The Mafia Boss Nanny

Tymm Arces Narciso stood in front of the mirror, still as a statue, her wedding dress clinging to her body like a truth she couldn’t escape. The intricate lace sleeves, the pearl-studded bodice, the flowing train—everything about the gown screamed perfection. The kind of gown little girls dream about wearing someday.

But it didn’t feel like a dream.

It felt like a goodbye.

The soft hum of classical music echoed from the chapel doors downstairs, and the air inside her suite was laced with perfume and tension. Her makeup was flawless, her hair pinned into an elegant updo, and the veil—now draped gently over her face—only blurred the vision of the life she had once hoped for.

“Ten minutes, Ma’am Tymm,” the wedding coordinator whispered from the door.

Tymm didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her throat had gone dry the moment she slipped into the dress. Her body was here, inside the Salvador estate’s grand bridal suite, but her heart was stuck somewhere between rebellion and resignation.

This wasn’t her wedding.

Not really.

Not the way she imagined it since she was thirteen, scribbling future husband traits in the back pages of her diary. Not the way she used to smile at couples on TV shows, believing she, too, would find someone who would kneel with a ring and a promise of forever.

This—this union—was a transaction. A rescue plan wrapped in lace and legal paperwork.

Her eyes drifted to the photo on the vanity. Her family—taken just a year ago at her cousin’s birthday. Her father still smiling. Her mother still wearing her wedding ring. Her siblings still unaware of the tidal wave about to hit them.

That was before everything fell apart.

The embezzlement scandal. The lawsuits. The media storm. The betrayal from people they once trusted. It all happened so fast, the Narciso name collapsing under the weight of corporate deceit and public shame. Her father’s reputation shredded, her mother trying to hold the family together with trembling hands, and her younger siblings forced to leave school.

They were drowning. And no one was coming to save them.

No one… except for one name: Salvador.

Her grandfather's closest friend, Don Augusto Salvador, had stepped in. A quiet but powerful man in the business world, respected and feared in equal measure. His offer was simple—too simple.

“My grandson needs a wife. Your granddaughter needs saving. Let’s restore what was lost—for both our families.”

And just like that, the terms were set. No dowry, no courtship, no love. Just a name for a name. A Narciso for a Salvador.

Tymm had said no, of course. She cried. Screamed. Begged. Told her grandfather she couldn’t marry a stranger—especially not Harrison Salvador.

She remembered the first time she saw him. Cold eyes. A clean suit. A jawline carved from pride. He was the type of man who didn’t smile unless necessary. The type who measured his words, calculated his gaze, and made silence feel like judgment.

They had exchanged three sentences the day they were introduced. No sparks. No connection. Nothing.

And yet here she was, about to become his wife.

The door creaked open again, and this time it was her mother.

“Tymm,” she said softly, stepping in. Her eyes were already red from crying. “You look beautiful.”

Tymm turned her head slightly, eyes glazed. “Do I?”

Her mother walked closer, placing a warm hand on her daughter's shoulder. “I know this isn’t what you wanted—”

“It’s not what I deserve either,” Tymm interrupted, her voice breaking but calm.

“I know,” her mother whispered. “But sometimes... we do things not for ourselves, but for the people we love. This family… needs you. We wouldn’t survive this without your sacrifice.”

That word again. Sacrifice.

Tymm hated how noble it sounded. As if giving up her dreams and marrying a stranger was something to be proud of.

But what choice did she have?

She looked back at the mirror. The bride in the reflection stared blankly, her smile missing, her eyes swollen from days of crying. She wanted to hate herself for giving in. For not fighting harder. But deep down, she knew—if marrying Harrison would give her siblings a chance to return to school, if it would keep their house from being taken, if it would let her mother sleep through the night again—then maybe it was worth it.

Maybe.

A knock came at the door.

“They're ready,” the coordinator said again.

Tymm stood slowly, the weight of the dress dragging her every step. Her mother took her hand and led her to the door.

Outside, her grandfather stood tall, waiting to walk her down the aisle. He didn’t speak—just offered a gentle nod. The orchestra’s music changed, cueing her entrance.

With a deep breath, she stepped forward, her heartbeat pounding like a funeral drum.

As the grand doors opened and the guests stood, she looked ahead—and there he was.

Harrison Salvador.

Her soon-to-be husband.

