Page 116 of Nine Week Nanny
"Sure. Tell me what you're thinking."
"I'm comfortable handling Lennon's nighttime care now, so I'd like to change her role to fixed hours. No live-in requirement."
A pause stretches through the phone. "That's quite a significant change to the arrangement, Mr. Carrigan. Is everything okay? We already have a signed contract, so we will need to review how you want to adjust pay."
"Everything's fine. Great, actually. She's been so good for Lennon. It's just the natural progression. As far as pay, I'm fine keeping that as it was agreed."
Vanessa clears her throat. "I should inform you that Ms. Brennan contacted us earlier this week about potentially ending her contract early. That is a possibility if you’d like to go that route, too.”
The air leaves my lungs in a silent rush. My grip tightens on the phone until my knuckles turn white.
"She did." It's not a question. My voice has gone flat, emotionless.
"Yes. She mentioned another job opportunity. She didn't give specifics, but she was inquiring about the terms for early termination."
Of course she was. While I've been tearing myself apart trying to protect her, she's been planning her exit strategy. The thought burns like acid.
"I see." I straighten my shoulders, slipping fully into the cold, efficient businessman I need to be. "In that case, please proceed with finding a replacement for the remaining weeks. And notify Ms. Brennan that she's no longer required to live in, just standard hours, eight to six, until someone can be found to step in for the remainder of Lennon's time here. I don’t know the time frame, but we are likely going to need to extend the amount of time a little bit, so starting fresh makes sense.”
"Mr. Carrigan, if I may. Changes like this can be disruptive for children, especially those experiencing trauma. Lennon has formed an attachment to?—"
"I'm well aware of my brother's emotional needs." The edge in my voice could cut glass. "This is what's best for everyone involved."
"Very well." Her voice cools to match mine. "I'll update Ms. Brennan's contract immediately and begin searching for a replacement. Would you like me to handle communication with her, or will you be doing that yourself?"
The thought of facing Sloane, of watching her reaction when she learns I'm formally pushing her away, is unbearable.
"Your office can handle it."
"Understood. I'll call you with potential replacements by tomorrow afternoon."
"Fine."
I end the call, staring at the phone in my hand. She was already leaving, already planning her escape, so this makeseverything I have to do to keep her safe and to make sure Lennon doesn't end up with his father easier.
Something between fury and grief rises in my chest, burning like hot coals. I set the phone down with deliberate control before I give in to the urge to hurl it across the room.
The rest of the day blurs into one long fire drill: calls with Caleb about inspectors, a board member threatening to pull support, Warren circling back with strategy.
By the time I shut my laptop, the house is quiet. I’d heard Sloane and Lennon heading upstairs hours ago, their laughter trailing through the hall, and forced myself to stay put. Drowning in work instead of following is the way it has to be.
Now it’s past ten, and the spreadsheets on my desk are a blur I can’t make sense of. A glass of sparkling water sits beside my untouched dinner plate.
I drag my hand across my face. Fuck, I'm tired.
Pushing away from my desk, I pace around the office and end up at the window. From here, I can see the corner of the guest suite where Sloane's light is off. Is she sleeping? Did she leave?
Hell, I have no idea if Vanessa already told her or not. Our communication went from not that great to nonexistent. It's best this way.
The irony doesn't escape me. I've built my entire career on precise calculation, on making the hard choices others wouldn't. I've gutted entire hospital departments, fired executives, and restructured million-dollar organizations without blinking.
So why does this one decision, this single, fucking necessary choice, nag at me and make me doubt everything I’ve ever believed?
My phone buzzes and I almost decide not to look at it, but that isn't in my DNA. I'm relieved to see it's Valerie, hoping for some colorful relief from this powder keg that is my life.
While I still consider letting it go to voicemail because she takes a lot of energy, I answer because I need something lighter right about now. “Hey, Val.”
“Pope Carrigan,” Val crows, her voice rich with that theatrical flair only she can pull off. “My son, the ghost. Hart and I decided if you didn't answer this time, we were getting in our RV and driving down to make sure you hadn't been gobbled up by the Palm Beach vultures.”
