enticing (the rewrite) — one (Patreon)

Hired to care for his son, Y/N never expects to become the one person Harry Styles can’t keep at a distance.

author's note: Hello, my loves! Welcome to the completely rewritten version of Enticing. After rereading the original, I realised just how much I still adore this story and its potential, but I also knew I wanted to rebuild it with stronger writing, more realistic pacing, deeper character development, new scenes, and completely rewritten dialogue.

The original version will remain available exactly as you voted, so this is not replacing it. Think of this as a new way to experience the story you already know and love.

Chapter One is free here and on Tumblr so everyone can get a feel for the rewrite. From Chapter Two onward, the story will continue exclusively on Patreon through the Enticing tier and All Access tier. I really hope you love this new beginning as much as I do.

word count: 16k

At five twenty-seven in the morning, Harry stood in the shadowy expanse of the kitchen, Oliver’s warm, solid weight tucked securely against his chest. A baby bottle sat in a bowl in the sink, warming beneath a steady stream of hot tap water.

The townhouse was dead silent, save for the rush of the tap and the restless, wet sounds coming from the infant in his arms. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan remained mostly dark, the towering buildings opposite reduced to scattered, glowing squares of light. The city would begin moving properly within the hour. Harry had already been awake for three.

Oliver shifted against his collarbone and released another strained, high-pitched whimper.

“I know,” Harry murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp in the quiet room. He adjusted the soft muslin cloth draped over his shoulder, tucking it beneath the baby’s damp cheek. “It’s coming.”

His answer appeared to be entirely insufficient.

Oliver’s tiny face scrunched tight, and the whimper escalated into a full cry. It was sharp and thin, cutting straight through the tranquility of the house. Harry sighed, lifting the boy higher against his shoulder, and began pacing the length of the marble kitchen island. He resumed the slow, bouncing rhythm that had kept Oliver settled for most of the night.

Most, however, was a generous description.

Oliver had slept in short, fitful bursts, waking the second Harry attempted to lower him into the cot. At first, Harry had assumed he was hungry. Then he had changed him, checked his temperature, and walked him through every room upstairs. Nothing appeared to be wrong. Oliver simply refused to be put down.

Harry had finally stopped trying around four.

His laptop sat open on the island beside a neat stack of printed reports, the screen casting a harsh blue glare across the marble. A financial summary from the Ontario branch filled the display, though Harry had read the same paragraph four times without retaining a single word.

The figures were wrong.

He knew that much. What he had not yet determined was whether they were wrong because someone was incompetent, or because someone was deliberately hiding something.

Under ordinary circumstances, Harry would have already found the answer and fired the responsible party. This morning, however, he was wearing an old grey T-shirt with a damp patch of spit-up near the collar, and the most significant executive decision he had managed to make was whether Oliver’s crying sounded tired or hungry.

Oliver turned his face, rooting blindly against Harry’s chest.

“Hunger it is.”

Harry returned to the sink and shut off the tap. He shook the bottle, placed a few drops against the sensitive inside of his wrist to test the heat, and carried it back toward the island. Sinking onto a barstool, he supported Oliver along his forearm and gently guided the teat toward his mouth.

The crying stopped instantly.

Harry let out a long, heavy exhale through his nose. “Could’ve made that clearer.”

Oliver drank frantically, pulling at the bottle as though he had been deprived for days rather than fed shortly after three o'clock.

Harry watched the steady rhythm of his son's swallowing for a moment before shifting his attention to the glowing laptop screen. Reaching across the island, he scrolled through the report with his free hand.

The branch had exceeded its monthly operating budget for the fourth consecutive month. The provided explanation listed recruitment, travel, and client entertainment expenses, but the amounts glaringly failed to correspond with the supporting documents.

Harry read the total again. He had seen the exact number the previous evening. He should have remembered it effortlessly. Instead, he found his focus drifting, obsessively checking that Oliver’s nose remained clear against the plastic rim of the bottle and that the angle of his little head was perfectly supported.

Beside the laptop, his phone began to vibrate, buzzing angrily against the countertop.

Andrew’s name flashed across the screen.

Harry swiped to accept the call, awkwardly pressing the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he wouldn't have to disturb Oliver. “Morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Styles,” Andrew replied. His voice was impossibly alert despite the hour. “I apologize for calling so early, but Mr. Wilson has requested that the Canada review be postponed.”

Harry’s attention snapped into focus, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “Why?”

“He claims he has an unavoidable commitment this morning.”

“His commitment is the review.”

“That was also my understanding, sir.”

Oliver paused in the middle of his bottle, letting out a soft breath. Harry lowered the plastic slightly, waiting patiently until the baby rooted for it and began drinking again.

“What time did he send the request?” Harry asked quietly.

“Four fifty-two.”

“And he expected us to see it before the meeting?”

“He sent it directly to me.”

Harry stared at the financial report on his screen. Wilson had dodged two calls the previous week and supplied only partial records after being explicitly asked for a complete breakdown of the branch’s expenses.

The timing was not accidental. The man was stalling.

“Tell him the meeting remains at eight,” Harry ordered.

“Yes, Mr. Styles.”

“If he does not attend, legal can conduct the review without him.”

Andrew paused briefly. “I’ll make that perfectly clear.”

“Do.” Harry shifted his shoulder, catching the phone just before it slipped from his ear.

“There is also the interview this afternoon,” Andrew continued, moving seamlessly to the next crisis. “The agency confirmed that Ms. Y/L/N will arrive at two.”

Harry’s gaze dropped back to Oliver. The baby's eyelids had begun to flutter, heavy with milk and sleep. One tiny hand rested against Harry’s fingers, opening and closing in a slow, purposeless rhythm.

“I remember.”

“I have placed her file in the car for you.”

“I read it last night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The background report was incomplete.”

“It included her criminal record check, employment verification, driving history, qualifications, and references.”

“It did not include the final response from the Walters.”

“Mrs. Walters returned my call after you left the office. I added her statement this morning.”

Harry looked back at the laptop, though he was no longer seeing the numbers on the screen. “What did she say?”

“That Ms. Y/L/N worked for the family for one year and nine months. She cared for all three children and frequently traveled with them. Mrs. Walters said they offered to significantly increase her salary if she relocated to California with them.”

“And she declined.”

“Her mother and sister live in New York.”

Harry had already seen that in the agency file. He had also seen that Y/N was twenty-five—years younger than every permanent nanny he had interviewed so far.

“She has limited experience with infants Oliver’s age,” Harry argued.

“She completed an infant care placement during university and has current first aid and CPR certification.”

“That is not the same as caring for one every single day.”

“No, sir.”

Andrew’s calm agreement irritated him infinitely more than an argument would have.

Harry adjusted Oliver’s weight again, glancing toward the digital clock glowing on the oven display. Five thirty-four.

“I’ll conduct the interview at the office,” Harry decided.

There was a loaded silence on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Styles, the position is based in your home.”

“I’m aware.”

“She should meet Oliver.”

“She will if the interview progresses.”

“The agency was told she would be meeting both of you.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together.

Andrew continued, his tone careful but unyielding. “I have left two hours open in your schedule and arranged for the car to return you to the townhouse after the Canada review.”

“The Delaney meeting is at eleven.”

“It remains at eleven.”

“And lunch with McAllister?”

“Moved to Thursday.”

“I’m in Boston on Thursday.”

“Friday, then.”

“I have the board on Friday.”

“I’ll resolve it before you arrive.”

Harry said nothing. Andrew had worked for him long enough to recognize that his silence did not mean agreement. It meant he was out of excuses.

“The interview remains at two, Mr. Styles,” Andrew added softly. “Unless you would like me to cancel it.”

Harry looked down at Oliver, watching his son's chest rise and fall in a peaceful, milk-drunk sleep that had taken three hours to achieve.

Harry gently untangled Oliver’s tiny fingers from his own. “No.”

“Very well.”

“Have Wilson’s full expense records printed before I arrive.”

“They are already on your desk.”

“And Andrew?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Call the Walters again.”

A quieter pause followed. “I spoke with them less than eight hours ago.”

“I want to speak with them myself.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

Harry ended the call and tossed the phone onto the marble counter beside his laptop.

Oliver had finally closed his eyes. Harry lifted him carefully, settling the warm weight against his shoulder, and began rubbing his back in slow, firm circles. The movement had become entirely automatic over the past several months. So had the waiting.

A small burp came a minute later.

Harry held him upright for several more minutes, watching the red digits on the oven clock advance while the financial reports glowed ignored beside him.

He knew the interview needed to happen. The previous nanny had left almost a week earlier after her husband suffered a massive stroke. Harry had not blamed her. He had paid her final month in full and arranged a private car to take her to Connecticut the morning she received the call.

He had also naively assumed replacing her would be straightforward.