Stoic. Emotionless. Handsome in a way that felt intimidating. A stranger dressed in vows neither of them meant.

And yet, for all his coldness, his eyes met hers—and for the briefest second, something flickered. Not warmth. Not love.

But understanding.

They were both prisoners of the same cage, just on opposite sides.

And now, they were walking into it together.

Tymm took another step, her hand trembling as it clutched her bouquet. The music soared. The lights blurred.

And just like that, the dream was gone.

Her love story didn’t begin with a spark.

It began with a signature.

***

The applause had faded. The ceremony was over. The guests had moved on to the lavish reception, raising glasses of champagne and offering polite smiles as if nothing about this union was forced.

Tymm sat beside Harrison at the grand table, a picture-perfect bride next to her perfectly unreadable groom. Photographers occasionally popped in front of them, asking for smiles, closeness, even a kiss. Tymm complied with grace learned from years of high society etiquette. Harrison played his part with equal composure.

But every touch was rehearsed. Every smile felt borrowed.

She barely tasted the food. The music was distant. The people were a blur. Her mind wandered constantly—wondering what her life would’ve looked like had she said no.

Across the table, Harrison sat stiffly, his posture military-straight, eyes occasionally scanning the room like a bored businessman checking the time. Tymm studied him in her peripheral vision. There was something mechanical about the way he moved. Not rude, just… efficient. Every gesture polished, every response clipped and clean.

He hadn’t said a word to her since the priest announced them husband and wife.

They had danced once—one slow, awkward waltz under the crystal chandeliers, where she counted every step and he barely met her eyes. The guests cooed and clapped. Tymm felt like a porcelain doll being paraded.

By the time the program ended, her cheeks ached from forced smiles and her heart throbbed with a strange kind of exhaustion—like she’d run a race that didn’t have a finish line.

As they made their quiet exit through a back entrance—one of the privileges of marrying into the Salvador family—they were ushered into a black luxury car that would take them to their new shared condo unit in Makati.

The silence between them in the car was almost suffocating.

It wasn’t angry or awkward.

It was empty.

“Congratulations,” Harrison finally said, breaking the silence as he looked out the tinted window.

Tymm turned to him, unsure if he was joking.

“For what?” she asked, voice low.

He turned his head slightly, his face unreadable. “For surviving the day.”

A pause. Then a faint curve of a smile—so faint it could’ve been imagined.

Tymm let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Barely.”

“I noticed.”

They sat in silence again, but this time it wasn’t as heavy. There was something… human about that small exchange. An acknowledgment that they were both unwilling participants in a performance.

The drive to the condo was brief. The building—modern, sleek, and surrounded by the city's heartbeat—felt more like a showroom than a home. Tymm had visited once before, with her grandfather and Harrison’s grandfather during planning. She never imagined she’d actually live here.

Now she was walking into a space that looked like a magazine spread. Neutral tones. Glass walls. A view of the city lights that stretched into infinity.

Home.

Or something like it.

The housekeeper greeted them politely before leaving for the night. Harrison gave her a brief nod, then turned to Tymm once they were alone.

“I had the bedroom redecorated. You’ll find your things in the closet.”

“The bedroom?” she echoed.

He nodded. “There’s only one master room. Unless you'd prefer separate rooms?”

Tymm hesitated. “No. That’s fine.”

Fine. Like everything else about this arrangement.

She wandered into the room and found it elegant, spacious, and cold. The bed looked untouched. Her clothes were neatly folded and arranged, her favorite brands placed where they belonged.

She sat on the edge of the bed and removed her heels. Her feet throbbed, her back ached, and her head was spinning with thoughts she couldn’t untangle.

A knock came at the door.

She turned.

Harrison stood at the threshold. “I’ll take the couch in the den,” he said simply. “I figured you’d want space.”

Tymm blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s not about want. It’s about what’s comfortable. You’ve already given up more than enough.”

She stared at him, unsure what to say.

“Goodnight, Tymm.”

It was the first time he said her name that day.

She watched as he turned and walked away, his footsteps silent against the hardwood floor.

The door clicked shut.

Tymm looked around the room again—now filled with expensive things, her wedding gown hanging by the window like a ghost of the girl she used to be.

And for the first time that day, she let herself cry.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just quiet tears into her hands, mourning a love story that never had a chance to begin.