Lawfully Wedded Nanny (BWWM)

Sunlight spilled gently through the lace curtains of the Abbott estate’s breakfast nook, catching in golden pools on the polished wooden floor. The kitchen hummed with the clinks of pots and pans and the distant melody of a morning cartoon playing in the den. Monet stood by the stove, barefoot, stirring scrambled eggs with one hand while the other rested lightly on her hip. She moved with practiced ease as if the rhythm of this morning — every toast flip, every juice pour — was stitched into her muscle memory. Because it was. “Monet,” came the familiar soft voice. Monet turned. Meredith stood at the kitchen entrance, her oversized pajama shirt slipping off one shoulder, braids slightly fuzzy from sleep. The eight-year-old clutched her teddy against her chest. "Can I sit on the counter today? Just for a little bit?" Monet arched a brow but smiled. "Only if you promise not to swing your legs. I don’t want you kicking the juice again." Mere

Monet had spent her entire teenage to early adulthood yearning for just one thing—to be a mother. The mother she didn't have. For the past three years, she'd been a substitute. Been a mother in every sense but in name. She was a nanny. And not for once in these three years had she let herself ponder on the maternity of the children. Hannah was their mother. So why did it feel like she was deserting her children? She closed the washer, looking at her wristwatch and seeing she still had time to prepare a quick snack for the kids before they dropped home. A late afternoon sunlight pored through the open drapes, casting a soft honey glow over the polished floor; Monet walked barefeet as she did, relieving every memory she'd gotten in every room on the ground floor. She stopped by the den, It had been scrubbed clean by the day cleaner, who came to clean four times a week. It would take approximately 10 minutes for it to go back to

Monet Palmer had never missed Sunday Mass in her entire life—even after moving in with the Abbotts, she went with the children in towx. On rare Sundays, Richard would join them, quietly, solemnly, always sitting at the far end of the pew like someone visiting a museum, not a sanctuary. It had been ten years since she walked away from postulancy to pursue a life she wasn’t sure belo.gnged to her. Twenty-nine since she was abandoned—wrapped in a crocheted blanket and a note that only said "God knows her name"—on the stoop of Sisters of Saint Josephine Convent. Now, standing on that same stone stoop, the years folded in on themselves like parchment. She stared at the tall oak doors that had once been her entire world. A thousand memories fought for space in her chest—her first prayer, the sound of Sister Miriam's laughter echoing through the halls, the warmth of Mother Margaret's shawl wrapped around her shoulders during winter Mass. But beneath those memories churned

“So this is the final guest list from the bridal party, right?” Vivian Benson raised her finely plucked brows at her soon-to-be daughter-in-law, quietly judging her. They sat on opposite ends of a damask-upholstered settee in the Benson’s drawing room, the kind of room that whispered money and restraint in equal measure. Monet Palmer was beautiful—exotic, even—with her brown skin, hooded eyes, and full, plump lips. There was something almost ethereal about her, like she didn’t belong in such a rigid, gilded space.But she had no roots. Vivian might have tolerated Kyle marrying outside their elite circle—maybe even to some middle-class girl with a name and a story. But this one? This girl didn’t come from anywhere.It wasn’t supposed to matter.But bloodline did. A flicker of sunlight filtered through the heavy silk drapes lining the tall windows, casting gold-edged shadows onto the marble floor. Vivian’s expression didn’t shift. She couldn’t make

Richard stood by the tall window in his study, a mug of now-cold coffee forgotten in his hand. Outside, the gravel driveway shimmered under the late afternoon sun, heat waves rising in lazy ripples across the stone. He hadn’t expected to see her again. Not this soon. He and the children were starting to being used to not seeing her—lies! She stepped out of the cab like a ghost returning to a life that hadn’t waited for her. Her shoulders drawn, her face unreadable, a small overnight bag in one hand and a shopping bag in one hand. And then—before he could even process it—Meredith shrieked. “Monny!” Carter barreled out behind her, arms stretched like wings, curls bouncing as he launched himself down the walkway with the speed only toddlers had. Richard watched, frozen, as both children collided with her. She dropped the bag instinctively and caught them with practiced ease, laughter bubbling from her throat—soft a