Nanny Bil-aries

Baxon's POV

“I just want to know what the hell is going on, Baxon!”

My twin brother's voice was a blade of ice, cutting through the opulent silence of the Cavendish Sky Tower Residence. I stopped pacing the length of the living area, rubbing the tension from the back of my neck. Julian had the paper Isabella-Amanda Quispe, I had to remind myself-had given me crumpled in his fist.

“I’m just as thrilled as you are, Jule,” I muttered, my gaze sweeping over the panoramic view of the city. The lights felt cold tonight, reflecting the pit in my stomach. “It’s Víctor Salvatierra calling, not Amanda. And I already knew Mom was restless, but I thought she’d stick to the usual, you know? A weekend trip to the coast, another one of her spiritual retreats.”

Julian flung the paper onto the glass coffee table with a sharp exhale that was almost a hiss. "This isn't restless, Baxon. This is an orchestrated vanishing act. 'A long vacation with some guy named Jean Pierre Valdez'?" He repeated the name with a perfect dismissive curl of his lip. "The woman is supposed to be an heir to half a billion in holdings, and she's running off with a phantom from a chat room. It's pathetic. It's a liability. And it's not her."

I walked over, picked up the paper, and smoothed the creases. "You saw the email, Jule. She sounded…excited. Maybe a little manic. But it's her handwriting, her flowery way of saying she's gone to find herself and might elope." I forced a light tone, though it sounded hollow. "We should be happy. She finally gets to stop pretending to be a secretary and an Uber driver just to prove she's 'grounded'."

Julian turned, his clear, intense blue eyes pinning me. He and I looked near identical-the same chiselled features and dark hair-but the look in his eyes was always the divider. My own were usually warm, if guarded; his were always analytical, cold.

“Don’t be an idiot, Baxon. Our mother doesn’t do anything without a reason that will benefit her at the end. A spur-of-the-moment weeks-long silent retreat is not her style. Leaving Tifania without a word, without any contingency plan, is not her style. Not even for a new lover. We have to concentrate on what she left behind.” He pointed at the crumpled paper. “This is the only piece of clean information she gave us. We need a nanny for Tifania. A live-in one. Urgently.

I snorted, leaning back against the sleek marble countertop of the kitchen. "A live-in nanny? You want to bring some stranger into the Sky Tower? Jule, we have enough secrets tucked away in the Blackwell Vault as it is. We barely tolerate Amanda Quispe knowing the password to the wine cellar. A live-in nanny is a security threat, a walking liability, and probably an endless distraction.

“You'd rather forget Tifania exists?” Julian shot back, his voice slipping to a deadly low. “Because if we're