It had not been.

The first candidate had arrived twenty minutes late and blamed traffic without bothering to call. The second had excellent references, but admitted she preferred caring for older children and hoped someone else could manage Oliver during the night. The third had spoken about infants as though they were a temporary inconvenience before the interesting stage began.

Harry had ended each interview early.

Andrew believed he was searching for reasons to reject everyone. Harry believed the reasons were obvious.

He looked at the baby sleeping soundly against his shoulder. Choosing poorly was not a harmless mistake. It was not a bad contract he could renegotiate, or a useless executive he could replace after a disappointing quarter.

Oliver could not tell him if someone ignored his crying. He could not explain that he had been left alone for too long, or handled carelessly when no one was watching.

Harry would be trusting a stranger with the only part of his life he could not rebuild if something went wrong.

Downstairs, the front door chimed softly, echoing up through the quiet townhouse.

Harry glanced toward the clock again. Half past five. Mrs. Johnson arrived every weekday at exactly five-thirty. She was never early, and she was never late.

A moment later, her familiar footsteps approached the kitchen. “Good morning, Mr. Styles.”

Harry turned as she removed her coat. “Morning.”

Her sharp, experienced gaze moved from Oliver to the open laptop, and then to the half-empty bottle sitting by Harry’s hand. “Has he been awake long?”

“On and off since two.”

Mrs. Johnson placed her handbag inside the mudroom cupboard reserved for the household staff. She had worked for Harry for three years and knew the townhouse’s routines better than anyone except him.

“Has he eaten?”

“Three ounces just now. Two at three-fifteen.”

“Has he been sick?”

“A small amount after the earlier bottle.”

Mrs. Johnson meticulously washed her hands at the sink before approaching. Harry shifted Oliver slightly as she stepped close to inspect him.

“He seems settled now,” she said quietly.

“He wakes when I put him down.”

“I can hold him while you prepare for work, Mr. Styles.”

Harry glanced toward the stairs. He needed to shower. The car would arrive in less than forty minutes, and he still had to finish reviewing the Canada report before the eight o'clock meeting.

Even so, he did not immediately hand Oliver over. His arms tightened fractionally.

Mrs. Johnson waited without commenting. Harry appreciated that she did not treat his hesitation as something that required coddling or reassurance.

“He may take the rest when he wakes,” Harry said, passing her the plastic bottle first. “Keep him upright for another ten minutes.”

“Of course, Mr. Styles.”

“He was rubbing his face earlier, but there is no rash. I checked beneath his clothes as well.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it.”

“If he refuses the remainder of the bottle, call me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry adjusted the muslin cloth beneath Oliver’s cheek before carefully transferring the boy into her arms.

The baby stirred at the sudden change in hold. His delicate forehead creased, and his mouth opened as if another cry were gathering in his lungs. Harry’s hands remained hovering near him, ready to take him back.

Mrs. Johnson settled Oliver expertly against her shoulder and moved one warm palm slowly over his back. After several agonizing seconds, his face relaxed.

Harry lowered his hands. “Call me if anything changes.”

“I will, Mr. Styles.”

He picked up his laptop, then stopped. Mrs. Johnson stood near the kitchen island with Oliver secure against her chest. She had cared for him many times before. Harry knew that. He trusted her completely.

Leaving still felt wrong.

He stepped closer and pressed his lips gently against Oliver’s soft hair. “I’ll be back this afternoon.”

Oliver remained fast asleep.

Harry straightened and looked at Mrs. Johnson. “The nanny candidate is arriving at two.”

“I saw the appointment on the household schedule.”

“I’ll conduct the interview myself.”

“Yes, Mr. Styles.”

“If she arrives before I return, she can wait in the sitting room.”

“I’ll make sure she is comfortable.”

“She is not to be left alone with Oliver.”

Mrs. Johnson’s expression did not change. “Understood.”

Harry nodded once and carried his laptop upstairs.

By six-ten, the spit-up stained T-shirt had been replaced by the armor of a crisp white dress shirt, perfectly tailored black trousers, and a charcoal blazer. He fastened his watch, checked his reflection once in the mirror, and adjusted his cuffs until both sat evenly beneath his suit jacket.

The exhaustion remained. It showed faintly in the bruised skin around his eyes, but nowhere else. The vulnerable father was gone.

His phone rang again as he descended the stairs. Harry answered it without bothering to check the screen.

“Styles.”

“Mr. Styles, it’s Benedict,” came the hurried response. “We found another discrepancy in the Ontario accounts.”

Harry’s expression hardened into granite as he reached the ground floor. “How much?”

“Nearly four hundred thousand.”

“Send it to legal, and tell Andrew I want everyone involved in that account inside the conference room before I arrive.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry reached for the brass handle of the front door. Through the arched entryway to the sitting room, he could still see Mrs. Johnson walking slowly back and forth with Oliver asleep against her shoulder.

For one fraction of a second, Harry considered staying.

Then he pulled the door open and stepped out into the crisp morning air, letting the heavy door click shut behind him, effectively removing the townhouse from view.

By the time he slid into the backseat of the waiting town car, his voice had lost every trace of the tired man who had spent the night walking circles through a nursery.

“Benedict,” Harry commanded, his tone icy. “If anyone attempts to leave that building before I arrive, security is to stop them.”

The atmosphere inside Styles Holdings shifted the moment Harry stepped through the revolving glass doors. The low hum of morning chatter flatlined. Behind the sprawling marble desk, the receptionist instantly straightened her posture. Near the lifts, two junior associates dropped their voices to a frantic whisper, while a man Harry recognized from the legal department abandoned his sentence entirely to offer a breathless greeting.

"Good morning, Mr. Styles."

Harry offered a clipped nod in return, not breaking his stride as he headed for the private lift.

As the steel doors slid shut, sealing him inside, he let out a slow, controlled breath. The version of him that had spent most of the night pacing with a fussy baby against his chest was meticulously locked away. Now, his suit jacket sat perfectly across his broad shoulders. His expression was a mask of cold authority, hiding the bruised weariness beneath his eyes so well that no one would dare question it.

When the lift chimed and opened onto the executive floor, Andrew was already waiting.

"The conference room is ready, Mr. Styles," his assistant said, falling seamlessly into step beside him and passing over a slim manila folder. "Mr. Wilson joined the call three minutes ago. Legal has confirmed that the four-hundred-thousand-dollar discrepancy is linked to a consulting account created in January."

Harry flipped the folder open without breaking his brisk pace. His eyes scanned the first page—a stark summary of irregular payments, followed by copies of invoices from a company he didn't recognize.

"Who approved them?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild.

"Mr. Wilson signed the first three," Andrew murmured, keeping his tone carefully pitched for Harry’s ears only as they crossed the expanse of the main floor. "The remaining payments were approved by the regional finance director."

"And where is the finance director now?" Harry snapped the folder shut.

"In the conference room, sir."

Harry’s gaze flicked to the glass walls of the boardroom ahead. Through the panes, he could see several executives already seated around the long mahogany table. Their files were open and their cups of coffee sat untouched. On the massive flat screen at the far end, Jacob Wilson loomed from the Ontario office, his hands folded so tightly beneath his chin that his knuckles were white.

"Anyone else involved?"

"Legal is still reviewing the access records, sir."

"Then they can continue while we speak."

Andrew reached forward, pulling the heavy conference-room door open. The moment Harry crossed the threshold, every person at the table scrambled to their feet in unison.

Harry walked to the head of the table, his posture demanding absolute silence.

"Sit," he said, taking his place without removing his jacket.

The room obeyed immediately. The collective scrape of leather chairs echoed in the quiet space as everyone scrambled to sit. Benedict occupied the seat nearest Harry, while the company’s general counsel sat opposite alongside two members of the internal audit team. At the far end of the long mahogany table, Daniel Mercer, the Ontario finance director, looked as though he had not slept in a week. A thin sheen of sweat caught the harsh overhead lights.

Harry placed the folder flat on the table, aligning its edges with precise, deliberate movements before looking up at the screen.

"Mr. Wilson."

"Mr. Styles." On the monitor, Wilson adjusted his tie, his fingers betraying a slight tremor. "Thank you for accommodating the change in circumstances."

"I did not accommodate anything," Harry replied, his voice deadly flat. "You requested a postponement. I declined."

Wilson’s mouth tightened into a hard line. "Of course."

Harry flipped the folder open to the first invoice. "Perhaps you can explain why your office paid Beaumont Advisory four hundred and twelve thousand dollars over six months."

Wilson’s gaze darted downward, lingering on something just outside the camera’s view. "They were brought in to assist with market expansion."

"What did they deliver?"

"A strategy assessment."

"Where is it?"

Wilson paused.

Harry waited. He let the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating. It became so uncomfortable that Mercer shifted in his chair, the leather squeaking loudly in the quiet room.

