Lahat ng Kabanata ng Lawfully Wedded Nanny (BWWM): Kabanata 81 - Kabanata 90

The living room was less a room than a stage, every detail curated to remind a visitor they were standing on centuries of money and power. Pale silk drapes pooled elegantly against parquet floors so polished they caught the afternoon light like water. Oil portraits of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls, their dark eyes watching, judging. Not a photograph out of place, not a cushion left casually askew—Juliet Pendleton’s world left no room for disorder or anyone who hadn’t been born to belong.Monet paused on the threshold—the butler had disappeared to a corner she couldn't see—suddenly aware of her breath, of the soft scrape her loafers made against the floor. She felt like a trespasser walking into a shrine. Her gaze snagged on the marble fireplace, on the gilt-framed portrait of Hannah above it. Smiling. Radiant. Eternal. A reminder that Richard’s late wife could still fill a room she wasn’t in.Juliet watched her take it in, her emerald gaze sharp with quiet satisfaction

The car slowed as they turned off Park Avenue, the chaos of Midtown dissolving into a quieter stretch of the Upper East Side. Here, the streets were narrower, the traffic muted, lined with limestone townhouses whose facades looked like they’d stood unshaken for over a century. Polished brass railings caught the last light of evening, doormen hailed cabs at the corners, and ivy curled neatly around wrought-iron balconies.Richard undid another button on his shirt, the sleeves rolled past his elbows, revealing veins—his hair, a messy disaster, his suit jacket tossed hapdardly along with his briefcase in the backseat of the car. Beside him, George looked polished and refined in a rib-knit short polo shirt and pleated trousers, effortlessly blending into the poshness of the Upper East Side that flowed through his veins. They stepped out into the hush of the block, their polished shoes striking against the clean pavement. Both men carried the same air—rich pressed, purposeful—though R

The silence in the kitchen was sharp enough to cut. The ticking of the old brass clock above the pantry door filled the air, louder than it had any right to be. Richard leaned against the counter, arms folded tight, staring into the marble as though it might split open and swallow him. His knuckles were raw, his chest still heaving faintly, but he didn’t move.Florence poured herself tea, steady hands despite the storm she’d just watched unfold. The china clinked against the saucer, a delicate sound that somehow carried more weight than his ragged breathing.“You’re going to lose her,” she said finally, voice quiet, unflinching.Richard’s head snapped up. “Don’t.”But Florence only lifted her cup, sipping as though she had all the time in the world. “Don’t what? Don’t speak what you already know? I saw the way she looked at you tonight, Richard. Hurt runs deep when it’s laced with love.”His jaw tightened. “She doesn’t understand.”“She understands enough.” Florence set the cup down w

Monet barely had time to whisper, “Please, just tell me how bad it is—” before the phone was wrenched from her hand.Richard’s grip swallowed it whole, his thumb killing the call with a single, brutal press. His face set in granite. The silence that followed was deafening. Monet’s pulse hammered in her ears, her fingers still hovering in the air as though she could snatch the phone back.“What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed, stepping toward him. “That was the only chance I had to—”“To what?” Richard cut in, his voice sharp enough to slice the air. “To rush to his bedside? To play Florence Nightingale to the man who had asked you to be his wife? A man you once loved?” “While you're married to me?”Her breath caught. “It's not like that. You don’t understand—”“No,” he snapped, his chest rising hard, his shoulders filling the narrow space of the room. “What I understand is that you're worried about him in this situation.” "Before you think of us. That while I was tea

The ride home was suffocatingly silent. The city blurred past Monet’s window, a ribbon of lights and shadows she barely registered. Richard’s hands stayed clenched around the wheel, his knuckles pale against the leather, but he didn’t speak, didn’t even look at her.By the time they pulled into the Abbott driveway, Monet’s nerves were raw, frayed to threads. She followed him inside, each footstep sounding too loud against the hush of the house. Dee must’ve already tucked Meredith and Carter in; the place was dark, save for the soft glow of the hallway sconces.Richard tossed his keys onto the console table, the sharp clatter making her flinch. He didn’t remove his jacket, didn’t loosen his shirt further. He turned, his gaze locking onto her like a man cornering a truth he couldn’t avoid.“So,” he said, his voice calm in the way thunder sometimes is before it splits the sky. “Tell me. What did he say to you?”Monet’s throat tightened. She hadn’t expected the question to come so quickly