บททั้งหมดของ Lawfully Wedded Nanny (BWWM): บทที่ 181 - บทที่ 190

The Abbott estate was unusually still for early evening. The soft gold of the setting sun slipped through the tall windows, painting the walls in warm amber as if trying—futilely—to soften the tension vibrating through the house. Florence had come over under the guise of “checking on her great-grandchildren,” though her real intention pulsed beneath her ribs like a steady throb. She had seen Richard earlier that morning. Something had changed in his eyes since then, something shuttered, strained, too tight to be merely work. She had raised that boy. She knew when he was hiding something. She waited until the kids were upstairs with Delores and Monet, their chatter carrying faintly down the hall. When Richard entered the living room, loosening his tie with a weary sigh, Florence set down her teacup with a soft click. “Richard,” she said gently—but not softly. It was the voice she used when truth was needed, not wanted. He stilled. His hand froze mid-air. Then he turned toward he

The house was still draped in darkness when Monet woke—barely three hours after she’d finally drifted off. The alarm hadn’t rung yet, but her mind had pulled her out of sleep the moment it remembered: Mother Margaret had visited Richard. And no one told her. And Richard still hadn't said anything. Her stomach twisted.She sat up slowly, careful not to wake Richard. His arm was draped loosely around her waist, his face buried near her shoulder, breathing her in as though she anchored him even in sleep. Normally, that warmth would soothe her.This morning, it only made the ache sharper.She slipped out of bed quietly and padded to the bathroom, turning on the tap just enough to wash her face. The water was cool, calming, but it didn’t settle the storm.When she stepped back into the room, Richard was awake, sitting at the edge of the bed, running a hand over his face. His hair was tousled, his voice thick with sleep.“You’re up early,” he murmured, observing her.“Couldn’t sleep,” Mon

The island greeted them with sunlight so bright it almost hurt to look at.White stone paths curved toward the sea, palm trees swayed lazily in the breeze, and the air smelled like salt and citrus and something indulgent Monet couldn’t quite name. Everything about the place whispered escape. Renewal. Pleasure.None of it touched her.She stood at the edge of the terrace while staff unloaded their bags, arms wrapped tightly around herself despite the warmth. Below, the ocean stretched endlessly, turquoise melting into deeper blues, waves crashing with a rhythm that should have been soothing.Richard watched her from the doorway.She hadn’t smiled once since they landed.“Monet,” he said gently, stepping beside her. “We’re here.”She nodded, eyes still on the water. “I know.”He studied her profile—the tightness in her jaw, the way her shoulders curled inward like she was bracing for a blow that hadn’t come yet.This wasn’t fear anymore. This was grief preparing to resurface.“You don’t

The sea was impossibly blue.Monet stood on the balcony with her hands resting on the railing, the morning sun warming her shoulders, the salt air curling through her hair. Below her, waves rolled lazily against white sand, rhythmic and patient, as if the world itself had decided there was no urgency here.She told herself to breathe it in. To enjoy it.This was supposed to be healing. A gift. A honeymoon, finally real, not born of grief or obligation or survival. She had promised herself she would not carry the clinic rooms, the hospital smells, the echo of sterile words with her across the ocean.So she smiled when Richard came up behind her.“You didn’t wake me,” she said lightly.He kissed her shoulder, lingered there a moment longer than necessary. “You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to steal it.”She turned to him, studying his face the way she’d learned to—searching not for beauty, but for tension. It was there. Carefully hidden. Carefully managed.“You have meetings today,” sh

The work party was held on the terrace overlooking the water, glass, and gold, and soft music floating through the humid night. Everything gleamed—champagne flutes, silk dresses, polished smiles worn by people who knew how to belong in rooms like this.Monet stood beside Richard, her hand resting lightly against his arm.She looked beautiful tonight. Effortlessly so. A pale dress that skimmed her frame, hair pinned back loosely, skin warm and rich and glowing under the lights. Anyone watching them would see a couple entirely at ease.Only Richard knew how tightly she was holding herself together.He introduced her to colleagues and investors, and names that Monet would forget the moment they were spoken. She smiled, nodded, listened. She had learned how to perform normalcy well—years of convent discipline, years of grief had taught her that.Then she saw her.The girl stood near the edge of the terrace, half-hidden behind a group of laughing adults. She couldn’t have been more than si