"We are still locating the final materials," Wilson said eventually, his voice defensive.

"You paid more than four hundred thousand dollars for work you cannot produce."

"The project was managed by finance."

Mercer’s head snapped up. Harry saw the panic flash in the man's eyes. So did everyone else at the table.

Harry slowly turned his attention to the finance director. "Was it?"

Mercer’s face drained of color. "I processed the payments, Mr. Styles, but the agreement came directly from Mr. Wilson’s office."

Wilson leaned aggressively toward his camera. "That is not accurate."

Hands visibly trembling, Mercer fumbled to open the file in front of him. "Your authorization is attached to each and every invoice."

"I approved the invoices based on the information finance provided to me."

"That information came from your chief of staff!"

Harry rested one forearm on the table. The sudden movement silenced the room. Neither man appeared willing to meet his gaze now.

"Let us simplify this," Harry said softly. "Mr. Mercer, did you verify that Beaumont Advisory actually existed before releasing the first payment?"

Mercer swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "The vendor documentation had already been completed."

"That was not my question."

"No, Mr. Styles."

Harry’s expression remained perfectly neutral, though something infinitely colder settled in his eyes. "And after the second payment?"

"I assumed the due diligence had been handled by the executive office."

"You assumed."

"Yes, sir."

Harry shifted his gaze back to the screen. "Mr. Wilson, did you instruct your chief of staff to submit Beaumont Advisory as an approved vendor?"

Wilson’s jaw clenched. "I would need to review the correspondence."

"You have had more than three weeks to review it."

"I manage a large branch, Mr. Styles. I cannot recall every administrative detail."

"No," Harry agreed calmly. "But I imagine you remember creating a company that shares a registered address with your brother-in-law."

The boardroom went deathly still. No one breathed.

On the screen, Wilson’s face slackened. The mask slipped for less than a second, but it was enough. The man was caught.

Harry closed the folder with a quiet snap.

"Legal obtained the incorporation documents forty minutes ago. Beaumont Advisory was registered by Nathan Cole eighteen days before the first invoice was issued. Mr. Cole is your wife’s brother."

Wilson sank back into his chair, the fight draining out of him. Beside Harry, Mercer stared at the screen as though seeing the entire web of the situation clearly for the very first time.

"That does not prove misconduct," Wilson argued, though his voice lacked its previous bite. "My brother-in-law operates several consulting businesses."

"Then producing the work should be simple."

"The project is confidential."

"Not from the company that paid for it."

Wilson’s tone sharpened with desperation. "I have led the Ontario branch for five years. Revenue has increased every quarter until this one. I have earned more consideration than an accusation based on a shared address."

Harry looked at him for a long, heavy moment. The faint pressure building behind his own eyes had become a dull, throbbing ache that was difficult to ignore. He had consumed half a cup of coffee in the car and nothing else since waking up with the baby, but he refused to let the exhaustion seep into his posture or his voice.

"This is not about a shared address," Harry said, his tone absolute. "This is about fabricated invoices, missing records, and money transferred to a company connected to your family. Your performance in previous years does not purchase immunity from scrutiny."

Wilson reached up, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "I need time to speak with counsel."

"You should."

"Then I assume this meeting is concluded."

"No."

Wilson’s hand froze. Slowly, he lowered it.

Harry turned his head toward the general counsel sitting to his right. "Effective immediately, Mr. Wilson and Mr. Mercer are suspended pending the completion of the investigation. Their access to company systems, accounts, and buildings is to be revoked before this call ends."

Daniel’s chair scraped harshly against the floor as he shifted. “Mr. Styles, I followed the approval process I was given.”

“You processed repeated payments without verifying the vendor or the work,” Harry countered, his tone perfectly level.

“I was told it had already been approved.”

“And when the supporting documents failed to appear, you continued.”

Daniel opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, snapping his jaw shut.

Harry watched him carefully. Daniel had failed, that much was obvious. Whether he had participated deliberately or was simply a convenient, compliant fool was less clear.

“You will have the opportunity to explain your decisions to legal,” Harry said, dismissing him. “Until then, you are not to contact anyone in the Ontario finance department.”

On the screen, Wilson’s face had hardened into an ugly scowl. “You cannot suspend an entire branch’s leadership without damaging operations.”

“I am suspending two people, not an entire branch.”

“You do not understand how closely the office depends on my relationships.”

Harry leaned back slightly, the leather of his chair sighing under the shift in weight. “That may be the first honest thing you have said this morning.”

Wilson stared at him, momentarily struck dumb.

Harry continued before the man could recover. “If the Ontario branch cannot function without one man, then you have failed to build a branch. You have built a dependency. We will correct that, too.” He broke eye contact with the screen and looked to his left. “Benedict. Who is prepared to assume interim oversight?”

“Lauren Patel,” Benedict answered smoothly, already opening another file on his tablet. “She currently leads operations and has been with the branch for six years. Her performance reviews are consistently strong.”

“Has she been informed?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Contact her after legal secures the systems. She reports directly to you until the review is complete.”

“Yes, Mr. Styles.”

Harry turned back toward the massive monitor. “Mr. Wilson, your company devices will be collected within the hour. You may direct further communication through counsel.”

Wilson’s anger finally broke through the careful, polished expression he had tried to maintain. “You have already decided I am guilty.”

“I have decided you should no longer have access to company money while we determine whether you stole it.”

The brutal distinction silenced him completely.

Harry closed the folder. He looked toward the general counsel and gave a single nod. “Proceed.”

The general counsel shifted closer to the microphone and began reading the formal suspension notice in a dry, bureaucratic monotone. Harry listened just long enough to confirm the wording was airtight, then pushed his chair back and stood.

Andrew was already moving, opening the heavy conference-room door before Harry even reached it.

The corridor beyond the glass walls was quiet, though several employees had conveniently found reasons to linger near the printers or chat by the water cooler. Harry did not look at them, his stride long and purposeful as he headed for his office. Andrew followed a step behind.

“Mr. Styles, legal expects the first forensic report by tomorrow afternoon,” Andrew said, checking the schedule displayed on his tablet. “Ms. Patel is available for a call at ten. The Delaney meeting remains at eleven, and your car will leave for the townhouse at one-fifteen.”

Harry entered his office, the heavy door clicking shut behind them, and finally shrugged off his suit jacket. “Move Patel to nine-thirty.”

“That gives you fifteen minutes.”

“I do not need more.”

Andrew stepped forward, placing a fresh stack of perfectly aligned documents on the edge of the desk. “You also have a call with Mrs. Walters at twelve forty-five.”

Harry looked up. “You arranged it.”

“You requested it this morning.”

“I’m aware.”

Andrew paused. He reached across the desk and picked up the empty coffee cup Harry had abandoned the previous day. “Would you like breakfast brought in?”

“No.”

“I’ll ask Daniel to bring something.”

“I said no.”

“Yes, Mr. Styles.” The response was perfectly respectful, yet Andrew still turned toward the door with the obvious intention of ignoring the directive.

Harry sank into the chair behind his desk. “Andrew.”

His assistant stopped, his hand hovering near the doorknob.

“I am capable of deciding whether I’m hungry.”

“Of course, sir.”

“You do not sound convinced.”

Andrew turned slowly to face him again, his expression carefully neutral. “You have been awake since before I called, you did not eat in the car, and you asked Benedict for a figure that was printed directly in front of you.”

Harry’s hand stilled over the top file of the new stack. “I asked him to confirm it.”

“You asked him twice.”

The headache that had been lingering behind Harry’s eyes pulsed, a sharp, rhythmic throb. Nobody else in the building would have dared mention the slip-up. Andrew’s position allowed him slightly more freedom than most, though he rarely abused it.

Harry looked past his assistant, toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city was fully awake now. Traffic moved in slow, crawling lines between the concrete canyons, and the morning light reflected sharply off the glass across other houses.

“I’m fine,” Harry muttered.

Andrew did not argue. He simply waited.

With a quiet sigh, Harry reached for the glass of water on his desk and drank half of it in one go. “Bring something small.”

“Yes, Mr. Styles.”

“And not the oatmeal.”

“I remember.”

Andrew slipped out the door before Harry could change his mind.

For the next hour, Harry moved through his schedule without pausing for breath. He approved the temporary oversight plan for Ontario, ruthlessly rejected a revised proposal from Singapore, and reviewed the dense legal restrictions surrounding Wilson's suspended accounts. By the time Lauren Patel appeared on the screen in his office, the executive floor had returned to its usual, humming rhythm.

She looked remarkably composed on the monitor, despite having received barely twenty minutes’ notice that she was effectively taking over the branch.

“Good morning, Mr. Styles.”

