Novel Story-6

While I was cleaning up our six-year-old son's vomit, I found out from the media that he was kissing a famous model passionately on a yacht. Beneath me, six-year-old Toby shrieked. It wasn't a normal cry. It was a breathless, piercing wail that tore straight from his chest. I threw my body over him. I dragged him down into the damp, fertilizer-scented soil, pinning his small, hyperventilating frame against my chest. "I've got you, Toby. Breathe. Just breathe," I whispered, blocking the falling glass with my back. My apron was covered in mud and his vomit, but I didn't care. I held him until his frantic gasps began to slow. The phone in my dirty apron pocket vibrated violently. I reached in with a trembling, mud-stained hand and unlocked the screen. A push notification from the New York Morning Post flashed across the display. The headline stared back at me in bold, merciless font: BILIONAIRE AVIATION HEIR JULIAN VANCE AND SUPERMODEL VIVIENNE STERLING SPEND THE NIGHT ON A LUXURY YACHT IN ST. TROPEZ. There was a high-resolution photo. Julian was leaning against the yacht's railing, his arm wrapped tightly around Vivienne's slim waist. The Mediterranean sun caught the metallic gleam on his wrist. It was a white-gold bespoke watch strap. My chest tightened. I had spent three sleepless nights customizing that exact strap, etching his initials into the metal. Two days ago, he had texted me: See you this weekend, V. Need to bring some decent accessories. I had smiled, thinking 'V' stood for his corporate conference in Vancouver. I thought he wanted to look sharp for his investors. He meant Vivienne. I stared at my hands. The skin was rough, my palms covered in thick calluses from handling shears and soil. A bitter laugh escaped my throat. They thought I was just a low-class nanny. They didn't know I held a dual master's degree from Harvard in pediatric neurodevelopment and plant healing. Three years ago, Julian Vance had shown up at my apartment in Boston. His eyes were bloodshot, his tailored suit wrinkled, his legendary arrogance completely shattered. "You're Toby's only hope,"he had pleaded, his voice raw. "He hasn't spoken a word since the accident. Name your price, Chloe. Please.” For him, I turned down the chief of pediatrics position at Boston's top hospital. I traded my white lab coat for a dirt-stained apron, moving into his secluded estate to build a therapeutic greenhouse for our traumatized son. Two months later, Toby spoke his very first word: "Chlo-Chlo.” My phone buzzed again. An incoming call. I answered it, pressing the screen to my ear. "Chloe?" My former Harvard mentor's voice came through. "The Alpine Swiss Children's Healing Center just finalized their budget. The tenured chair position is yours if you want it. But the board needs your signature by Friday. Are you in?" I looked down at Toby. He had finally gone limp against me, exhausted from the panic attack, fast asleep in my mud-stained arms. "Give me an hour, Professor," I said quietly. I carried Toby up to his bedroom, gently laying his small body onto the mattress. I pulled the heavy blankets over his shoulders. Julian didn't even know his son hyperventilated at the sound of He didn't know Toby associated the hammering noise with the horrific car accident he barely survived years ago.He didn't know because he was never here. I had slept on the hardwood floor of Toby's bedroom for the last four consecutive nights just to catch the boy before he drowned in his own nightmares. I walked down to the kitchen. The marble countertops felt ice-cold against my fingertips. I sat down, pulled out my laptop, and opened the email from Switzerland. The digital application form loaded on the screen. My mouse hovered over the blue Submit button. Julian Vance wanted his accessories for the weekend. Well, he was about to lose his most loyal one. I clicked the button. Chapter 2 Seven days later, the roar of a private helicopter rattled the floorboards of the Vance Manhattan penthouse. Julian was back. He wasn't here for his son. He was here to manage the market fallout from his yacht scandal. Toby ran forward the moment the glass doors opened. He threw his small arms around Julian's legs. "Daddy! The hail last week was so scary. The glass broke. But I hid in Chloe's old jacket. It smelled like roses, so I wasn't afraid anymore." Julian stopped. His face darkened. He didn't look down at the boy. Instead, his cold eyes locked directly onto me. "You didn't activate the estate's highest medical alert," Julian said. "Why wasn't I notified immediately?" I stood my ground, my hands folded in front of my plain apron. "I sent three encrypted, urgent reports to your personal device, Mr. Vance. But your phone was turned off while you were busy being photographed with a supermodel in St. Tropez." Julian's jaw tightened. He patted Toby's shoulder and nodded to a nearby maid. "Take him to the playroom." Once the heavy oak doors shut, leaving just the two of us, Julian turned and walked into his massive obsidian office. I followed him inside. "The yacht photos were a PR move," Julian said. He loosened his silk tie with one hand, his movements arrogant and practiced. He sat in his leather chair. "It was a coordinated strategy to stabilize the stocks before the airline merger. It's just business, Chloe." I walked over to the desk, standing right across from him. "Then congratulations. She matches your hedge fund perfectly." "Don't be petty," he said, frowning. "It was just an act for the media." I lifted a heavy, leather-bound folder and slammed it onto the obsidian desk. The impact rattled his gold pen holder. It was Toby's full pediatric neurodevelopment recovery report. "Don't disgust me with your PR garbage, Julian," I said. "I don't care who you sleep with. I care that you left a traumatized six-year-old child to scream in a violent hailstorm while you played games in the Mediterranean." