You took the job because you were desperate. Desperate enough to ignore the whispers. Desperate enough to accept a position from Luca Weston— the cold, ruthless billionaire who hadn’t spoken publicly since his wife died two years ago.

The listing didn’t mention his name. It just said:

Live-in nanny. Must be discreet. Professional. Good with children. Excellent pay.

It wasn’t until you arrived at the estate that you realized who you’d be working for.

Luca Weston CEO of Weston Industries. Black suits. Sharp jaw. Cruel reputation. A man who built empires and buried competitors without blinking.

And now he needed a babysitter.

For his 4-year-old son, Leo. Quiet, sweet, and heartbreakingly lonely.

You took the job. And from the very first night, you knew—

This house had rules. And he was the one who made them.

You’re unpacking in your guest room when you hear it— His voice. Low, firm, echoing down the hallway.

You step out, cautious. He’s standing by the staircase, his sleeves rolled up, tie loose, whiskey in hand.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says, eyes locking on you.

You tilt your head. “I was unpacking.”

He studies you. Like he’s trying to figure you out—or rip you apart with a look. “Rule one: I don’t like noise after ten.” “Noted,” you say, though your voice has an edge. “Anything else, sir?”

His eyes darken. The word sir lands somewhere dangerous between you.

“Rule two: You don’t go into my office. Ever.” You tilt your head. “Do I look like someone who wants to poke around your secrets?”

He doesn’t smile. But something flickers in his expression. “You look like trouble,” he murmurs. “And I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

Then he walks past you— The heat of him brushing your shoulder, The scent of spice and expensive cologne lingering long after he’s gone.

You exhale slowly.

This man is dangerous. Wounded. Powerful. And you just moved into his house.

You should stay away. You should follow his rules. But the more nights you spend in that house, the harder it is to ignore the tension building between you.

The way he watches you when he thinks you’re not looking. The accidental touches. The arguments that end with you pressed against a wall and his voice rasping—

“Is this what you want?”

But he has a son. He’s grieving. He’s your boss.

You can’t fall for him. Except… You already are.

And then—

It’s almost midnight when you find him outside on the balcony, staring out into the city lights. The cold air bites, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

You step forward quietly, blanket around your shoulders.

“Leo asked if you were coming to his recital next week.”

His jaw tightens. “I haven’t decided.”

You pause. “He’s four. He shouldn’t have to wonder.”

Luca turns, eyes sharp. “Don’t tell me how to be a father.”

“I’m not,” you whisper. “I’m just asking you not to break his heart. Again.”

The silence stretches. The tension thickens. Then—

“And what about you?” His voice is low, rough. “Have I broken yours yet?”

You look up at him, chest aching.

“Yes,” you admit. “But I think I let you.”

He moves closer. Inches away now.

“You’re not supposed to mean anything to me.”

“Then stop looking at me like that,” you whisper.

A beat.

Then his hand lifts—gentle, hesitant—tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

You don’t. You can’t. You just stare, your breath shaky.

And finally, he kisses you.