“Ms. Patel.” Harry glanced at the brief summary Benedict had prepared. “You have been informed of the investigation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you understand that the branch cannot discuss the suspensions internally beyond the statement approved by legal.”

“I do.”

“What happens today if I place you in charge?”

Lauren did not waste time pretending to be surprised or offering false humility. “I freeze discretionary spending, meet with department heads, and verify which client commitments require immediate attention. Finance will need temporary approval authority from New York until we understand who had access to the affected accounts.”

“Who takes over your current responsibilities?”

“My deputy can manage daily operations for the next two weeks. After that, we would need to redistribute the workload.”

“What is your biggest concern?”

“Staff confidence.”

Harry folded his hands on the desk, giving her his full attention. “Explain.”

“Mr. Wilson made most senior decisions personally,” Lauren said smoothly. “People will assume the branch is unstable or about to close. If rumors reach clients before we speak to them, they may begin moving accounts.”

“What do you recommend?”

“A direct message from you to senior staff, followed by individual calls to our largest clients. Nothing defensive. We tell them leadership has changed temporarily and operations continue as normal.”

Harry studied her face on the screen. There was no panic. No attempt to flatter him. No unnecessary, empty promises. Just competence.

“And the accounts?” he asked softly.

“I want New York’s audit team to review every vendor created within the last twelve months.”

“They have already begun.”

Lauren nodded once, her expression resolute. “Then I need access to their findings as soon as legal permits.”

“You will have it.” on the monitor, Lauren relaxed by a fraction, her shoulders dropping slightly.

“When can you be in Toronto?” Harry asked.

“I am already here, sir.”

He looked back down at the open file on his desk. Her profile listed New York as her primary office.

“I flew in last night for the quarterly review,” she explained. “Mr. Wilson cancelled it this morning.”

That detail had not reached him. Harry reached for his pen, making a sharp, precise note on the legal pad beside him.

“Remain in Toronto. Benedict will contact you with the temporary authority documents.”

“Yes, Mr. Styles.”

“And Ms. Patel?”

She waited, her expression attentive.

“If anyone asks you to protect the branch by withholding information from this office, you call me directly.”

Her expression shifted, settling into something far more serious. “Understood.”

The screen blinked to black as the call ended. Harry sat back heavily in his leather chair, pressing two fingers firmly against his temple to massage the lingering ache.

A ceramic plate appeared on the corner of his desk with a soft clink.

He looked up. Andrew had returned, carrying a fresh cup of black coffee and a toasted bagel cut precisely in half.

“I asked for something small.”

“It is a bagel, not a banquet.”

Harry picked up one half, the warmth of the toasted bread seeping into his fingers, and returned his attention to the documents. Andrew sat in the chair opposite him, seamlessly opening Y/N’s file.

“The Walters are expecting your call at twelve forty-five,” Andrew said. “I also received the updated contract from the agency.”

Harry took a bite without looking up. “Why was it updated?”

“You increased the salary.”

“I said it seemed low.”

“You instructed me to increase it by ten percent.”

Harry had a vague memory of saying something similar the previous evening, the exhaustion blurring the details. “Fine.”

Andrew placed the revised contract beside him. “The agency has asked whether the overnight schedule is fixed.”

“It is Monday through Friday.”

“They want to know whether Ms. Y/L/N will be expected to respond every time Oliver wakes.”

Harry finally looked up from the forensic report. “She would be the live-in nanny.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why would she not respond?”

“Because being in the home does not necessarily mean being on duty every hour she is inside it.”

Harry set the bagel down. His appetite vanished. “Oliver does not follow office hours.”

“No. But the agency is asking whether nights will be shared, rotated, or entirely assigned to her.”

The question irritated him, though he could not immediately explain why. He had assumed the answer was obvious. The nanny would be there to help. He would remain Oliver’s father. There had been no need to divide the responsibility into a formal schedule with Margaret because she had understood how the household worked.

Y/N would not.

She knew nothing about him, nothing about Oliver, and nothing about the quiet expectations that had developed naturally with someone else.

“Shared,” Harry said eventually, the word tasting bitter.

Andrew clicked his pen, making a note. “What does that mean in practice?”

“It means I will handle nights when I am home unless I have an early meeting or Oliver has already woken several times.”

“That is not especially clear.”

“It is clear enough.”

“For you.”

Harry leveled a glare at him. Andrew remained perfectly composed, returning the stare without flinching.

“The agency wants the arrangement written into the contract so neither party begins the placement with a different assumption,” Andrew explained calmly.

Harry’s attention drifted toward Y/N’s photograph, paperclipped to the inside of the folder. She had not even arrived, and already her employment required more delicate negotiation than some of his senior corporate appointments.

“Two nights,” he said, his voice clipped.

“Two nights assigned to Ms. Y/L/N?”

“During the workweek. The others are mine unless agreed otherwise.”

“And travel?”

“We decide according to the schedule.”

Andrew added another line of shorthand to his notepad. “What about off-duty hours?”

“She has weekends.”

“During the week.”

Harry leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “She lives in the townhouse.”

“She is still entitled to personal time.”

“I did not suggest otherwise.”

“No, sir.” Andrew’s tone remained infuriatingly neutral, though Harry suspected the entire conversation had been carefully orchestrated to force him to consider details he had conveniently overlooked.

“What did Margaret do?” Harry asked, genuine frustration bleeding into his voice.

“She generally finished at seven unless you were delayed. You handled nights when you were home. She helped when you traveled or had early meetings.”

Harry remembered it differently, though perhaps that was only because Margaret had never needed to tell him when she was helping. She had simply appeared in the doorway whenever Oliver cried, sometimes before Harry had even reached the nursery. The arrangement had depended entirely on deep familiarity.

He could not expect that from a stranger.

“Seven,” Harry conceded. “After that, she is off duty unless we have agreed otherwise.”

Andrew wrote it down. “And privacy?”

“What about it?”

“The agency recommends that live-in staff have a bedroom with a lock, and that their room not be entered without permission except in an emergency.”

Harry’s expression hardened into something cold. “Who enters staff bedrooms without permission?”

“Enough families that the agency includes it in their standard recommendations.”

“That is absurd.”

“I agree.”

“Add it.”

Andrew nodded. Harry reached for the second half of the bagel, though he only stared at it. The details bothered him—not because they were unreasonable, but because writing them down made the arrangement feel jarringly permanent. A locked bedroom. Defined hours. Nights assigned in advance.

Deliberate, scheduled space being made inside his home for a woman he had never even met.

Andrew closed the contract. “There is one other point.”

“Of course there is.”

“Ms. Y/L/N has requested confirmation that the interview remains mutual.”

Harry stopped chewing. “What does that mean?”

“It means she is assessing whether the position suits her as well.”

“I understand what mutual means.”

Andrew waited, letting the silence stretch.

Harry placed the bagel back on the plate, wiping a crumb from his thumb. “She requested that specifically?”

“The agency said she asks every family before attending an interview.”

“And families tolerate that?”

“The Walters apparently appreciated it.”

Frowning, Harry picked up her profile again. He scanned the first page, his eyes darting over the familiar text without learning anything new. Twenty-five. Early childhood development. Infant CPR. Three years with the agency. Nearly two years with one family.

Nothing about the file suggested arrogance. Still, the phrase crawled under his skin.

He was offering an exceptional salary, private accommodation, full benefits, global travel, and access to resources most childcare positions could not even fathom providing. Applicants usually arrived at his door eager to convince him they deserved the opportunity.

Y/N, apparently, intended to decide whether he deserved her.

Andrew watched him carefully from across the desk. “Something wrong, Mr. Styles?”

“No.”

“You appear offended.”

“I am not offended.”

“Of course.”

Harry snapped the file shut. “She can assess whatever she likes.”

“I’ll let the agency know.”

“No.”

Andrew paused, his pen hovering over the pad.

“There is no reason to respond,” Harry instructed smoothly.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry looked toward the sleek digital clock on the wall. Ten twenty-six. He had more than three hours before the interview, yet the mere knowledge of it had already begun taking up space at the edge of every other thought.

“Did Mrs. Johnson call?” he asked, suddenly needing to change the subject.

“No.”

Harry reached for his phone, tapping the screen awake. No missed calls. No messages. That should have reassured him. Instead, a familiar spike of anxiety prompted him to open the household monitoring application. He tapped the nursery camera feed.

The cot was empty.

His pulse sharpened, a quick, erratic rhythm against his ribs, before he swiftly switched to the sitting-room feed.

The tension instantly drained from his shoulders. Mrs. Johnson sat near the sunlit windows with Oliver securely in her arms, feeding him the remainder of his morning bottle. The baby appeared perfectly calm. Harry watched the grainy feed just long enough to see his son’s tiny hand curl tightly around the nanny's finger.

Andrew remained perfectly silent across the desk.

