Semua Bab Lawfully Wedded Nanny (BWWM): Bab 31 - Bab 40

The first snow came early that year. Elmsworth was awash in gray skies and frost-kissed rooftops by the fourth week of November. The chill sank into everything—bones, breaths, and silences.Richard stirred the fireplace in the study, watching the orange glow fight the cold shadows creeping through the corners of the room. Carter lay curled on the couch, fast asleep with one of his toy soldiers on his chest. Meredith sat by the window, knees to her chest, doodling absently in her sketchpad.Florence stepped in with a folded shawl, placing it gently over Carter’s shoulders.“He’s been sleeping more,” she murmured.“It’s the weather,” Richard replied, though they both knew better. The cold wasn’t just outside.There was an absence in the house that not even firewood could warm.Florence cleared her throat. “I’ve arranged for someone to help in the afternoons. Just for a few hours. A nanny—retired teacher. Good woman.”Richard looked up, expression guarded.“She’s not replacing anyone,” F

The sound of the front door closing echoed faintly through the marble hallway. Richard glanced up from the tray of hot cocoa he was pouring only to see a tall, broad figure stride in like he owned the place. Tattoos peeked from under the cuff of his rolled-up sleeves, and his grin was already halfway to trouble.“Maxwell,” Richard said flatly, putting the marshmallows in the two mugs he'd poured. “You could have called.”“And miss the look on your face right now?” Maxwell slung his bag onto the nearest armchair. “Not a chance.”From the staircase came the pounding of small feet, followed by Meredith’s excited squeal. “Uncle Max!” She practically launched herself at him.Maxwell caught her easily, hoisting her onto his hip. “There’s my favorite niece—”“I’m your only niece,” Meredith said, but she beamed anyway.From behind her, Carter appeared with Florence, his little legs pumping to keep up. “Up!” he demanded, reaching for Maxwell.“Alright, alright, you can both have turns.” Maxwel

Morning sunlight spilled in thin ribbons through the tall windows of the convent dining hall. The air smelled faintly of porridge and wood polish, the low hum of quiet conversation broken now and then by the clink of a spoon. Monet sat at the far end of the table, her bowl untouched, her hands curled around the warmth as though it might anchor her. She’d been like this all morning moving when others moved, speaking when spoken to, but her mind was elsewhere. In the photograph. On Meredith’s almost-hollow eyes. On Carter’s pout. Her fingers itched for a pen. After clearing her dishes, she slipped away to the small writing desk tucked in the library’s corner. A jar of black ink sat beside a stack of plain stationery, the same kind used for donor thank-you notes. She dipped the pen, her hand hovering above the page. “My dear Meredith and Carter……” Her chest squeezed. She could almost hear Meredith reading it aloud in that breathless way she had, interrupting herself to add her own

Monet’s eyelids fluttered, the dull haze of the hospital room shifting in and out of focus. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, the breath still fragile but steady. The steady beep of the monitor was a reminder, she was still here, still fighting.The dark shifted. There was the faintest weight against her arm, the feeling of warmth—human warmth—seeping into her skin. Someone’s hand. Someone’s patience. Sasha. She could tell without opening her eyes. Sasha’s presence was a constant thread, as though she had tied herself to Monet’s bedside and refused to leave. Monet heard her once, speaking low, maybe to the nurses, to herself, “You’re not allowed to pull something like this again, you hear me?”Her mind wandered through the thick fog of sedation, dragging memories and regrets to the surface. She saw Meredith’s face, so serious, so brave. Carter’s pout, the way he always tried to be strong. She’d left without a proper goodbye, without the chance to hold them close just one more

“How are the other people injured in the fire?” Monet asked Mother Margaret in a small voice. “The children are all okay, right?”The TV in the room played quietly in the background. Mother Margaret wore a bland expression—her usually calm exterior completely gone. She sat stiff-backed in the chair, her hands buried deep in the folds of her black habit, a hard look etched on her face.“The injured people have all been discharged. You’re the only one still in the hospital,” she said, the low quiver in her voice jolting Monet’s conscience. “Every child got out safely and there wasn’t any loss of life.”“You’re the only one here because you insisted on pulling out as many of the children as you could, and then still went back in for the donations and gifts.”Monet looked away from her accusing face. Her eyes still burned, but not from the smoke. “I was just trying to—”“Just trying to kill yourself, that’s what you were doing, Monet!” Mother Margaret, who had never raised her voice befor