LOGINShe was just the nanny. Quiet, kind-hearted, and desperately in love with the children she cared for. He was a grieving widower with too many secrets and a heart locked in silence. And when her world fell apart, his offer came with one condition—marriage. After walking away from her first love and discovering a truth that shattered her dreams of motherhood, Monet Palmer finds herself caught between a life she planned and the one she never expected. The Abbott house was only supposed to be a job—but somewhere between bedtime stories and tear-stained lullabies, it became home. Now, with a wedding she’s not sure she wants, and a man she’s afraid to love, Monet is forced to confront the one question that haunts her: What happens when the heart chooses a family… but not the groom? In this emotional slow-burn romance, secrets, healing, and unexpected affection collide. Because sometimes, the most powerful kind of love… is the one you never saw coming.
View MoreRichard didn’t remember turning onto his street. He didn’t even remember slowing the car.He only realized he’d come home when the headlights washed over the columns of the Abbott house—their house now, technically, though the thought made something inside him twist.The porch light was on.!Warm. Soft. Waiting. His breath caught.Monet always turned it on for him. Even on the nights he didn’t come home until late. Even before he ever knew she cared.He sat in the parked car, the engine ticking, his hands limp on the steering wheel.He hadn’t meant to leave. He hadn’t meant to run away from their home..But the truth was uglier than the excuses he’d been rehearsing in his head; he had seen the look she'd given Hannah’s things, and something inside him had cracked open with a sound he couldn’t bear anyone to hear.Not even her. Especially not her.He dragged his palms down his face and exhaled shakily. The porch light stayed steady. Soft. Beckoning.Like a hand reaching for him.He step
Richard didn’t even remember grabbing his keys. One moment he was staring at the stairs Monet had disappeared up, the flowers still in the vase by the counter. Next, he was outside, the cool air hitting him like a reprimand. He wasn’t running from her. Not from Monet. He was running from himself. The engine purred to life, but he didn’t pick a destination. He drove—past the bakery Meredith loved, past the school, past the park that was very close to the cemetery where Hannah was buried. He kept driving until the familiar roads blurred into backstreets he hadn’t visited in years. His phone buzzed once. Then again. He ignored it. He just needed to think. Or stop thinking. He wasn’t sure which. --- Back at the Abbott House Florence didn’t knock. She never had to. The housekeeper let her in with a knowing smile and a murmured, “They’re upstairs, ma’am.” Florence Abbott—elegant, sharp-eyed, wrapped in a soft lavender shawl—moved through the foyer with the accuracy of a
The door closed behind Juliet with a soft thud, and the rumble of the moving truck started again. Dust motes shifted in the strip of sunlight across the foyer floor. Richard stood there with the shoebox in his hands. Monet didn’t move. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t step closer. She simply folded into herself—shoulders curving slightly inward, hands twisting together, eyes lowered to the floor instead of his face. Not angry. Not dramatic. Just quiet. A quiet so soft and deep that it scraped something raw inside him. Richard’s throat tightened. He set the shoebox down carefully, almost reverently, and turned toward her. “Monet…” She didn’t flinch. She didn’t wipe her eyes. She just blinked once and gave him the faintest, polite nod like she was bracing for another blow that hadn’t yet fallen. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “You should do what you need to do.” That sentence landed like a stone. Richard felt it. He felt every ounce of resignation in it—every quiet retr
Monet heard the footsteps before she saw him.Heavy. Slow. Not physically strained—just weighted.Richard appeared at the top of the stairs with four boxes stacked in his arms, another three hovering behind him in a precarious tower Juliet was pushing gently down each step.Monet’s breath caught.The foyer looked… wrong.Too full. Too raw.Like the house was bleeding out pieces of someone who’d once filled it.Richard dropped the first stack at the foot of the stairs, the thud echoing far louder than it should have.He didn’t look at Monet.Not once.His jaw was clenched—not with anger, but with a bracing, controlled kind of grief that made his shoulders look too tight for his frame.Juliet reached the bottom carefully, setting her boxes beside his. She didn’t touch them. She didn’t open them. She just stood still for a moment, hand on the top flap, breathing like she was keeping herself from breaking in front of strangers.Monet stayed near the kitchen doorway, fingers twisted in the


















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