The Don’s Mysterious Nanny

The sound of shattering glass cut through the morning air like a blade through silk.

I froze in the middle of the daycare's main room, my hand still wrapped around little Emma's tiny fingers as she looked up at me with those wide, trusting brown eyes. The crash had come from the kitchen, followed by Marcus's voice low, dangerous, and speaking in words I couldn't make out from here.

"Miss Vanessa?" Emma tugged on my sleeve, her bottom lip trembling. "What was that scary noise?"

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced my voice to stay steady. Sweet. The way it always was with the children. "Just someone being clumsy in the kitchen, sweetheart. Why don't you go play with the blocks while I check on things?"

She nodded and skipped away, her pigtails bouncing. Innocent. Untouched by the darkness that seemed to follow me wherever I went these days.

I made my way toward the kitchen on unsteady legs, my sensible flats silent against the polished floor. Through the crack in the door, I could see Marcus standing with his back to me, his expensive suit perfectly pressed despite the early hour. He was talking to someone a man I didn't recognize with graying hair and cold eyes that made my skin crawl.

"…needs to be handled quietly," the stranger was saying, his voice like gravel. "No loose ends."

Marcus nodded, running a hand through his dark hair. The same hair I'd run my fingers through just hours ago as we lay in bed, he whispering sweet promises about our future together.

"She doesn't know anything," Marcus said, and my blood turned to ice. He was talking about me. Had to be. "Vanessa's... innocent. Naive. She thinks I work late because banking is demanding."

The stranger laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. "Innocent women have a way of seeing too much, asking too many questions. Your girlfriend could become a problem."

Girlfriend. The word should have made me smile—Marcus rarely called me that to others, preferring to keep our relationship private. But now it felt like a death sentence hanging in the air between them.

I pressed closer to the door, my pulse roaring in my ears. What didn't I know? What had I supposedly seen?

"Vanessa won't be a problem," Marcus said, his voice dropping to that tone he used when he was being absolutely serious. "I'll make sure of it."

The world tilted sideways. Make sure of it? What did that mean?

"You better," the stranger replied. "Because if she becomes one, we both know what needs to happen."

My hand flew to my mouth to stifle the gasp that wanted to escape. Behind me, I could hear the children playing, their laughter a stark contrast to the fear clawing at my throat. These innocent babies who trusted me to keep them safe and here I was, bringing danger right to their doorstep.

I had to get out of here. Had to think.

But as I turned to slip away, my elbow caught the edge of a picture frame hanging on the wall. It crashed to the floor with a sound that might as well have been a gunshot.

The conversation in the kitchen stopped abruptly.

"What was that?" the stranger's voice cut through the silence.

Footsteps. Coming toward the door.

I ran.

Not caring how it looked, not caring about explanations I'd have to give later. I just ran through the daycare, past the confused faces of my coworkers, past the children who called my name in bewilderment.

"Vanessa!" Marcus's voice boomed behind me, closer than I'd expected. "Vanessa, wait!"

But I was already pushing through the front doors, the cool morning air hitting my face like a slap. My hands shook as I fumbled for my car keys, dropping them twice before finally getting the door open.

As I peeled out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of Marcus in my rearview mirror. He stood in the doorway of the daycare, his face a mask of something I'd never seen before.

Something that looked dangerously like calculation.

---

I drove aimlessly for an hour, my mind spinning in circles like a broken record. Banking. Marcus worked in banking. Loans and interest rates and perfectly boring financial documents. He left early, came home late, and sometimes took calls that made him step outside or into another room.

Normal boyfriend behavior, I'd told myself. Everyone deserved privacy.

But now...

Now I was remembering things differently. The way he sometimes got text messages that made his jaw clench. The expensive watch that appeared on his wrist last month a "bonus," he'd said, but his bank wasn't exactly known for generous bonuses. The way he'd been asking subtle questions about my work schedule, about which days I stayed late at the daycare.

Had he been planning something? And if so, what?

My phone buzzed against the passenger seat. Marcus's name flashed across the screen, followed by a text that made my stomach drop:

*We need to talk. I can explain everything. Please come home.*

Home. The apartment we shared, where I kept my clothes in his closet and my coffee mug next to his in the cabinet. Where I'd felt safe and loved and completely, utterly naive.

Another text: *I love you, Vanessa. More than you know.*

The words that should have comforted me only made the fear worse. Because now they sounded less like a declaration and more like a goodbye.

I turned my phone face down and kept driving, not sure where I was going but certain I couldn't go back. Not yet. Not until I figured out what kind of man I'd been sharing my bed with.

What kind of man had I fallen in love with?

And what he meant when he said he'd "make sure" I wouldn't be a problem.