The gates loomed, tall and dark, edged with wrought-iron swirls that looked like something out of a palace rather than a home. Monica stepped out of the cab, her travel bag slung over one shoulder, and tilted her head back to take in the full view.
The mansion that stood before her looked like it belonged in a painting. Its facade combined smooth cream stones with tall, dark-paneled windows that reflected the sun in sharp streaks. Thick pillars stood to the side of the entrance, like sentinels. There was something distinctly old about the shape of the building—arched windows, steep gables, the kind of structure you'd expect from an old estate—but it was softened by sleek glass balconies, discreet security cameras, and the soft humming of smart lights beneath the porch roof. Ancient elegance and modern wealth wrapped in one body.
A sleek black car was parked to the side. The driveway, paved in stone mosaics, led to a wide circular courtyard with a marble fountain at the center—silent.
Monica rang the bell, the tall double doors opened. A woman in her early sixties stepped out, dressed in a pale beige uniform. Her dark hair was tied neatly in a bun.
"You must be Miss Monica," she said warmly. "I'm Anita, the house nanny. Come in, please."
Monica nodded, following her into a spacious foyer. The interior was no less stunning. Gold sconces lined the walls, casting a soft glow against carved wood panels and grey stone. A grand staircase curved to the second floor, its railings polished until they gleamed.
She walked quietly, the sound of her steps muffled by a thick Persian rug that covered most of the floor. Portraits lined the hallway, some modern, others oil paintings in antique frames.
"Mr. Smith is not home at the moment," Anita said, glancing over her shoulder. "But I'll take you to Theodore."
Anita was the kind of woman whose presence brought a strange warmth to the cold, echoing halls of the mansion. Elderly, perhaps in her room early sixties, she carried herself with the quiet dignity of someone who had seen decades unfold within these very walls. Her greying hair was neatly tucked beneath a soft scarf, and her eyes—though lined with age—held a sharpness that suggested she missed nothing.
She had worked in the mansion longer than anyone could clearly remember. A fixture in the household, Anita had served not just as a nanny, but as a quiet guardian of the family's history. Though no blood tied her to the Smiths, she was loya.
As Monica followed behind her, Anita guided her with a gentle nod, already familiar with her name and purpose. Despite her age, her steps were steady, and the soft clack of her worn shoes echoed lightly as she led Monica deeper into the house.
"This way, dear," she said with a soft but firm voice, one that commanded respect without asking for it. "Master Logan said you would be coming today. I'll take you to young Theo."
Anita led Monica through the quiet hall and up the staircase. At the top, they turned down a corridor softened with light and childlike touches—drawings on a corkboard, a shelf of books and toys outside one door.
Anita opened the door gently. Inside was a child's room, surprisingly warm for such a cold mansion. Toys lay neatly in baskets. A desk stood by the window. A world map stretched across one wall, dotted with red pins.
And there, near the bed, sat a boy with chestnut hair and intelligent eyes—Theodore.
His bed was neatly made, the blanket a soft olive green, and a small folded throw at the foot of it bore a patch—Logan's military crest. On a nearby shelf were three model tanks, two jet fighters, and a row of little army figurines, each painted with precision. But Monica was aware those were toy figurines.
The floor had a soft, dark carpet, but near his bed lay a corner mat with a chessboard already arranged mid-game. A Rubik's Cube sat beside it, solved and gleaming.
The room smelled faintly of paper and pine—clean, focused, lived in.
And there he was, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, reading a thick picture book about space missions. He looked up as theyj entered, and Monica noticed his eyes—sharp, thoughtful, too calm for a boy his age. Seven, maybe.
the boy's room was nothing like she had imagined—it was both a child's world and a quiet museum of thought. The walls were painted a calm navy blue, softened by white molding along the top and bottom edges. One side of the room was lined with tall shelves—no, not just toy shelves, but bookcases filled with science encyclopedias, puzzle books, and children's novels. Everything was neatly arranged, with sticky notes peeking from between pages.
Monica began to worry about how to get along with the little boy.