Chapter 1 - The Kick
Chapter 1: The Kick
Vivienne’s heel slammed into Noah’s side before I even understood what she was doing. One second he was crawling across the polished oak floor toward the little wooden rabbit beside the sofa. The next, her foot struck his ribs hard enough to roll his twelve-month-old body onto the rug. His scream ripped through the sitting room. “Noah!” I dropped everything and ran. He was already trying to curl himself into a ball, barefoot legs kicking helplessly, his tiny face crimson with terror. I fell to my knees and scooped him against my chest. His fingers immediately twisted into the front of my tunic. His whole body shook. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” But even as I said it, I knew nothing about this was okay. A red mark was already forming along his side. Vivienne Cross stood three feet away in a wine-red designer dress, perfectly styled blond hair framing a face that showed irritation instead of horror. She had just kicked a baby. Grant Mercer’s baby. And she looked angry that Noah had cried.
“Give him to me,” she said.
I stared at her. “What?”
“You heard me.” She stepped forward, extending one manicured hand. “You’re making him hysterical.”
My disbelief disappeared. Something colder took its place. I rose slowly with Noah in my arms and moved backward until the sofa was behind me. Then I shifted him higher against my shoulder and placed my body between him and Vivienne. “Don’t come near him.”
Her expression changed. Not guilt. Offense.
“You forget who you work for.”
“I work for Grant.”
Her lips tightened.
“And my job,” I continued, “is protecting his son.”
Noah buried his wet face against my neck. His sobs came in short, broken bursts, and every one of them made my anger sharper. I had been caring for him for ten months. I knew his sleepy cry, his hungry cry, his angry cry, the ridiculous little squeal he made when he saw strawberries. This was different. This was fear.
Vivienne took another step.
I matched it.
“Move.”
“No.”
“Tessa.”
“No.”
The room was painfully beautiful around us. Afternoon sunlight poured through tall windows. White flowers filled a vase beside the console table. Family photographs stood beneath the small security camera mounted over the entryway. Grant holding newborn Noah. Grant beside Lydia, his late wife. Grant smiling in a way I almost never saw anymore. Everything polished. Expensive. Calm. And in the middle of it, his son was trembling because the woman he trusted had kicked him across the floor.
Vivienne’s eyes moved to Noah. Then to me.
“He needs to learn not to crawl under people’s feet.”
I almost thought I had misheard her.
“He’s one year old.”
“He’s spoiled.”
“He’s a baby.”
“He screams every time someone tells him no because you encourage it.”
My grip tightened around Noah. “Stay away from him.”
For a second neither of us moved.
Then Vivienne lunged.
Her hand shot toward Noah’s arm.
I slapped it away.
The crack echoed under the chandelier.
She stared at her own hand in disbelief.
“Don’t touch him!” I snapped.
Her eyes lifted slowly to mine. “You just hit me.”
“I stopped you from grabbing him.”
“You stupid little—”
She reached again.
This time her fingers closed around my wrist.
Hard.
Pain shot up my arm.
Noah screamed against my shoulder.
“Let go of me.”
“Give me the child.”
“No.”
Her nails dug deeper.
I twisted away, but she held on.
“Vivienne, let go.”
“Do you actually think you matter in this house?”
I yanked my arm free.
She immediately stepped around me toward Noah.
And I slapped her.
Hard.
Her head snapped sideways.
The sound was louder than the first one.
Vivienne stumbled into the small table beside the sofa and caught herself against its edge. One hand slowly rose to her cheek. A red mark spread beneath her fingers.
Everything stopped.
Noah’s crying.
My breathing.
The faint hum of the air conditioner.
Vivienne turned her head back toward me.
I had seen her angry before. I had seen her humiliate staff because her coffee was cold. I had watched her smile at Grant and then sneer at Rosa the second he left a room. I had seen her squeeze Noah’s arm too tightly, snatch toys away from him, and whisper cruel little things she knew he was too young to repeat.
But I had never seen this look.
Humiliation had stripped away every polished layer.
“You hit me,” she whispered.
“You hurt a child.”
“I could have you thrown out of this house tonight.”
“Then do it.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You think Grant will believe you?”
That landed harder than I wanted it to.
Because I didn’t know.
Grant trusted me with Noah. Trusted me with feeding schedules, medications, doctor appointments, sleepless nights, fevers and tantrums. But Vivienne was the woman he took to charity galas. The woman society columns photographed beside him. The woman everyone assumed might eventually become the next Mrs. Mercer.
I was the nanny.
She saw the hesitation.
And smiled.
“There it is.”
I hated her for noticing.
“You know exactly how this works,” she said softly. “You lose your temper. You strike me. You become inappropriate with a child who isn’t yours. Then you invent a story because you’re afraid of being fired.”
My stomach turned.
Noah whimpered.
I felt his small hand against my neck.
Whatever doubt I had disappeared.
“The camera saw everything.”
Her smile vanished.
Just for a fraction of a second.
But I saw it.
Her eyes flicked toward the security camera mounted above the entryway.
And suddenly she was afraid.
I should have understood then that fear would make her more dangerous.
Instead, I looked toward the camera too.
That was enough.
Vivienne followed my gaze to the console table beneath it.
To the heavy ceramic flower vase.
My pulse jumped.
“Vivienne.”
She moved.
Fast.
Her hands closed around the vase.
“No.”
She lifted it.
“Put it down.”
“Who do you think he’s going to believe?”
“Vivienne, don’t—”
She swung.
I twisted my body so Noah was completely behind me.
The vase smashed against the side of my head.
White light exploded across my vision.
For a second I couldn’t hear anything.
Then the room came crashing back.
Noah screaming.
My shoulder striking the sofa.
Something warm sliding down the side of my face.
The vase falling from Vivienne’s hands and landing heavily on the carpet.
I grabbed the sofa with one hand before my knees collapsed. My other arm reached blindly behind me until I felt Noah. He was safe. Crying, terrified, but safe.
“Baby…” I whispered.
Blood ran over my temple.
Vivienne stood frozen.
Her breathing was suddenly uneven.
Not because she regretted hitting me.
Because she was looking past me.
Toward the front door.
I heard the lock turn.
Vivienne’s face drained of color.
The door opened.
Grant Mercer stepped inside wearing a dark charcoal suit, his phone still in one hand.
He stopped.
His eyes moved through the room once.
The broken vase.
Blood running down my face.
Noah screaming behind me.
The red mark across Vivienne’s cheek.
Then his gaze dropped to Noah’s side.
To the bruise already beginning to darken beneath his pale blue shirt.
Grant did not ask what happened.
He slowly closed the door behind him.
Click.
Vivienne immediately stepped toward him. “Grant, I can explain—”
His eyes lifted to her.
And whatever she saw in his face made her stop talking.
I had worked for Grant Mercer long enough to know something most people didn’t.
When he was merely angry, he raised his voice.
When he was truly furious, he became very quiet.
That afternoon, Grant said nothing at all.
He walked toward us.
One slow step.
Then another.
Vivienne backed away.
And as Grant looked from his injured son to the blood on my face, I realized something that made my heartbeat harder than the blow to my head.
He hadn’t decided who to believe yet.
May you like
But he was about to.
And when Grant Mercer finally opened his mouth, the first person he ordered out of that room was not the person Vivienne expected.
