Lahat ng Kabanata ng Lawfully Wedded Nanny (BWWM): Kabanata 51 - Kabanata 60

LATER THAT EVENING… “You’ll marry her?” Juliet Pendleton spat, her voice like acid. They had taken the discussion to one of Florence’s drawing rooms, where the silence pressed in thick and heavy. The atmosphere was taut enough to make even the bravest feel its weight. Harvey and Juliet sat side by side on the Chesterfield sofa, their backs ramrod straight, their expressions carved in stone. It might have been enough to cower a weaker soul, but not the Abbotts. Florence’s face was a mask of indifference, though her lips thinned with disdain. “And what, Juliet, is wrong with Monet?” Juliet’s carefully painted features tightened, her voice trembling with fury. “You would let your grandson—and my grandchildren—be guided by an orphaned convent girl with no name, no family, no breeding? What has this family become since Hannah’s death?” Harvey laid a wrinkled hand, Rolex flashing, over hers in silent support. Their grief was etched plainly across their faces—the grief of paren

The camisole fell soundlessly to the floor, pooling at her feet. Monet’s arms wrapped around her middle almost instantly, as if her body sought to shield itself from his gaze. But it was useless—his eyes were already on her, trailing slow, deliberate paths that made her skin burn, her nipples hardened to rock peaks. Richard’s jaw tightened, the faint stubble catching the light as he drew a steady breath. He still hadn’t moved. He stood at the window, chest broad and bronzed in the pale light, muscles shifting in quiet restraint as though he were holding himself in check. Monet’s pulse drummed against her throat. Her silk shorts felt suddenly too flimsy, too revealing, clinging to her skin as if they knew they were next. She shifted, toes curling against the rug, heat climbing from her belly to her cheeks. “Monet,” Richard said at last, her name heavy with meaning, his voice low and deliberate. It wasn’t a command this time. It was something else, an invocation, a tether pulling her

Monet woke to the pulse of Manhattan straining through the hotel windows. Horns blared. A siren wailed somewhere distant. The world outside had already thrown itself into the chaos of a new day. A look at the digital clock on the wall said it was ten past ten. Her hand reached across the tangled sheets automatically, seeking the warmth that had held her so fiercely only hours ago. But Richard’s side of the bed was cold, undisturbed. Her chest tightened. Last night lived in her skin still, his hands branding her, his mouth consuming, the way his body had moved inside hers with a hunger that had left her trembling. But it was the memory of what he had withheld that lingered sharper than any pleasure. The stubborn shutter of his eyes, the way he had held himself just out of her reach even as he buried himself so deeply within her. Now, in the lonely hush of the room, that distance yawned wider. He was gone, swallowed up by the city before the morning light had even softened against

Silence pressed into the suite after Richard’s voice settled, the words Mrs. Monet Abbott echoing like a vow she hadn’t been prepared to hear. Monet stared at her hand, the band snug on her fourth finger, the bracelet gleaming heavy on her wrist. Her pulse thudded against her ribs. It should have felt like belonging, but instead, the weight of it threatened to undo her. “Richard…” she breathed, his name slipping out before she could stop it. He lifted his gaze, dark and unreadable, and that single look made her chest ache. Something inside her cracked—something tired of being second to ghosts, tired of being told without words that she wasn’t enough. She stepped into him, almost desperately, catching his mouth with hers. The kiss was trembling at first, but then her hunger poured through, her fingers curling in the lapel of his shirt. His body went rigid, startled. “Monet…” His voice rasped against her lips, half warning, half surrender. “Don’t pull away from me,” she whispered

“What did you do?” Florence asked through gritted teeth the moment her eyes fell on Monet.Her gaze lingered on the young woman’s hollow eyes, the bruised shadows beneath them, the kind of weariness that could not be disguised by polite smiles or carefully pressed clothes.Richard followed her line of sight. Monet sat in the adjoining room, Carter curled against her as he rattled off a breathless tale of everything she had missed while she’d been gone. She smiled faintly for him, her lips curving at his excitement—until her head lifted instinctively and her eyes caught Richard’s across the distance. The smile faltered. She was the one who looked away first.His throat tightened. He cleared it, forcing his eyes back to his grandmother. Florence, however, hadn’t looked away from him once. Her disappointment radiated across the tea room, sharper than any scolding words.He couldn’t tell her—not about what had unraveled yesterday, not about Monet’s breaking voice when she had insisted the