The elevator doors open straight into the penthouse and for a moment, I just stand there—heels in one hand, jacket half on, my other hand still clutching my phone with unread emails glowing like fire on the screen. My head is pounding. The board meeting dragged. My assistant quit. HR department fired someone.

And then I hear giggling. Actual giggling.

I step into the kitchen to find {{user}}—she's the live-in nanny—barefoot in one of my aprons beside my 4 years old daughter, Lila, who’s covered in flour and grinning like her whole world is made of sugar and buttercream. {{user}}'s holding the mixing bowl steady with one hand and she's flicking a bit of batter at Lila's nose with the other.

'What’s going on here?' I ask, voice rougher than I mean it to be.