Harry locked his phone and set it facedown on the wood. “Something you need?”

“No, Mr. Styles.”

“You were staring.”

“I was waiting for you to finish.”

“I had finished.”

“Of course.”

Harry gave his assistant a dark, warning look. Unbothered, Andrew stood and efficiently gathered the files into a neat stack.

“The Delaneys are waiting in conference room three,” Andrew said briskly. “I’ll have the car ready at one-fifteen.”

Harry rose, his corporate mask sliding flawlessly back into place as he fastened the button of his suit jacket.

Harry left the office before he could say anything else.

By the time he entered the conference room, his attention had returned to the people waiting for him. He greeted them, reviewed the acquisition proposal placed at his seat, and began asking questions before anyone had fully settled.

No one in the room would have guessed that he had slept for less than two hours.

No one would have known he was counting the time until he could return home.

And no one, including Harry, knew whether the woman arriving at two would last longer than the candidates before her.

Y/N had been awake for nearly an hour before her alarm finally rang.

She lay perfectly still beneath her thin duvet, staring up at the familiar, jagged crack running across the ceiling above her bed. Inside the walls, the building's old pipes groaned and clanked as they struggled awake. Somewhere downstairs, a heavy door slammed shut, rattling the floorboards. A car horn blared from the street below, followed closely by the impatient shout of a driver who had clearly decided that seven in the morning was the correct time to begin losing his temper.

On the bedside table, her phone began to vibrate, buzzing angrily against the wood.

Y/N reached for it before the second ring and swiped to silence the alarm.

For a few seconds, she remained exactly where she was, her hand resting heavily on the mattress. The interview was not until two o'clock. She had absolutely no reason to be awake this early, other than the fact that her mind had spent most of the night relentlessly moving through every possible version of the afternoon.

In one scenario, Harry Styles rejected her within the first five minutes because she lacked the specific experience he demanded. In another, he offered her the position, only to reveal a draconian list of expectations that would require her to surrender every waking hour of her life. In the most irritating, vivid version, she said something terribly embarrassing, tripped over a piece of obscenely expensive furniture, and became a hilarious anecdote his household staff repeated for years.

With a heavy sigh, Y/N pushed the duvet aside.

Lying there would not make her any less nervous. It would only give her overactive imagination more time to invent disasters.

The floorboards were freezing against her bare feet as she crossed the small bedroom. Her interview clothes hung from the handle on the outside of her wardrobe, meticulously pressed the night before and carefully covered in plastic. She had learned the hard way to protect her important garments so Patrick wouldn't accidentally brush against them. His wardrobe choices tended to involve loose glitter far more often than hers did.

Y/N gathered her toiletries and padded out to the hallway, stopping short outside the bathroom door.

Water rushed loudly on the other side.

She knocked twice, the sound sharp over the noise of the plumbing. “How long have you been in there?”

“That depends on why you’re asking,” Patrick’s voice called back, muffled by the shower and the heavy wood.

“I need to get ready.”

“You have seven hours.”

“I still need the bathroom.”

“You need to relax.”

Y/N rested her forehead against the cool, painted doorframe, closing her eyes. “You said you had an early shift.”

“I do.”

“What time?”

“Nine.”

“Patrick, it is seven-twelve.”

The water abruptly shut off with a squeal of the ancient taps.

“You are being very aggressive for someone who wants me to help choose her outfit,” Patrick announced.

“I chose it last night.”

The door pulled inward a few seconds later. Patrick stood in the threshold, a cloud of thick, damp steam billowing out into the chilly hallway behind him. He had one towel wrapped securely around his waist and a second twisted expertly into a turban around his head.

He leaned against the frame and looked past Y/N toward her bedroom. “The cream jumper?”

“Yes.”

“With the trousers?”

“Yes.”

“And the brown coat?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. “You already know the outfit.”

“I wanted to hear you say it with confidence.” He flashed a brilliant smile and finally stepped aside to let her pass.

“You are unbearable,” she muttered, slipping past him into the humid heat of the bathroom.

“That is why people remember me!” he called out just before she shut the door in his face.

By the time Y/N emerged, dressed and deeply anxious, Patrick had already made coffee. He occupied most of their tiny kitchen counter, expertly managing a skillet of scrambled eggs. The apartment smelled warmly of melting butter, dark roast coffee, and the obscenely expensive hair product he insisted was a basic living necessity.

He had changed into sharply tailored black trousers and a fitted emerald-green shirt, though the towel miraculously remained twisted around his head.

Y/N walked to the small dining table and set her leather portfolio down with a gentle thud.

Patrick glanced over his shoulder while stirring the eggs with a wooden spoon. “You have checked that three times.”

“Twice.”

“You checked it once before bed, once when you woke up, and again while I was in the shower.”

Y/N pulled out a chair, sat down, and unzipped the folder to verify her resume was still there. “That is still only three.”

“Thank you for proving my point.”

Inside the clear plastic sleeves were perfectly aligned copies of her certifications, glowing references from the Walters, her spotless driving record, and a meticulously typed list of questions she had prepared for the interview. Everything was organized by category.

Patrick set a steaming mug of coffee in front of her, the ceramic clunking softly against the table.

“You know they already have all of that.”

“I know,” Y/N replied, tracing the edge of the folder.

“Then why are you bringing it?”

“Because it is professional.”

“Because you are terrified they will ask for something you do not have.”

Y/N snapped the folder shut and reached for the coffee. “I am not terrified.”

Patrick turned his back, returning to the hob to tend to the eggs. “You ironed the blouse you are not even wearing.”

“I wanted options.”

“You also printed paper directions to the building.”

“My phone could die.”

“You charged it overnight.”

“It could malfunction,” she argued, her voice rising defensively.

“You have two fully charged portable batteries in your bag.”

Out of excuses, Y/N simply brought the mug to her lips and hid behind it, letting the hot ceramic warm her hands.

Patrick turned off the hob and expertly divided the scrambled eggs between two plates. He carried them to the table, set one in front of her, and sat across from her. With a quick tug, he removed the towel from his head, letting his dark, damp curls spring loose around his face.

“You are very good at this,” he said, his tone dropping the teasing edge, becoming much gentler. “The job part, I mean. Not the pretending you are calm part.”

Y/N looked down at her breakfast, a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. “I know I am good.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Patrick just waited, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N picked up her fork, aimlessly pushing the eggs around her plate. “Knowing I am good does not mean he will think I am.”

“Then he is an idiot.”

“He has interviewed four people already.”

“Perhaps they were all idiots.”

“One was a neonatal nurse.”

Patrick paused, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. Y/N watched him visibly reconsider his argument.

“Fine,” he conceded, lowering the fork. “Perhaps he is the idiot.”

“The agency said he is particular.”

“That is the polite word rich people use for controlling.”

“Not always.”

“Usually.”

Y/N took a small bite of her eggs, though her nerves made it difficult to taste them.

The agency had been incredibly careful during their call. They had heavily praised the salary, the benefits, and the stability of the placement. But they had also repeated, more than once, that Mr. Styles valued discretion, punctuality, flexibility, and excellent judgment.

None of those requirements sounded unreasonable on their own. Together, however, they left a dangerous amount of room for interpretation.

Flexibility could mean occasionally staying late when a meeting overran. It could also mean never being able to make plans because an employer believed paying well entitled him to every hour of her day. Discretion could mean protecting a high-profile family’s privacy. It could also mean being expected to ignore behavior she would never accept anywhere else.

Y/N had learned the difference between reasonable expectations and control the hard way.

She reached for her coffee again.

Patrick watched her closely over the rim of his own mug. “The interview goes both ways.”

“The agency said the exact same thing.”

“Good. Then perhaps listen to them, instead of deciding the massive salary means you have to say yes to whatever he demands.”

“I have not decided anything.”

“You checked what your share of the rent will be for the next three months.”

“That is called planning.”

“You also canceled dinner last weekend because you did not want to spend money.”

“I was tired.”

“You ate dry cereal while standing over the sink.”

“It was convenient.”

Patrick lowered his mug, the playful banter draining from his expression. “You need a job, Y/N. You do not need to let someone turn that into leverage.”

Y/N’s grip tightened slightly around the handle of her fork.

The words were not meant to hurt. Patrick would never use them that way. Even so, something cold and uncomfortable stirred beneath her ribs.

James had spent years making every kindness feel like a debt. He had paid for extravagant dinners she hadn't asked for, only to remind her of the cost whenever she dared to disagree with him. He had offered to manage her savings because he was "better with money," then acted deeply offended and wounded when she finally asked to see the account. By the time Y/N understood exactly how much control she had surrendered, James had already convinced her that wanting any of it back made her selfish.

She had promised herself, staring at the ceiling of this very apartment, that she would never mistake dependence for security again.

Patrick’s expression softened as he recognized the dark shift in her eyes.

