sound or he won't close his eyes!"

I marched upstairs, my heart hammering against my ribs, only to find the second nanny running around the master hallway, turning couch cushions inside out.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"Mara is thrashing on the bed, sir," the second nanny said, her voice shaking. "She refuses to go to sleep without a stuffed rabbit. She says it has red stitches on the ear."

"It's just a toy! Pick another one from the chest!"

"She threw the stuffed bear at my head, Mr. Blake!"

"Daddy!" Mara's shrill, tearful scream bounced off the walls of the bedroom. "I want Mr. Hoppy! The one Mom fixed! Where is Mr. Hoppy?!"

Downstairs, the kitchen alarm started blaring as the chef burned the backup pasta.

Early the next day, my phone rang on the nightstand—a text from the first nanny submitting her immediate resignation.

Two nannies quit in twenty-four hours.

By midnight the following day, the house was quiet again, and I was sitting on the floor of the twins' bedroom, holding a lukewarm glass of water in one hand and Mara's hand in the other.

Mara was snoring softly, finally asleep after two hours of screaming because she finally had Mom's "creamy pasta." Ethan was curled on my left side, his thumb jammed into his mouth, his little body rising and falling against my ribs.

I stared at my hands, sticky with spilled juice, and my shoulder, completely numb from Ethan leaning his full weight against me.

I finally realised, for the first time, that all the billions in my bank account couldn't buy a single second of what Catherine had been doing every day for free.