The Billionaire's Nanny Substitute

Narda's POV

"Hi, Miss. How may I help you today?" The receptionist greets me with a polite, rehearsed smile, her French-tipped fingers already poised over the keyboard.

"Hi," I say, returning her smile. "I placed a reservation for the Limited Summer Leather Jacket from Luthier's collection. I'm here to pick it up."

She nods. "Of course. One moment, please."

As she types, I let my gaze drift around the boutique. Cream marble floors, soft jazz humming from the speakers, glass display cases lit like they hold artifacts from another world. And maybe they do. Months ago, I would've never dared step inside a place like this. I don't belong here, not with my cracked phone screen and grocery clerk uniform stuffed into my bag.

But Max… he's worth it. It's his birthday.

I glance at the shiny black gift bag in my hand, the one I'll soon be placing the jacket into. He's talked about owning something from Luthier since high school. Said it would make him feel like he belonged somewhere better. I've been saving for over a year. Every extra shift. Every skipped meal. Every time I told myself I didn't need a new phone or a decent pair of shoes.

His dream mattered more than mine.

"Found it," the receptionist announces. "We'll have it wrapped up for you. Please take a seat."

I nod, smiling with thanks, and sit by the window. I pull out my battered iPhone 7, thumb hovering over Max's contact. No message from him yet. Not even a simple "Hey, where are you?" I check his status, he was online twenty minutes ago.

He's probably with his friends. Celebrating. That's fine.

I stare at the phone a little longer before the receptionist returns with a sleek black box tied with silver ribbon. "Here you go," she says cheerfully.

"Thanks," I reply, rising quickly. I press the box to my chest like it's a lifeline.

Next stop: cake.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm standing in front of Max's apartment building, a cake box in one hand, Luthier jacket in the other. I buzz his apartment.

No answer.

I try again. Still nothing.

That's odd.

I hesitate for a second, then climb the stairs. He usually leaves the door open. I twist the knob.

Unlocked.

"Max?" I call, pushing the door open with my hip. "Happy birthday, babe! I have a surprise for you!"

No response.

And then… laughter.

A woman's laugh.

I freeze. That voice is familiar.

I follow it like I'm possessed. Down the narrow hallway, to the bedroom door cracked open just enough.

I push it fully open.

And the world stops.

Max is in bed. With Tracy. His "study partner." The one I always had a weird feeling about. Her legs are wrapped around him, her hair sprawled across the pillows like a silk curtain, and his mouth is on her neck, laughing as if this is just another Tuesday.

I dropped the cake box.

The sound is soft. Too soft for what it deserves.

Both of them jump. Max stares like I've walked in from another life.

"Narda?" he mutters, grabbing at the sheets. "What are you… why are you here?"

"Why am I here?" I echo, my voice shaking. "It's your birthday. I…I got you the jacket. From Luthier. I saved for a whole damn year."

Tracy doesn't bother covering herself. She smirks, running a hand through her hair. "Guess your little charity girlfriend didn't get the memo."

"Shut up," I snap, my heart beating so loud it's deafening.

I turn to Max, still clutching the gift box like it'll keep me from crumbling. "Tell me this is a mistake. Tell me this isn't what it looks like."

He exhales slowly, like I'm the one inconveniencing him. "Narda… you shouldn't have come."

"I shouldn't have come?" My voice cracks. "I sacrificed everything for you, Max. My savings. My time. I gave you everything. And this is how you repay me?"

He stands, slipping on his jeans. "You don't get it. Tracy's dad is connected. He offered to help me finish college… real help. Not you scraping together grocery money like I'm your charity case."

I feel like I've been slapped.

"I did it because I loved you," I whisper.

"Well," he says, voice flat, "that's not enough anymore."

My throat tightens. "You said we'd build a life together."

He shrugs. "That was before I realized we don't even live in the same world. You're stuck, Narda. You didn't go to college. You're just… a grocery clerk. I need more than that."

"Say it clearly Max," I murmur, even though I already know.

He looks me dead in the eye. "You're not my type anymore."

"Loserrr…" Tracy makes the L shape over her forehead before she bursts out laughter

The words crash over me like a tidal wave.

A loser. That's what he sees when he looks at me now.

Not the girl who loved him before he had a damn thing to offer.

Not the girl who believed in him when he barely believed in himself.

I can't breathe. My legs move before my mind can catch up. I stumble out of the room, out the building, down the street… tears blinding me, the sound of his voice echoing in my ears like a curse:

You're not my type anymore.

You're stuck.

Loser.

I don't know how far I walk.

Or how long.

All I know is the lights blur and the city feels colder than usual. People pass me in pairs, arms wrapped around each other like shields against the world. I keep moving, chest hollow, heart numb.

Then…music.

Bass pulses through the ground, low and steady like a heartbeat I'm trying to match. Neon flickers overhead: a bar I've never noticed before. The bouncer barely glances at me before waving me in.

Inside, the air is thick with sweat, perfume, and other people's sins. The music is a living thing.. loud, reckless, relentless. Perfect.

I press to the bar, order something strong, and drink it down in one go. It burns like everything I'm trying to forget.

Then I move.

Onto the floor. Into the noise.

I let the beat carry me, let my hips sway like I still remember how to feel good in this skin. I dance harder… shaking my butt to the sexual beat like I can shake Max off me. Like I can forget what he called me. A loser. A burden. Not enough.

I spin again, and that's when I feel it.

A presence.

A heat behind me that doesn't touch… just watches. I turn, breath catching in my throat.

A man.

Tall, broad-shouldered. Shirt dark, collar loose. Eyes darker still. He's across the room, but the crowd seems to bend around him. Like even chaos respects his space.

His gaze is locked on me.

Unblinking. Unapologetic.

Like he sees something in me no one else ever did.

My breath hitches.

He starts walking.. slow, deliberate, like he's certain I won't move.

And I don't.

And just like that, the music fades, the pain dulls, and the world tilts again.

Only this time, it's not from heartbreak.

It's from him.