The large brown doors creaked open as Monica Segal stepped inside.
Her posture was calm, confident almost practiced but it did little to still the jittery rhythm of her heart. She walked in with measured steps, hands folded neatly in front of her, shoulders straight, chin lifted. Composed. Poised. Anyone watching would think she belonged there.
Her eyes swept across the room.
It was minimalist in style intentional rather than bare. Heavy brown curtains framed the tall windows, filtering the afternoon light into something muted and serious. A large brown sofa sat near the center of the room, positioned with military precision, facing a low table that bore no decoration. At the far end, directly opposite the door, stood a wide desk.
And behind it sat a man.
He wasn't wearing his uniform.
Instead, he was dressed simply black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest ease, black trousers likely matching. Yet nothing about him felt relaxed. His eyes were dark and sharp,his bearing strong,his presence alone commanding the space.
His eyes lifted slowly.
Dark. Assessing.
They pinned onto her with a weight that made her feel as though she'd been stripped bare measured, dissected, read. Monica held her ground, refusing to shift under his gaze.
Logan
Logan Smith stared at the woman standing before him.
She wasn't overwhelmingly beautiful. Not the kind that stunned or demanded attention at first glance. But she was the kind of woman that made you look twice.
There was something quiet about her beauty calm, understated, self-contained. Her face carried softness, but her posture spoke of discipline. Control.
Logan prided himself on his ability to judge people quickly. Years of command had sharpened that instinct. One look was often enough to tell him who a person was or at least who they pretended to be.
His brows creased briefly.
Then, slowly, they smoothed.
Interesting, he thought.
He leaned back slightly, eyes never leaving her.
"Take a seat," he said, his voice low and deliberate.
Monica obeyed, walking toward the chair opposite him. She sat, back straight, hands resting neatly on her lap. Her head lifted as she met his gaze head-on.
Neither looked away.
Logan glanced down at the file in front of him, then back up. A faint frown touched his face.
"This is your first job as a nanny?" he asked.
"Yes," Monica replied evenly.
He nodded once. Silence stretched.
"You're a widow," Logan said not a question.
Monica paused.
"I lost my husband recently," she said slowly. "I'm… adjusting to a new life."
Her fingers tightened slightly, then relaxed.
"I needed something new. Something that would occupy my mind."
Logan studied her carefully, searching for cracks. Finding none.
"You're aware this position requires you to live in the mansion," he said.
She nodded. "Yes. That was stated clearly."
He slid the document back toward her, tapping it once.
"This name," he said. "Is it your husband's… or your maiden name?"
Monica frowned faintly.
"My maiden name."
Logan didn't press further.
And Monica quietly exhaled, relief slipping through her chest like a held breath finally released.
"I'll need to see how he reacts to you," Logan said at last, standing. What he didn't say was that his son was difficult. Guarded. Picky. That many before her had failed.
He moved toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back.
"Come with me."
Monica rose and followed.
As the door opened and they stepped out, the weight of the meeting lingered behind them unspoken, unresolved.
They walked down the large long passage heading for Theo's room.