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crisp white envelope. The silver crest of the Alpine Swiss Healing Center gleamed under the recessed lights. I slid the letter across the black stone, right over his stock charts. "My twenty-eight days' notice," I said. "I am officially resigning." Julian froze. Every ounce of his elite arrogance vanished, replaced by complete shock. He stared at the envelope, then up at me. "You're resigning?" "Yes." "I don't allow it." Julian slammed his palm against the desk. The loud crack echoed through the high-ceilinged room. "I will triple your retainer. No, five times it. Write whatever number you want on this." He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a blank UBS check, and slapped it onto the desk. He pushed a gold pen toward me. "Name your price, Chloe. Everyone has a price." I looked down at the blank check. Then, I looked at his expensive suit. I picked up the paper. Slowly, right in front of his eyes, I ripped it down the middle. I tore it again, and then again, until it was nothing but useless white scraps. I balled them up and threw them straight at his chest. The pieces bounced off his tie and scattered onto the floor. "Do you really think your hedge fund can buy a mother's love for our son?" I let out a cold laugh. "Keep your checkbook, Julian. It's the only empty thing you have left." Julian stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the floor. "If you leave, what about Toby? What happens to my son?!" The ugly truth was finally out. It was never about me. It was always about what I could provide for his family. I was just an irreplaceable tool. I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the last piece of my foolish hope die. When I opened them, my gaze was ice. "Maybe it's time you learn how to hold him yourself on a stormy night." Julian stared at me, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. "We will talk when you calm down," he hissed. He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the heavy doors behind him. Silence flooded the office. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. A new notification lit up the screen. Dear Dr. Evans, Your official contract with the Alpine Swiss Healing Center has been finalized. Your tenure begins in exactly twenty-eight days. I smiled, deleted Julian's private number from my contacts, and began to pack. Chapter 3 The next morning, I stood at the high-end kitchen island, measuring out a bowl of stress-relief oats for Toby. It was a specific dietary recipe to help lower his cortisol levels after the storm. Sharp heels dug aggressively into the expensive wool carpet. Vivienne Sterling walked into the kitchen, wearing a pair of ten-thousand-dollar Chanel diamond-buckled boots. She held a silk handkerchief to her nose, waving it with open disgust. "My god," Vivienne sneered, looking around. "It reeks in here. What is that? A cheap smell of mud and fertilizer? You must be that gardener girl who clips the orchids." I didn't even lift my eyes from the measuring cup. "Pediatric neurodevelopmental specialist, Chloe." Vivienne ignored me entirely. She strutted over to the small table where Toby was quietly drawing. With a fake, camera-ready smile, she reached down and tried to forcefully drag him up by his arm. "Hi, little guy. I'm your future Mommy Vivienne. Come on, give me a warm hug." Toby dropped his crayon. He let out a sharp, terrified shriek and threw himself behind my linen trousers, his tiny hands gripping my fabric until his knuckles turned bloodless and white. Vivienne looked down at her wrinkled haute couture sleeve. Her face twisted in anger, and she shoved the child away violently. "Damn it. He's like a wild little psycho without manners. How can Julian tolerate keeping a defective piece with neurological damage in this house?" A deafening, terrifying metallic crash echoed through the room. I had picked up a pair of thirty-centimeter, heavy all-steel pruning shears and slammed them hard onto the marble countertop. Sparks literally flew from the impact, and the cold blades gleamed under the kitchen lights. Vivienne jumped back, her face losing all its color. "Toby went through severe trauma," I said. "And the only thing defective in this room is your disgusting, uneducated humanity." Vivienne's eyes widened in fury. "You... you're just a smelly working gardener! How dare you lecture me?" The heavy kitchen doors burst open. Julian stormed inside. The temperature in the room instantly dropped by ten degrees. He stopped, his fierce aura freezing the entire space as his eyes scanned the scene: Toby shaking violently behind my legs, the heavy steel shears resting on the marble, and Vivienne's malicious face. "What is going on here?" Julian asked. Vivienne immediately rushed to his side, grabbing his arm to play the victim. "Julian! Your low-class gardener just threatened me with a weapon! And that mentally abnormal brat needs to be isolated in an asylum right now!" Julian didn't look at Vivienne. He ignored her completely, keeping his eyes locked straight onto mine. I didn't offer a single word of explanation. I didn't care to. I just looked back at him with total, dead indifference. A thick blue vein popped on Julian's forehead. He turned his gaze to Vivienne, letting out a terrifying low roar: "Get out." Vivienne blinked, completely confused. "What? Julian, think about the public relations campaign for our families' multinational airline merger—" "The merger is dead," Julian said, taking a slow, brutal step toward her. "Take your PR team and get out of my estate. If you ever dare utter another foul word to Chloe, I swear the Vance Foundation will personally short and completely bankrupt your father's entire fashion empire by next week. Do you understand me?" Vivienne stumbled backward, her high heel catching on the carpet as her face turned deathly pale. She didn't say another word. She turned and scrambled out of the kitchen, running for her life. The kitchen fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Julian turned back to me, his chest heaving up and down heavily. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper filled with intense emotion: "No one will ever trample on your dignity in this estate, Chloe. No one." My heart hammered against my ribs, but my face remained a mask of stone. I looked at the man who had just destroyed a billion-dollar family contract for me, and I felt nothing but a cold void. I bent down and gently picked Toby up into my arms. "This is completely meaningless, Julian," I said. "It doesn't matter who you kick out. There are only twenty-three days left anyway. After that, I will never appear in this cold-blooded, money-reeking estate again." I didn't wait for his response. I turned on my heel, pushed open the heavy glass doors, and walked straight out into the freezing coastal wind of New York.