Chapter 4 - The Cold War
The toddler, whose name she later learned was Dante, spat the dirt onto the rug with an indignant squawk.
Nora stood up, dusting off her hands, and surveyed the remaining three children: Leo (the twelve-year-old rebel with the candelabra), Mia (ten, fierce, holding the terrified Pomeranian like a tactical shield), and Chloe (eight, the quiet mastermind in the corner watching everything with calculating coldness).
"All right," Nora said, clapping her hands once with a sharp, crisp sound. "Here are the new rules. One: if you break something, you clean it up. Two: you do not throw heavy metal objects at the staff unless they throw first. Three: my name is Nora, not 'the new one,' not 'victim,' and certainly not 'hey.' Understood?"
Leo lowered the candelabra, scowling. "You're just another gold-digger Dad bought off the street. You won't last a week. The last one cried in the pantry until Uncle Victor drove her away."
"I am not a gold-digger, I am an asset," Nora corrected deadpan, walking right up to him until he was forced to look up into her unblinking gaze. "And unlike the last twelve nannies, I don't care if you like me. I am here because your father paid three-point-five million dollars for my company, and I take my job description very seriously. Now, clean up this glass before I make you eat it."
Leo’s jaw dropped. He looked at Arthur, expecting his father to intervene, to defend his honor, or at least yell.
Arthur was leaning against the mahogany doorframe, swirling a glass of scotch he’d procured from somewhere, watching the scene with an expression of profound, unadulterated fascination. He took a slow sip.
"She said clean up the glass, Leo," Arthur rumbled.
The kids stared at their father, then back at Nora, realizing with sudden, chilling clarity that the rules of the house had just fundamentally shifted.
That evening, dinner was served in a cavernous dining hall that felt like a medieval castle. It was a disaster of flying peas and silent glares. Mia tried to dump a bowl of soup into Nora's lap; Nora caught her wrist mid-air with lightning speed, swapped the bowl with a glass of water, and smiled pleasantly.
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"Hydration is important, Mia. Carbs can wait."
Across the table, Arthur watched her from the head of the table. He hadn't laughed in three years. But as he watched his fiercely rebellious daughter stare at Nora in stunned defeat, the corner of Arthur's mouth twitched upward.
