Page 12 of Pucking Daddy

New York swallows me whole the moment I step off the train.

Not in a bad way—more like being pulled into something alive, something with a pulse that matches the nervous thrum in my chest.

People move around me in a choreographed rush, nobody making eye contact, everybody knowing exactly where they belong. I clutch my carry-on strap and let the current push me toward the exit, my rolling suitcase bumping against my heels.

Outside, the noise hits differently.

Car horns layer over construction drills, a busker's saxophone weaving through it all like a thread trying to stitch chaos into melody.

I stand on the sidewalk for a full thirty seconds, just breathing it in. The air tastes like exhaust and hot pretzels and possibility.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Danny:

You there yet? Don't get kidnapped.

I smile at my brother’s text despite the ache that tugs beneath my ribs. Type back quickly.

Me:

Just arrived. No kidnapping yet. Will keep you posted.

Danny:

Cool. Miss you already.

I shove the phone away before the homesickness can sink its teeth in. I'll call him later. Tonight. After I've settled in and can pretend I'm not terrified out of my mind about this new chapter.

The address burned into my memory leads me twelve blocks north, past coffee shops with chalkboard menus and boutiques displaying clothes that cost more than my monthly rent back home.

Each step takes me further from everything familiar, closer to the gleaming high-rise that will become my new reality.

When I finally stand at the entrance, I have to tilt my head back to see the top. Glass and steel reach toward a cloudless sky, the kind of building that whispers money in every polished surface.

A doorman in a charcoal uniform nods as I approach, and I catch my reflection in the revolving door—wild curls escaping my bun, cheeks flushed from walking, eyes wide like a kid at Christmas.

Get it together, Winslow.

Inside, the lobby hushes everything.

Marble floors, modern art on the walls, a security desk manned by a guy who looks like he moonlights as a linebacker.

I approach with my best professional smile.

"Zara Winslow. I'm the new nanny for the Halberg residence."

The linebacker checks his screen, makes a call, hands me a visitor badge. "Thirty-second floor. They're expecting you."

The elevator ride feels eternal.

I watch the numbers climb, my reflection staring back at me from polished brass doors. Somewhere around floor twenty, my fingers find the silver heart pendant at my throat—Danny's gift from years ago, back when everything fell apart and he was the only good thing left. I rub the worn metal like a talisman.

You've done this before. You're good at this. You belong here.

The doors open to a private vestibule. One apartment per floor. Of course.

I knock, and the door swings open almost immediately. A woman in her fifties stands there—gray hair pulled back severely, crisp white blouse, eyes that assess me in a single sweep.