Semua Bab Lawfully Wedded Nanny (BWWM): Bab 41 - Bab 50

The hum of voices downstairs reached her before she even left the room Florence had assigned her. Laughter, the clink of cutlery, the muffled rumble of Maxwell's and the kid's voices—it all felt so far away and yet achingly close. She smoothed the front of the soft blue dress Florence had set out for her, the fabric brushing against the healing skin at her side.The fire had taken so much from her in seconds—her breath, her strength, her sense of control. She’d told herself she was healing, but the truth was she still moved as though the world could collapse at any second.When she stepped into the hall, the scent of roasted turkey, rosemary, and warm bread pulled her forward. She gripped the banister, feeling the gentle pull in her ribs, and descended the stairs.Richard was at the foot of them before she’d even reached the last step. “Careful,” he murmured, his hand hovering near her elbow without quite touching. His gaze flicked briefly over her face, as if checking for signs of p

The courthouse was nearly empty on New Year’s Eve, its marble halls echoing with the hollow tick of a distant clock. A secretary sat at a desk in the corner, yawning into her hand. The clerk adjusted his glasses, shuffling papers with the weariness of someone who had performed this duty too often to care.Two strangers—a middle-aged couple waiting to finalize their own paperwork—were pulled in as witnesses. Their coats dripped melting snow onto the floor, their expressions politely detached, watching a transaction rather than a vow. The woman glanced at her watch twice. The man folded his arms, eyes on the wall clock as though willing it forward.Monet stood beside Richard at the front, her ivory suit crisp and severe, the skirt falling neatly against her knees. It had none of the softness of the gown she had once been fitted for, or dreamt of wearing. And perhaps that was fitting. This wasn’t a wedding. It was an arrangement, a decision signed into permanence.The judge’s voice drone

December 28Richard watched Monet silently, grateful to see some color return to her body. The picture of her on the hospital bed, telling Mother Margaret that she’d been subconsciously trying to end her life, flashed before his eyes, but he shook off the memory.She sat rigidly on the window seat, hands twisted painfully together atop her thigh—dressed in another peasant dress, this time a deep burgundy. Her head tilted at a regal angle as she watched the snow fall softly beyond the bay windows in Florence’s library. Heavy velvet drapes framed the glass, their folds catching the flicker of firelight.The library itself was warm, almost indulgently so. A fire crackled in the marble hearth, filling the air with the faint, smoky perfume of cedar. Golden lamplight spilled across the shelves, softening the edges of worn leather-bound books. The Persian rug dulled his footsteps, and the faint sweetness of old paper mingled with the crystal dish of sugared almonds Florence always kept on th

The drive home was a blur of streetlights and silence. Richard’s grip on the steering wheel never loosened, though his mind was still tangled in Claudia’s words. Her polished smile, her casual cruelty—how effortlessly she’d breathed life into whispers that were already circling like vultures. By the time he pulled into the long driveway of the Abbott estate, the night had deepened. The house was quiet, blanketed in the heavy stillness that only came in the small hours. Yet sleep eluded him. He tossed his coat onto a chair, poured himself a glass of water, and found his way to the library where the fire had burned low. He wasn’t alone. Florence sat by the hearth in her silk robe, the golden lamplight catching the silver strands in her hair. A book lay open on her lap, though she hadn’t turned a page in some time. She looked up when he entered, sharp eyes narrowing with a knowingness that stripped him bare. “You’re late,” she said simply. Richard sank into the armchair opposite he

DECEMBER 30The Abbott dining room glowed with soft light, the chandelier scattering warmth across polished wood and crystal. The scent of roast duck and winter spices drifted through the air, mingling with pine from the tree still standing proudly in the corner. Its branches were heavy with ornaments the children had helped hang, uneven but heartfelt, and beneath it lay the last of the presents waiting to be opened.Carter had already tucked himself close to his father’s side, his boyish energy only half-contained by Richard’s steadying hand. Meredith sat straighter, poised in a way that mirrored Florence, though her eyes were restless, darting often to Monet at the other end of the table.Monet, in cream colored a tea-lenght satin skirt and blue cashmere sweater sat with her hands neatly folded, listening more than speaking. The laughter around her wrapped her in warmth, but she could not help the flicker of self-consciousness that rose whenever she caught Florence’s deliberate,