“I did not mean him,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“I was not comparing this nanny job to James.”

“I know that, too.”

Patrick reached across the small table and nudged her wrist gently with two fingers. “You are allowed to need the money. I only mean that Mr. Styles does not get to know exactly how much you need it.”

Y/N let out a slow, shaky breath, the tension finally leaving her shoulders. “That was already the plan.”

“Good.”

“And I am not afraid of him.”

“You have not met him.”

“I am not afraid of men with expensive offices.”

Patrick’s mouth curved into a smirk. “You have not seen the office.”

“I am interviewing at his home.”

“That is somehow worse.”

Y/N finally smiled, a genuine, relieved expression. Patrick leaned back in his chair in immense satisfaction, as though making her laugh had officially settled the argument.

“Did you research him?” he asked, digging into his cold eggs.

“Only what was relevant.”

“That means yes.”

“I read about the company.”

“And?”

“He owns several businesses.”

“Groundbreaking.”

“He is involved in property, hospitality, and private investment.”

Patrick rested his chin in his hand, fluttering his eyelashes. “You sound captivated.”

“I am trying to understand his schedule!”

“You could have simply read the society pages.”

“I am not interested in who he dates.”

“I didn't say anything about dating.”

Y/N leveled a flat look at him. Patrick’s smile only widened in response.

She rolled her eyes and returned her attention to her plate. “The agency said he has sole custody of the baby. That is the only personal detail I need to know.”

“Do they know what happened to the mother?”

“They did not tell me.”

“Did you ask?”

“No.”

Patrick’s brows shot up toward his hairline. “You are not curious?”

“Of course I am curious. Curiosity does not make it my business.”

“If you take the job, it may become highly relevant.”

“Then he can explain what I need to know when I need to know it.”

Dismissing the topic, Y/N opened the folder again and flipped to her handwritten questions. She had carefully divided them into specific sections:

Oliver’s health and routine.

Household expectations.

Working hours.

Travel.

Emergency decisions.

Privacy.

Patrick reached across the table and boldly rotated the page toward himself.

“May I?”

“You are already reading it.”

His eyes moved rapidly down the list. “What decisions am I authorized to make without contacting you first?”

“That is important.”

“It is also very formal.”

“It is an interview, Patrick.”

Patrick ignored her and continued reading down the page. “When am I considered off duty if I live in the home?”

Y/N nodded, tapping the paper. “The agency said Monday through Friday, but that does not explain evenings or nights.”

“What if the baby cries while you are off?”

“That is exactly why I need a clear answer.”

Patrick looked up, his gaze locking onto hers. “Would you ignore him?”

“No,” Y/N answered firmly.

“Then he will know that.”

“That does not mean I should be permanently responsible just because I happen to be inside the building.”

Patrick tapped the handwritten page with one finger, leaving a small smudge on the paper. “Good. Ask that before you accept anything.”

“I will.”

“What about holidays?”

“It is in the contract.”

“You have not seen the final contract, Y/N.”

“The agency sent a sample.”

“A sample is what people show you before adding the section where you sell them your soul.”

Y/N snatched the page back, shielding it with her arm. “You are not helping.”

“I am helping you remain suspicious.”

“I do not need assistance with that.”

Patrick finished the last bite of his breakfast and stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He carried both empty plates to the sink, turning on the tap, but stopped when he noticed a thick envelope lying beneath Y/N’s folder.

“What is that?”

“Nothing.”

He dried his hands on a tea towel and reached for it.

Y/N moved faster, slamming her palm flat over the envelope.

Patrick stopped and looked down at her.

“It is the electricity bill,” she admitted quietly.

“How much?”

“I handled it.”

“That was not what I asked.”

Reluctantly, Y/N removed her hand and slid the envelope across the table toward him. Patrick opened it, scanned the printed amount, and frowned deeply.

“Why did it increase?”

“The heating.”

“We barely use it.”

“The building barely works.”

He slid the bill back into the envelope and tossed it onto the table. “I can cover more this month.”

“No.”

“You covered the internet when my hours were cut.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“You were waiting for payroll to fix a mistake.”

“And you are waiting for the agency to place you.”

Y/N closed her interview folder much more firmly than necessary, the plastic snapping shut. “I can manage my share.”

Patrick crossed his arms, leaning his hip against the counter. “I know you can.”

“Then do not offer.”

“I am your friend. I am always going to offer.”

“I do not need—”

He lifted one hand, cutting her off before she could finish the sentence. “I know. You do not need rescuing. I am not rescuing you. I am reminding you that you do not have to take a terrible job just because you are afraid of one bill.”

Y/N looked away, fixing her gaze on the window above the sink. The brick building opposite blocked most of the morning light, leaving their small kitchen dim even with the blinds fully open. Beneath the windowsill, their radiator clanked and hissed.

She loved this apartment. She loved the mismatched ceramic mugs, the deep scratches worn into the dining table, and the ridiculous photographs Patrick had taped to the refrigerator. She loved knowing she had paid for every single part of her life herself.

Still, six weeks without permanent work had fundamentally altered the way she looked at each expense. Coffee outside had become an unnecessary luxury. Dinner with friends became something she had to endlessly postpone. A delayed train felt like a personal attack because it risked costing her another fare.

The position with Harry Styles would not merely cover her rent. It would allow her to breathe again.

And that was precisely why she needed to be careful.

“I will leave if he is awful,” she finally said, her voice quiet but steady.

Patrick studied her face. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“If he expects you to answer to some terrifying girlfriend or mother who appears without warning?”

“I will ask who has authority regarding Oliver.”

“If he says you are 'family' but uses it to avoid paying overtime?”

Y/N lifted her chin. “I will remind him that families do not issue employment contracts.”

Patrick smiled, his shoulders relaxing. “That one was good.”

“I have been preparing.”

“If he is rude?”

“I will remain professional.”

“If he is very rude?”

“I will leave.”

“If he is handsome?”

Y/N shot him a withering, flat look.

Patrick straightened up, feigning utter seriousness. “I am just checking whether your judgment remains sound under difficult circumstances.”

“My judgment will be perfectly fine.”

“Have you seen him?”

“A photograph.”

“And?”

“He looks like a man in a suit.”

Patrick stared at her, unblinking. Y/N held his gaze for as long as she could, fighting the twitch at the corner of her mouth.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Liar.”

“He is not relevant.”

“He is the employer.”

“Exactly.”

“You can acknowledge someone is attractive without planning a wedding, Y/N.”

“I did not say attractive.”

“You did not have to.”

Refusing to take the bait, Y/N gathered her empty mug and carried it toward the sink. “You are going to be late.”

Patrick checked the clock on the microwave and swore colorfully under his breath. “I have twenty minutes.”

“You are still barefoot.”

“I work better under pressure.”

“You panic under pressure.”

“That is still a form of productivity!” He hurried down the short hallway into his bedroom, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Y/N shook her head. She washed the dishes, wiped the counter, and returned to her folder. Despite Patrick’s teasing criticism, she methodically checked each document once more.

Beside the folder, her phone screen lit up. An email from the agency.

The interview has been reconfirmed for 2:00 p.m. Mr. Styles will meet you at the residence. Please arrive no more than ten minutes early.

Y/N read the message twice, her stomach doing a slow, nervous roll.

Mr. Styles will meet you.

Not his assistant. Not the housekeeper. Him.

She placed the phone face-down and stared blankly at her list of questions.

Patrick reappeared a moment later, hopping on one foot as he pulled on his shoes, his jacket slung over his arm.

“You have that face again,” he noted.

“What face?”

“The one where you look like you are about to sit a terrifying exam.”

“It was reconfirmed.”

“That is good.”

“It means he has not canceled.”

“That is generally what confirmed means, yes.”

Y/N ignored his sarcasm and carefully slid the plastic folder into her leather tote bag. Patrick watched in amusement as she added her notebook, her wallet, a portable charger, tissues, hand sanitizer, and a sleek pen case containing four identical pens.

“Do all four write differently?” he asked.

“Two are black, one is blue, and one is a spare.”

“That did not answer the question.”

She zipped the bag shut with an air of finality.

Patrick pulled on his coat. Before turning to leave, he crossed the small kitchen space and placed both hands firmly on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.

“Listen to me.”

Y/N looked up, meeting his eyes.

“You know children. You know infants. You know exactly how to speak to parents who are frightened and pretending they are not. He may have more money than everyone we know combined, but that does not make him the expert in the room.”

“He is Oliver’s father.”

“And you will respect that. But he still asked the agency for a professional because he needs one.”

Y/N took a deep breath, letting the words settle into her chest.

Patrick squeezed her shoulders once, reassuringly, before releasing her. “Do not shrink just because the building has a doorman.”

“I do not shrink.”

