My Husband Made My Abuser’s Daughter Our Nanny

I wake to the weight of Sterling's hand in my hair.

Not pulling. Never pulling. Just... there. Fingers threading through the strands with mechanical precision, the way you'd groom a show dog. The morning light filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning our bedroom into a fishbowl of gold and glass. Thirty stories above Manhattan, and I can't breathe.

"Happy birthday to our little prince," Sterling murmurs against my temple. His cologne—something obscenely expensive that smells like cedar and control—fills my lungs. "I thought we'd have breakfast brought up. The chef is preparing Nico's favorite."

Nico is one. He doesn't have favorites yet.

I sit up slowly, and Sterling's hand falls away. He's already dressed in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than most people's cars. His dark hair is perfect. Everything about Sterling King is perfect, which is exactly the problem.

"I was thinking," I say, keeping my voice light, "maybe I could take Nico to Central Park today. Just the two of us. There's a new playground near—"

"Selene." He says my name like a period at the end of a sentence. "You know I can't allow that."

Allow.

The word sits between us like a stone. I touch the scar on my wrist without meaning to, that raised line of tissue I usually hide under bracelets and long sleeves. Sterling's eyes track the movement. He always notices.

"It's just the park," I try again.

"It's never just anything." He stands, adjusting his cufflinks. "The world isn't safe for you, darling. You know that better than anyone."

I do know. Ten years in a basement taught me exactly how unsafe the world can be. But Sterling saved me from that hell, married me, gave me this penthouse palace and a son I'd die for. I should be grateful. I am grateful.

So why does it feel like I'm still in a cage, just one with better furniture?

---

The afternoon arrives with Sterling.

He's early—he's never early—and he's not alone. The woman beside him is young, maybe twenty-two, with honey-colored hair and a face that makes my stomach drop through the floor. I'm holding Nico on my hip in the living room when they walk in, and the vase I'd been reaching for slips from my other hand.

Crystal explodes across marble. Nico starts crying.

But I can't move. Can't breathe. Because I know that face.

I know those eyes that watched through the basement door crack while I screamed. I know that small, pursed mouth that never called for help, never told anyone, just observed my suffering like I was an animal in a zoo.

"Selene, darling, this is Ashley Boyd." Sterling's voice comes from very far away. "She'll be staying with us as Nico's nanny. You've been so tired lately, and I thought—"

The room tilts. My chest constricts, ribs crushing inward, lungs forgetting how to pull air. Nico is wailing now, frightened by my fear, and I'm trying to back away but my legs won't work.