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“Um, yes, ma’am,” I mumble, feeling like a scolded child.
I feel cold, indifferent eyes settle on me as Mr. Thompson shuffles the papers in front of him. He is the picture of calculated precision and professionalism, his tailored suit screaming wealth and power.
“Miss Williams,” he begins, “do you know what the Ivankov’s business is about?” His voice is gruff, almost monotonous.
“I have an idea,” I manage, the words pushing past the sudden lump in my throat. My mind screams at me, filling in the blanks Thompson isn’t saying out loud.
The fucking Russian mafia, for God’s sake!
Mr. Thompson merely nods and slides a thick stack of papers across the table. I look up just long enough to see the contract coming my way. I hesitantly pick it up, my fingers tracing my name typed so formally on the first page.
“Make sure you understand what you’re signing up for, Miss Williams,” he says, cold and direct, stepping away to give me space—a space filled with the looming presence of the contract.
NANNY AGREEMENT
SOPHIA WILLIAMS
Turning the pages, the enormity of what I'm considering starts to truly hit me. Then, I see the figure under salary, and everything stops for a second. “Monthly payment: Fifteen Thousand Dollars ($15,000.00).”
I choke back a gasp. The sheer volume of paperwork makes the whole situation even more surreal. I still can’t quite believe I’ll be earning fifteen grand a month, just like Luka mentioned earlier. My fingers brush over the printed amount, and Mr. Abrams catches my lingering gaze.
I swallow hard, the reality of my new life settling in. Fifteen grand a month? Maybe I should have accidentally stumbled into the mafia lifestyle sooner.
Don’t be stupid, Soph.
I shake my head mentally, reminding myself that this isn’t some kind of fairy tale. I’ll have to live and breathe this world, walking the tightrope between the role of a nanny and a spy, all while making sure I don’t get caught.
“Generous, isn’t it?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “But don’t forget, you’ll be earning every penny of it.”
“Uh-huh,” I murmur, trying to swallow the knot of anxiety in my throat. I manage a small, uncomfortable smile, feeling the weight of his words. It’s a heavy price for a hefty paycheck. Swallowing my nerves, I continue scanning the contract, trying to process the information.
I catch a line, and I can’t help but blurt it out.
“Wait, what? ‘Employee shall not engage in any romantic or sexual relationships with any member of the Ivankov household or their associates?’”
Heat creeps up my cheeks as I realize I’ve just read that out loud. Fabulous, now they probably think I’m some kind of man-eater.
Mr. Abrams clears his throat, obviously growing tired of my lack of discretion. “Correct, Ms. Williams. It’s essential that you maintain a professional attitude at all times.”
I nod, biting my lip to keep any further slip-ups contained. Mr. Thompson begins to rattle off the terms of my employment as Yulia’s nanny, and I can’t help but feel a little overwhelmed.
Fuck. The contract is thicker than Nana’s yellow pages!
I swallow hard, my mouth going dry as the peculiarities start piling up.
“Let us review some of the more important terms of your employment as Yulia’s nanny,” says Mr. Abrams. “First,” he continues, “You will be expected to adhere to a strict dress code. All garments must be black or white, and absolutely no patterns are allowed. This is to maintain a sense of order and tranquility in the household.”
I nod, imagining myself decked out like a monochromatic chess piece.
“Second,” Mr. Abrams leans in, looking deadly serious, “you should know Yulia is deathly allergic to peanuts. Just a whiff of them can cause a severe reaction.”
I raise a brow, a smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. “Guess I’ll have to scrap my world-famous peanut butter and jelly sandwiches then,” I quip, trying to lighten the grave atmosphere.
My jibe lands like a balloon in a room full of porcupines. The rigid faces, the pin-drop silence, each one a stark reminder of the severity of this meeting. The laughter that bubbles in my chest falters, the aftertaste of the joke bitter in my mouth. My smile fades, replaced by a quick, apologetic grimace.
“Go on, please,” I urge, my voice barely louder than a whisper. Noting the hard lines of Mr. Abrams’ face, I silently make a mental note to avoid any more tasteless jokes.
“Third,” Mr. Abrams resumes, “You will be responsible for attending to all of Yulia’s educational needs. This includes her private classes, homework, and all of her private lessons in music, art, language, and computer skills.”
