Semua Bab Lawfully Wedded Nanny (BWWM): Bab 61 - Bab 69

“If you glower any longer at that screen, it’s going to combust into flames,” Mrs. Haines greeted as she dropped a fresh pile of documents onto Richard’s desk. Richard ignored her. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, though the figures had blurred into meaningless hieroglyphs. His mind refused to focus; it kept circling back to how his life had unraveled into this strange, chaotic mess. Richard Abbott’s office was a sanctuary of clean lines and quiet elegance, a space that reflected both precision and control, qualities slipping from his grasp. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, slicing the room into geometric shadows across polished concrete floors. Beyond the glass stretched Elmsworth, its rooftops and rising structures a silent testament to his work, though today even that view gave him no satisfaction. Mrs. Haines, undeterred by his silence, tapped her pen against the files. “Is that how you glower at Monet too? No wonder the rumors are flying around town.”

Morning crept into the manor with pale light, soft and brittle as frost. Monet was already awake, though her body begged for rest. Her limbs ached with the weight of a night spent turning over memories she didn’t want but couldn’t silence. She moved through the kitchen on quiet feet, the children still tucked in their beds, the cleaner not yet there for her weekly appointment.The silence was her refuge, and her torment. It let her hide, but it also left her exposed to thought—to the memory of his mouth on hers, his hands at her waist, and the shattering words she had hurled at him afterward like stones she could never gather back.Her gaze snagged on the flowers. Meredith’s bouquet had been placed with pride in a vase at the center of the table, their colors bright against the muted kitchen. The second bouquet—hers—sat shoved into the corner, its white petals already beginning to sag. Only the single red rose stood upright, defiant, bleeding against the pale blooms.Her chest tighten

The office was too still. The radiator hummed faintly, the old clock on the mantel ticked with merciless precision, and yet the silence pressed against Richard like a living thing.The manila folder lay on his desk, untouched, its presence heavier than any brick or stone he’d ever set in place. His hands rested on either side of it, fingers twitching with the instinct to shove it away, to pretend it wasn’t there. But Juliet’s voice clung to his ears, her words replaying with icy clarity.“You would regret marrying that blood-sucking nanny.”His throat tightened. With a sharp breath, he snapped the folder open.Legal papers. Custody filings. Accusations written in cold, black ink.The Pendleton's demanded guardianship of Meredith and Carter. Their reasoning was scathing, Richard was “compromised by grief,” incapable of sound judgment. And Monet—Monet was painted as an opportunist, a manipulative girl who had ingratiated herself with him and the children for her own gain. They argu

Monet hadn’t slept a single wink.Her body had begged for rest, but her mind had kept circling back to his voice, his lips, and the brutal weight of his words. When dawn finally pried open the darkness, her eyes were raw, heavy-lidded, and rimmed in red. She still moved through the house as if on muscle memory—setting the kettle on, laying out the plates, cutting fruit with a hand that trembled slightly.The manor felt too still, as though it held its breath with her.Meredith wandered in first, hair a wild halo, dragging her book bag behind her. She stopped halfway into the kitchen, frowning faintly at Monet.“You’re up early,” she murmured, sliding into her chair.“I’m always up early,” Monet answered softly, smiling as she set down her plate.“Not like this.” Meredith’s gaze lingered—on the pale shadows beneath Monet’s eyes, on the stiffness in her movements. “You didn’t sleep.”Monet forced a small laugh. “You’re becoming far too observant.” Carter came thundering in then, de

Monet stood so still she could almost hear her own pulse pounding in her ears. The word hung between Richard and Florence sharp, absolute.No.Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Breath stalled in her chest, snagged on the jagged edge of refusal. For a fleeting moment, she thought she might laugh—hollow, disbelieving, because hadn’t he told her she was a mother to them? That she belonged here?But the laughter never came. Her throat burned instead, heavy with the ache that had chased her through the long hours of the night. Her eyes, bruised from sleeplessness, stung with tears she refused to shed.She turned away under the pretense of gathering the breakfast dishes, porcelain trembling faintly in her hands. Every small sound—the clink of the faucet, the hum of the kettle—was unbearably loud against the silence that followed Richard’s single, shattering word.Florence’s gaze brushed her with pity, but Monet bowed her head. She didn’t want pity. She wanted what she could not have. W