Chapter 3 - THE DRESS AND THE DEMON
The next afternoon, the Carter mansion was transformed into a hive of frantic activity. Caterers in black ties bustled through the grand hall, carrying trays of champagne flutes and silver platters of caviar. Florists arranged towering displays of white orchids along the marble staircases.
Upstairs, in the nursery wing, a completely different battle was underway.
"I am NOT wearing this hideous thing!" Diana shrieked, throwing a tailored velvet dress across the floor. "It scratches my neck! Victoria—my real mother—always bought me silk from Paris!"
Daniel was sitting under his bed, refusing to put on his shiny leather shoes, while David stood in the corner, his lips pressed into a tight, stubborn line, clutching a red marker like a weapon, threatening to color the white walls if anyone came near him.
Naomi sat calmly on a stool in the center of the room. She was wearing a simple, ironed navy-blue dress—the standard nanny attire—with her headscarf neatly tied. She didn't shout. She didn't panic. She pulled out a small wooden box from her bag and set it on the table.
"You know," Naomi said aloud, her voice easily carrying over Diana's panting rage, "when I was a little girl in my village, we didn't have velvet dresses or silk from Paris. We didn't even have shoes until we were eight years old."
Daniel peeked out from under the bed skirt, his curiosity piqued despite himself. "No shoes? How did you walk on rocks?"
"With tough feet," Naomi smiled gently. "And when my mother made us clothes from old rice sacks, we wore them with pride because we knew she spent her night hours sewing them by candle light so we wouldn't be cold."
Diana scoffed, though her voice lacked its earlier bite. "We aren't poor. Our father is the richest man in Lagos."
"He is rich in money, yes," Naomi agreed, looking directly at Diana. "But right now, his heart is very poor. Because every time he looks at you three, he sees children who are angry, lonely, and trying to tear down everything he builds."
David lowered his marker an inch. "Daddy doesn't care about us. He only cares about his oil boats."
Naomi walked over to David, gently taking the red marker from his hand. He didn't fight her. "Your father works because he thinks money can shield you from the pain of losing your mother. He is wrong, of course. Money cannot buy a mother back. But he is doing the only thing he knows how to do."
She picked up the velvet dress from the floor, smoothed down the wrinkles with her hand, and held it out to Diana.
"Tonight, your father is nervous," Naomi continued. "Important people are coming to test him. They want to see if Ethan Carter is weak. If you go down there and throw tantrums, you are helping those people hurt your father. Is that what you want?"
The three children went completely quiet. No adult had ever spoken to them about their father’s feelings. To them, Ethan was an invincible titan who either commanded them or ignored them. The idea that he could be vulnerable—that they had the power to protect or hurt him—was a revelation that stunned their young minds.
Diana looked at the velvet dress. She reached out her small hand and touched the soft fabric. "It really does scratch my neck," she muttered, though her tone was no longer venomous.
Naomi smiled softly. She pulled a soft cotton handkerchief from her pocket. "If I place this silk scarf between the collar and your skin, will you wear it for your father?"
Diana hesitated, then gave a small, dignified nod. "Okay. But only for thirty minutes."
"Thirty minutes is all we need," Naomi said.
Twenty minutes later, the grand staircase echoed with the arrival of high-profile guests. Laughter, jazz music from a live string quartet, and the clinking of crystal glasses filled the atrium. Ethan Carter stood near the bottom of the stairs, clad in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, shaking hands with Minister Olanrewaju—a heavy-set man with sharp eyes and an unforgiving reputation.
"Ah, Ethan," Minister Olanrewaju boomed, his voice echoing over the music. "A fine event. But tell me, where are the heirs to the Carter estate? Rumor has it you keep them locked away because they are... unmanageable."
Ethan’s jaw tightened. He glanced up the stairs, his stomach knotting with familiar anxiety. He braced himself for the inevitable sound of crashing glass or high-pitched screaming that usually signaled his children's arrival.
Instead, a hushed silence fell over the upper balcony.
Descending the marble stairs with slow, disciplined grace came the triplets. Daniel and David wore matching dark suits with small black bowties, their hair neatly combed, their posture straight. Walking between them was Diana, wearing her velvet dress, her head held high like a young princess.
And walking two steps behind them, completely unassuming yet emitting an aura of quiet authority, was Naomi.
The guests parted, murmurs of admiration filtering through the crowd.
"Good evening, Minister," Diana said smoothly, offering a polite, perfectly practiced curtsy that she had refused to perform for six previous nannies. "Welcome to our home."
Daniel and David bowed their heads slightly. "Welcome, sir," Daniel added, his tone calm and respectful.
Minister Olanrewaju’s eyes widened in surprise. He let out a rich, booming laugh, clapping Ethan on the shoulder. "Unmanageable? Ethan, my friend, your competitors spread wicked lies! These are the most well-behaved children in all of Victoria Island!"
Ethan stood frozen, staring at his children as if he were seeing ghosts. For the first time in three years, he saw flashes of his late wife’s elegance in Diana's posture. He saw his own quiet focus in the boys' eyes.
He looked past the children and caught Naomi’s gaze. She gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, holding his eyes for a second before stepping back into the shadows near the pillars, letting the family take the spotlight.
A strange warmth bloomed in Ethan’s chest—a feeling he hadn't experienced since Victoria died. It was hope.
But as the evening progressed, the shadows of the mansion began to move. Standing near the back entrance of the grand hall, watching Naomi with sharp, predatory eyes, was a woman dressed in an extravagant red lace gown.
It was Chief Mrs. Beatrice Adeleke—Ethan’s late wife’s sister, and a woman who had spent the last three years trying to position herself as the next mistress of the Carter empire.
Beatrice watched Naomi with deep, burning hatred. She saw the way Ethan looked at the new nanny. She saw how the untameable triplets obeyed her every silent command.
"Who is that woman?" Beatrice hissed to her assistant standing beside her.
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"Her name is Naomi Johnson, ma'am," the assistant whispered back. "A widow. Poor. Her daughter is at Saint Nicholas Hospital."
Beatrice’s lips curled into a cold, cruel smile. "A poor widow playing mother to my sister's children? I don't think so. Find out everything about her daughter’s medical bills. It's time to show Ethan what kind of desperate leech he has brought into his house."
