Chapter 3 - Ghosts in the West Wing
"Excuse me?" Julian’s voice dropped an octave, dripping with ice and corporate authority. "You are an employee in my house. You were hired to clean up their behavior, not to lecture me on how I speak in my own residence."
"I was hired to keep them alive and stop them from burning this place to the ground," I corrected, taking a step closer to him. "Seventeen nannies failed because you handed them a war zone and expected them to use polite manners. You want to know why they threw syrup? Why they smashed a priceless vase?"
I pointed directly at Tommy’s bandaged hand. "Because this six-year-old child cut himself on purpose just to see if someone would care enough to stop him. They aren't trying to destroy your house, Mr. Whitaker. They're trying to see if there's anything in this world they can break that will finally make you look at them."
Julian's face flushed a dark, angry crimson. He opened his mouth to deliver what I was certain would be my immediate firing, but his eyes drifted past me to the three boys huddled together on the stairs.
Tommy was staring up at his father, his eyes wide, terrified, but for the first time in months, filled with a flickering, desperate hope.
Julian closed his mouth. He smoothed his suit jacket with a quick, nervous motion, his hands visibly shaking for a split second before he thrust them into his pockets. "Clean this mess up," he muttered, avoiding my gaze. "My assistant will have contract paperwork sent to your room. You have a thirty-day probation period. If they break one more thing..."
"If they break one more thing, we'll fix it together," I interrupted sharply. "Now go back to your office, Mr. Whitaker. You're making my patients nervous."
Julian stared at me for three long seconds, a storm of unreadable emotions flitting across his sharp features, before he turned on his heel and strode back up the stairs, the door to his private study slamming shut with a heavy, reverberating thud.
I turned back to the triplets. They were staring at me like I was a superhero who had just punched a dragon.
"Did you... did you just yell at Daddy?" Danny asked, his jaw practically on his chest.
"I didn't yell. I educated," I corrected, sitting back down on the step beside them. "Now, the bleeding has stopped. Who's going to help me wash this sticky stuff off before we go find where the real food in this castle is hidden?"
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Bobby looked at his brothers, then slowly reached out a tiny, syrup-stained hand and touched my elbow. "In the West Wing," he whispered mysteriously. "The door with the big lock. That's where the bad ghosts live. That's why Daddy screams at night."
I froze. In a house full of billionaire secrets, the mention of a locked door usually meant something sinister. But looking at Bobby’s hollow, shadowed eyes, I realized the ghosts in this house weren't supernatural. They were human.