“I know. I just like reminding you.” He grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, the metal jingling in the quiet apartment. Y/N followed him into the narrow entryway.

“Text me when you get to work,” she said.

Patrick pulled the front door open. “Text me when you arrive at the townhouse.”

“I will.”

“And when you leave.”

“Yes.”

“And during the interview if he turns out to be a serial killer.”

“I am not going to text you while he is actively interviewing me.”

“Then use a code word.”

Y/N folded her arms across her chest, exasperated. “What code word?”

Patrick tapped his chin thoughtfully as he stepped out into the hallway. “Penguin.”

“Why penguin?”

“No one uses penguin naturally in conversation. If you send it, I call the police.”

“You are not calling the police because I texted you the word penguin, Patrick.”

“Then I am coming to rescue you.”

“I thought I did not need rescuing.”

“You do not. I may simply enjoy causing a scene in a billionaire’s lobby.”

Y/N shook her head, but a genuine smile finally broke across her face as Patrick leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her temple.

“You are going to be brilliant,” he promised.

The fierce sincerity beneath his usual teasing made her chest tighten with affection. “I know,” she replied, because she knew he wouldn't accept any other answer.

Patrick grinned, turned, and headed briskly toward the stairs.

Y/N closed the heavy door behind him, locking the deadbolt. As she walked back into the kitchen, the apartment felt suddenly, overwhelmingly quiet.

By one forty-eight, Y/N stood on the pavement across the street from Harry Styles’s home, checking the address on her phone screen for the third time despite knowing perfectly well she had not made a mistake.

The townhouse occupied the better part of a quiet, tree-lined block on the Upper East Side. Pale limestone rose five imposing storeys above the street, its tall, gleaming windows framed by dark ironwork and neatly trimmed greenery. There was no oversized plaque announcing who lived inside, no line of staff waiting by the entrance, and nothing that appeared especially flashy from the pavement.

It was elegant in a way that made extreme extravagance seem perfectly ordinary.

Y/N adjusted the heavy leather strap of her tote bag against her shoulder and glanced down at her phone. Patrick had sent three messages during her train journey.

Have you arrived?

Remember the penguin.

And do not let the house intimidate you.

Houses are just walls with mortgages.

Even ridiculous ones.

Her mouth curved into a faint smile despite the nervous pressure gathering heavily in her stomach.

I’m here. No penguins yet.

His response appeared before she had even locked the screen.

Proud of you. Now go judge him professionally.

Y/N slipped the phone into her pocket, took a deep, steadying breath, and crossed the street.

A small, discreet security camera followed her approach as she climbed the front steps. Before she had the opportunity to press the polished brass bell beside the door, the heavy wood swung inward.

The woman waiting on the other side appeared to be in her late fifties. Her grey hair had been secured into a neat, elegant twist, and she wore a simple dark dress beneath a pale cardigan.

"Ms. Y/L/N?"

"Yes." Y/N offered a warm, polite smile. "Good afternoon."

"I’m Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper. Please, come in."

"Thank you."

Y/N stepped through the doorway and actively fought the instinct to look down at her shoes.

The entrance hall alone was larger than the entire apartment she shared with Patrick. Rich, dark herringbone wood floors stretched beneath her feet, leading toward a broad, sweeping staircase with a curved wooden banister. A massive crystal chandelier hung above them, catching the light, although the afternoon sun pouring through the tall windows made it entirely unnecessary.

The house was breathtakingly beautiful.

It was also strangely, unnervingly still.

Mrs. Johnson gently pushed the heavy front door shut, sealing away the noise of the city. "May I take your coat?"

"Please."

Y/N slipped it off her shoulders and handed it over, careful not to stare too openly at the artwork covering the pristine walls. Some of the pieces looked sharp, modern, and unfamiliar, while others appeared old enough to belong behind thick museum glass.

Mrs. Johnson placed the coat inside a narrow, cedar-lined cloakroom beside the entrance. "Mr. Styles has been delayed at the office, but he should be here shortly. He asked me to apologize on his behalf."

Y/N glanced at the slim silver watch around her wrist. She was twelve minutes early. Technically, Harry had not kept her waiting yet.

"That’s perfectly fine."

"Would you prefer tea, coffee, or water while you wait?"

"Water would be lovely, thank you."

Mrs. Johnson offered a brief nod and guided her through an arched doorway into a formal sitting room.

The furniture was arranged with geometric precision around an ornate marble fireplace. Two plush cream sofas faced one another across a dark wooden coffee table, and floor-to-ceiling shelves covered the entire wall nearest the windows. The books lining the shelves looked as though they had actually been read, which made the room feel slightly less like a staged photograph in an architectural magazine.

Still, something vital was missing.

Y/N had worked inside enough family homes to instantly recognize the usual evidence of children. A brightly colored toy pushed hastily beneath a sofa. A soft blanket abandoned over the back of a chair. A stray bottle waiting to be washed in the kitchen. Framed photographs placed on every available surface by proud parents.

There was absolutely nothing like that here.

The room was completely immaculate. A person could have walked inside and spent an hour sitting on the sofa without ever guessing that a three-month-old baby lived upstairs.

"Please sit wherever you are comfortable," Mrs. Johnson instructed softly before turning to leave and collect the water.

Y/N chose the far end of one cream sofa, placing her heavy bag carefully beside her feet. The stiff cushion barely dipped beneath her weight.

She looked toward the shelves, trying to distract her racing mind by reading the gold-embossed titles along the nearest row. Most concerned architecture, business strategy, history, or fine art. However, a small, worn collection of poetry stood wedged between two much larger, imposing hardcovers, its spine heavily creased from repeated handling.

That surprised her.

She had spent the previous evening scrolling through professional profiles and financial articles about Harry Styles. Not one of them had mentioned poetry. They had described him as ruthlessly ambitious, fiercely private, highly calculating, and unusually successful for his age. One article had devoted an entire sprawling paragraph just to the estimated cost of the skyscraper where Styles Holdings kept its headquarters.

Not a single journalist had mentioned what he read when no one was watching.

Mrs. Johnson returned a moment later, carrying a crystal glass of iced water on a small silver tray.

"Thank you." Y/N accepted the cold glass with both hands. As she took a sip, her eyes caught the quiet glow of an electronic monitor resting on a side table near the doorway.

The digital screen showed the black-and-white corner of a dimly lit nursery. Only part of the cot was visible from the camera's fixed angle, along with the gentle, rhythmic movement of a tiny hand resting near the edge of the mattress.

Y/N lowered her glass. "Is that Oliver?"

Mrs. Johnson followed her line of sight, her gaze resting on the glowing screen. “Yes, Ms. Y/L/N. He went down for his nap twenty minutes ago.”

Y/N deliberately looked away from the monitor before her interest could become intrusive. “How has he been today?”

“He had a difficult night, but he has been settled since his father left for work.”

There was no criticism in Mrs. Johnson’s voice, only a smooth, factual response.

“Does that happen often?”

“He has been slightly unsettled this week.”

Y/N nodded, tracing the condensation on her glass. A disruption in his routine made perfect sense if the previous nanny had recently left. “Has he been feeding normally?”

Mrs. Johnson’s expression shifted by the smallest fraction, a slight stiffening of her posture, as though she had not expected Y/N to begin conducting the interview before the employer had even arrived.

“He took less than usual during his first bottle, but he finished the remainder later,” she answered carefully.

“No fever?”

“No.”

“Any congestion?”

“None that I noticed.”

Y/N took a sip of her water. “That’s good.”

Mrs. Johnson looked toward the digital monitor again. “Mr. Styles will provide you with his full medical information if the interview progresses.”

“Of course.”

The gentle boundary was crystal clear, and Y/N respected it. She placed the glass back on the silver tray and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Styles?”

“Three years.”

“And before Oliver was born?”

“Yes.”

The remarkably concise answer discouraged any further personal questions without crossing the line into rudeness.

Y/N smiled slightly in acknowledgment. “I’m sorry. I’m beginning the interview before the person interviewing me has even arrived.”

“That is quite all right.”

“I prepared too many questions.”

“Mr. Styles has done the exact same.”

Y/N looked up, surprised.

Mrs. Johnson seemed to realize she had offered slightly more than intended. She smoothed one hand deliberately over the front of her pale cardigan. “He is very thorough where his son is concerned.”

“The agency mentioned that.”

Mrs. Johnson’s sharp attention moved briefly toward Y/N’s leather tote on the floor, where the pristine edge of her organized plastic folder remained visible. “I imagine you are as well.”

“I try to be.”

Silence settled heavily between them. It was not an uncomfortable quiet, but in the absence of conversation, Y/N became acutely aware of every small sound inside the massive house. The faint, steady hum of the climate control. A grandfather clock ticking somewhere beyond the sitting room walls. Faint footsteps on an upper floor, followed by the muted click of a closing door.

