BABYSITTING MY BULLY

POV DARCIE

The Sterling gate wasn't just a gate; it was a physical punch to the gut. Black wrought iron, taller than two men, closing behind me like a trap. Like the final nail in the coffin of my old life. My dad had promised we'd work things out. He'd promised the house, my school, everything would be fine. Dad lied.

My backpack felt heavier than usual, not just with books but with the weight of every broken promise. I dug my nails into my palms, trying to focus on the biting chill of the Aurelia evening instead of the tremor in my hands. New mission: survive the Sterlings. New reality: I was their charity case, Charles Sterling's personal babysitter. His babysitter. The thought made bile rise in my throat.

The path to the front door was paved with imported stone, flanked by perfect hedges that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. My sneakers scuffed against the pristine surface, leaving tiny, defiant marks. The house itself wasn't a house; it was a fortress of glass and steel, glinting under the setting sun like a monstrous diamond. It screamed "we own everything," and apparently, that now included me.

I knocked. A sharp, almost aggressive rap. No answer. I waited, the silence pressing in on me, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic – a sound I suddenly missed with an ache in my chest. I knocked again, harder. Still nothing. Great. First day, and I was already stranded on the doorstep, feeling every ounce of my forced humility.

Just as I was about to consider finding a hidden service entrance – because of course there'd be one – the door swung open. Not by Mrs. Sterling, the ice queen with blonde hair that defied gravity, but by him.

Charles Sterling.

He was leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips that was sharper than any knife. His hair, golden and perfectly messy, fell over eyes the color of a stormy sea. He was wearing a dark blue varsity jacket with a gleaming 'S' on the chest, a white t-shirt stretched over a chest that looked like it could stop a truck, and ripped jeans. He looked like every single billboard model, every popular movie star, every reason why I hated St. Jude's Academy. And now, he looked like my personal warden.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice a low rumble that always made the girls at school go weak at the knees. For me, it just made my hackles rise. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, look what my dad bought. Right on time, Miller. Almost thought you'd try to make a run for it."

My backpack slid a little, threatening to fall, but I clutched it tighter. "Unlike some people, Charles, I actually respect my obligations." My voice came out steadier than I expected, a small victory.

He pushed off the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, blocking my path. His