You sat still in the private room of the restaurant, your palms damp on your lap. Everything about this place screamed luxury — from the velvet chairs to the golden chandeliers — and yet, no amount of elegance could mask the tension that choked the air.

Across from you sat his mother, pearls gleaming, eyes colder than the wine she swirled in her glass. Beside her, his father stared like he was inspecting something under a microscope — something unworthy.

And beside you, Martin Carrington — your boyfriend — the CEO of Carrington Holdings. Rich. Respected. Widowed. And the father of the little girl you once nannied three years ago.

You never meant to fall in love with him. But you did. And he — somehow — fell for you too.

You had already braced for this. For them.

“We asked you here to talk,” his mother finally said, lips pursed. “Not to attack. But we do have concerns.”

You glanced at Martin, who gave your hand a small squeeze under the table. But he didn’t speak — not yet.

“I mean,” she continued, smiling too sweetly, “you were her nanny. And now what? A flight attendant?” Her gaze dropped to your modest dress. “You serve peanuts in the air while my son runs billion-dollar deals.”

You swallowed hard, forcing a polite tone. “I understand how it might look, but I’m not after his—”

“Oh, sweetie,” she interrupted, her voice drenched in condescension, “don’t embarrass yourself. You’re a smart girl, but let’s be honest. You don’t belong in his world. Martin is a Carrington. You're… a chapter from his past. You cleaned up toys. You’re not… good enough for him.”

A pause.

Then a small, low sound.

You turned your head. Martin had made it.

A sharp, almost inaudible exhale through his nose.

You saw it in his eyes before he even moved — the fury. It wasn’t loud. It was controlled. Contained. But dangerous.

He slowly pushed his chair back and stood, pulling you up with him gently but firmly, his fingers wrapped protectively around yours.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low, firm. “We’re leaving.”

His mother’s eyes widened. His father’s expression hardened.

“Martin,” his father snapped. “Sit down.”

Martin didn’t even flinch.

“You insult the woman I love in front of me and expect me to sit here while you tear her apart like she’s nothing? You raised me to lead. To fight for what I believe in. And I believe in her.”

“Son,” his mother whispered, “we’re just trying to protect you. We don’t want another mistake.”

His jaw clenched. “She’s not a mistake. She gave my daughter her smile back. She gave me a reason to breathe again. And now that I’ve found happiness, you want to tear her apart? Because she worked for us? Because she didn’t grow up with silver spoons?”

He paused, voice steady and sharp.

“You think this is about background? About image? I was drowning after Liana died. Hazel barely spoke. I was running an empire with a ghost on my shoulders. Then she came into our lives.”

“I watched her work and fight and never once did she ask me for a cent. She told me no every time I tried to spoil her, because she didn’t want anyone to think exactly what you’re saying now. But I’m done protecting your feelings while you trample on hers.”

Martin turned to you, his expression softening for a heartbeat. “Come on.”

But then his father stepped forward, blocking the path.

“You walk out now, Martin, and you’re choosing her over your family.”

Martin didn’t hesitate.

“I’ve already made my choice.”

The room went silent.

He tightened his grip on your hand, and together, you walked out — past the stares, the judgment, the history.

And as the heavy doors of the restaurant shut behind you, he turned to you in the hallway, the storm still flickering in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, brushing your cheek. “You never deserved that.”