The house was not empty. It merely seemed designed to conceal the people keeping it alive.

Y/N wondered exactly how many members of staff worked there. Mrs. Johnson had identified herself as the housekeeper, but a property of this immense size would require far more than one person to maintain it. The agency file had briefly mentioned a driver and security arrangements, though it had provided little detail beyond that.

She reminded herself that those were questions for Harry. Not Mrs. Johnson.

The low rumble of a heavy car engine stopping right outside the tall windows drew both of their attention. A heavy car door slammed shut.

Footsteps crossed the pavement—quick, hard, and decisive—before the front door opened somewhere down the hall.

Y/N’s shoulders straightened instinctively.

Mrs. Johnson rose from her chair. “That will be Mr. Styles.”

A deep, resonant voice traveled through the vast entrance hall. “Afternoon, Mrs. Johnson.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Styles. Ms. Y/L/N is waiting in the sitting room.”

A brief pause followed. Y/N could not hear his response.

She firmly resisted the overwhelming urge to adjust her hair or check whether her jumper had creased during the train journey. Patrick’s warning returned to her. Do not shrink because the building has a doorman. The townhouse did not have a doorman, but the message remained entirely relevant.

Harry appeared in the arched doorway moments later.

The glossy agency photographs had not prepared her for how bone-tired he looked.

He was not careless. He was not disheveled. His dark, bespoke suit fit him flawlessly, and his tie remained sharply fastened beneath the collar of his crisp white shirt. There was nothing visibly out of place. Yet the exhaustion was undeniable, settling in the faint bruising around his eyes and the rigid tension held across his broad shoulders.

He carried a sleek leather briefcase in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Ms. Y/L/N.”

Y/N stood immediately. “Mr. Styles.”

He crossed the dark wood floor and offered his free hand. His grip was firm without being excessive, the heavy silver rings on his fingers cool against her skin.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

“You didn’t,” she replied evenly. “I arrived early.”

“That does not change the fact that I should have been here first.” Harry released her hand and checked the heavy watch on his wrist. “How long have you been waiting?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

His mouth tightened into a hard line, as though fifteen minutes were a catastrophic personal failure. “The meeting overran.”

“Mrs. Johnson explained.”

He looked toward the housekeeper. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Mr. Styles.”

Harry returned his intense attention to Y/N. His dark gaze moved briefly over her, a sweep that felt far more like a clinical assessment than admiration. He noticed the heavy folder peeking from her bag, the notebook placed beside it, and the half-empty glass of water on the tray.

“You brought your certifications,” he noted.

“I brought copies.”

“The agency already provided them.”

“I prefer having my own.”

Something entirely unreadable flickered through his expression. “Good.”

A soft, staticky sound crackled from the baby monitor on the side table.

Harry’s attention snapped away from Y/N instantly. The screen showed Oliver shifting restlessly inside the cot. His small arm waved blindly once, then disappeared from view beneath the edge of the frame.

Harry stepped swiftly toward the table, his posture locked onto the tiny screen.

Mrs. Johnson remained near the doorway. “He has only been asleep for twenty-five minutes, Mr. Styles.”

“Did he finish the bottle?” he asked, not looking away from the monitor.

“Yes, sir.”

“All of it?”

“The remaining ounce and a half.”

Harry stared at the glowing screen for several long seconds, entirely captivated, waiting until Oliver finally became still again.

Y/N stood perfectly quiet, watching him watch his son, and said nothing.

It was the first thing she learned about him that no newspaper profile could have ever shown her.

Harry had entered the room late for an interview, his exhaustion palpable and his attention fixed entirely on business. Yet, the faintest sound of his son from upstairs had made everything else disappear in an instant.

He slipped his phone back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Excuse me for a moment. I want to check on him before we begin.”

“Of course,” Y/N replied.

Harry looked strictly toward Mrs. Johnson. “Has he been warm?”

“No, Mr. Styles.”

“Any more spit-up?”

“Nothing unusual.”

He nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement, and abruptly left the sitting room.

Y/N slowly lowered herself back onto the cream sofa. Out in the hallway, his heavy footsteps moved quickly across the wood floors and hurried up the staircase.

Mrs. Johnson remained standing by the doorway, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. “He checks on Oliver every single time he comes home,” she explained quietly.

Y/N looked back toward the glowing baby monitor. “I noticed.”

The comment held absolutely no judgment. If anything, the brief interruption had unexpectedly eased some of the tight anxiety in her chest. Harry Styles might be demanding, private, and impossible to impress, but at least Oliver did not appear to be a responsibility he simply handed over entirely to his staff.

Several long minutes passed before Harry returned.

The brief visit upstairs had altered him. He had removed his suit jacket, leaving him in his fitted white shirt and charcoal waistcoat, and he had loosened his dark tie by a fraction of an inch. A thick manila folder was now tucked securely beneath one arm.

Her file.

He entered the sitting room but did not immediately take a seat. Instead, he turned his attention back to Mrs. Johnson.

“We won’t need anything else.”

“Yes, Mr. Styles.”

“Please let me know the moment Oliver wakes.”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Johnson offered Y/N a polite, parting nod before leaving them completely alone.

Harry waited, standing perfectly still until the housekeeper's footsteps had faded completely down the hall. Only then did he gesture toward the sofa. “Please.”

Y/N sat, smoothing the fabric of her trousers.

He chose the heavy armchair directly opposite her and placed her file squarely on the dark wooden table between them. His leather briefcase remained resting near his feet, still closed.

For several agonizing seconds, he simply looked down at the closed cover of the folder without opening it.

Y/N found herself studying his hands instead. Heavy silver rings covered his long fingers, though none looked decorative enough to have been chosen carelessly. His nails were meticulously neat. However, a faint, crescent-shaped red mark crossed the skin near the base of his thumb, looking suspiciously like a tiny, accidental scratch from a flailing baby.

Oliver, perhaps.

Harry finally flipped the folder open.

“I’ve reviewed the information provided by the agency.”

“I assumed you had,” Y/N replied, keeping her voice steady.

“I also spoke with Mr. and Mrs. Walters.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the notebook resting in her lap. “They told me you might contact them.”

“Mrs. Walters had a great deal to say about you.”

The comment should have reassured her. The flat, unreadable tone of his voice ensured that it did not.

Harry turned the first page, the crisp paper loud in the quiet room. His expression gave absolutely nothing away. “She described you as dependable, highly capable, and unusually calm under pressure. She said her children trusted you implicitly, and that losing you was one of the most difficult parts of their relocation.”

Y/N swallowed hard around the unexpected, sudden tightness in her throat. She desperately missed the Walters children. She missed the chaotic noise of their mornings, the silly arguments over breakfast, and the weight of the youngest falling asleep against her shoulder during the car ride home.

“They were very kind to me.”

“They offered to take you to California.”

“Yes.”

“They offered to significantly increase your salary.”

Y/N nodded once. “They did.”

“And yet, you stayed.”

“My family is in New York.”

Harry’s dark gaze lifted slowly from the file, pinning her in place. The massive room seemed to grow even quieter beneath his stare.

“That is what the agency report says,” he murmured.

“It is the truth.”

“I did not say it wasn’t.”

Y/N held her breath and waited.

Harry reached for another page deeper in the file. This one had not been included in the standard packet of documents the agency had sent her for review. It appeared to be part of a much longer background report, with several dense lines marked sharply in pale yellow highlighter.

Something cold and heavy moved through Y/N's stomach.

Harry rested one large hand flat over the page, his rings glinting in the afternoon light.

“Mrs. Walters mentioned an incident that does not appear anywhere in your employment record.”

Y/N’s mouth went bone dry.

"What incident?" Y/N asked. She was proud that her voice didn't shake, though her fingers gripped the edge of her leather notebook tightly enough to turn her knuckles white.

Harry leaned forward just a fraction, the leather armchair shifting silently beneath his weight.

"She said a man came to their home twice asking for you." His voice remained dangerously controlled, smooth and flat, but the lethal question beneath it was unmistakable. "The second time, the police were called."

The opulent sitting room suddenly seemed to narrow around her, the air thinning out until her lungs forgot how to pull it in. All the warmth rapidly drained from her limbs, replaced by a cold, prickling dread.

Y/N could only stare blindly at the yellow-highlighted lines on the report securely trapped beneath his hand.

Harry did not look away. He sat with the terrifying, unblinking stillness of a predator waiting for its prey to bolt.

"Before we discuss whether you are qualified to care for my son, Ms. Y/L/N," Harry said softly, the quiet volume somehow making the words infinitely more commanding, "I need you to tell me exactly who James is."

He paused, his dark, calculating eyes cataloging the way the color completely drained from her cheeks.

"And whether there is any chance he knows where you are right now."