Chapter 2 - The Art of Counter-Strategy
At 6:45 PM, Claire stepped out of her room, smoothing down her jeans and stepping carefully across the upper landing. Her eyes scanned the floorboards. Sure enough, near the top of the grand staircase, a tightly strung piece of fishing line was anchored between the banister and an antique vase, positioned right at ankle height, with a plastic bucket of soil and writhing earthworms balanced precariously on the chandelier bracket directly above.
Claire didn't step over it. Instead, she knelt down, carefully untied the fishing line, lowered the bucket safely to the floor, and picked up the soil-covered worms with her bare hands, examining them with clinical interest.
From behind a nearby pillar, three identical sets of wide gray-blue eyes peeked out.
Noah, Caleb, and Miles Moretti stared in utter disbelief as their master trap was dismantled in less than thirty seconds without a single drop of panic or frustration.
Claire turned her head slowly toward the pillar. "You know, if you're going to use red wrigglers, you need a more acidic soil base, or they won't survive the indoor temperature. Also, fishing line is too reflective. Black nylon thread next time."
Caleb stepped out from behind the pillar, his jaw slack. "How did you... you didn't fall!"
"I have a six-year-old daughter, boys," Claire said, standing up and dusting off her hands. "Compared to what Lily leaves scattered across our living room floor in the dark, your tripwire is a gentle massage."
Miles, the quietest of the triplets, stepped out slowly, his small hands shoved deep into his pockets. "You aren't screaming."
"Should I be?" Claire asked innocently.
"The last lady cried for twenty minutes and called her mother," Noah crossed his arms, trying to mimic his father's stern posture. "Then she locked herself in the guest room until the driver came."
"Well, I'm not your last lady," Claire smiled warmly. "And dinner is in fifteen minutes. If you boys want to wash up, I’ll show you how to make garlic bread that actually tastes good, instead of whatever rubbery toast the kitchen usually sends up."
The three boys exchanged bewildered glances. No nanny had ever talked to them like equals. No one had ever critiqued their traps with technical advice instead of scolding them.
"We don't eat with outsiders," Noah muttered, turning on his heel.
"Suit yourselves," Claire shrugged. "More garlic butter for me."
When Claire walked into the massive, formal dining hall ten minutes later, Adrian Moretti was already seated at the head of the twenty-foot mahogany table. He looked up as she entered, his dark gaze sharp.
"You survived the first three hours," Adrian noted, cutting a piece of roasted lamb with cold precision. "Congratulations. You’ve outlasted nanny number four."
"Thank you, Mr. Moretti," Claire said, taking a seat a few chairs down. "Your sons have wonderful imaginations. Though their engineering skills need some work."
Adrian stopped chewing. His gaze narrowed slightly. "What did they do?"
"Let's just say earthworms make terrible interior decorators," Claire replied smoothly, serving herself a portion of vegetables.
Before Adrian could question her further, the dining room doors pushed open. Noah, Caleb, and Miles marched in, looking uncomfortably clean, and sat down in their usual seats. Martha followed closely behind, her eyes wide with suppressed amusement as she placed a plate of freshly baked, golden-brown garlic bread in the center of the table.
Adrian stared at the bread, then at his sons, and finally at Claire. A heavy, pregnant silence filled the room. The Moretti boys never sat down for dinner without a fight, and they certainly never ate anything that wasn't strictly approved by their dietary nutritionists.
Caleb reached out cautiously, grabbed a piece of the garlic bread, and took a bite. His eyes widened. He looked at Claire, then quickly looked away, chewing furiously.
Adrian took a sip of his red wine, his eyes never leaving Claire’s face. "What kind of game are you playing, Mrs. Donovan?"
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"It's not a game, Mr. Moretti," Claire met his gaze unflinchingly. "It's called parenting. You should try it sometime."
The dining room instantly plunged into absolute zero. Martha gasped, stepping backward into the shadows. Even the triplets stopped chewing, their breath hitching as they waited for their father’s explosive fury. Everyone knew that no one spoke to Adrian Moretti like that—let alone a broke single mother hired off a desperate agency list.
