Page 127 of Nine Week Nanny
Angela shrugs. "Maybe he had a Sloane who broke his heart."
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
"I think I've been ghosted in record time." I force a laugh. "That's got to be some kind of achievement."
"His loss." Angela squeezes my hand. "Though you do have a talent for attracting the hottest guy in any room."
I smile through the sting. "It's my superpower."
After I get home and in my comfy clothes, I grab my phone to text Angela and thank her for a fun night out. It was good for my soul.
When I pick it up, I already have one from her.
Safe home?
Home and hiding under blankets. Thanks for a great night. Let's do that again soon. I need more Angela energy in my life.
The refrigerator hums in the background as I finally reach for my phone again, curiosity overwhelming my better judgment. I’ve been very good since leaving not to search him.
The wine and fun night convince me it’s a goo idea. I type "Pope Carrigan Palm Beach" into the search bar.
The results load, and my blood turns to ice.
Billionaire Carrigan's Nanny Entangled in Custody Drama?
My fingers tremble as I click the headline from the Palm Beach Insider. The photos appear immediately. They are grainy but unmistakable. Pope and I on the lawn beside that damned outdoor movie screen.
There are a few. One, his hands are in my hair, my body pressed against his, locked in a kiss that leaves nothing to interpretation.
"No." The word escapes as a whisper into my dark bedroom.
The article mentions an "anonymous source" providing evidence of an "inappropriate relationship" during an active custody battle for Pope's ward.
Though they don't name me directly, they reference the "caregiver hired through Elite Services."
Bile rises in my throat. My hands grow clammy against the phone screen as I scroll through comments already speculating about who I am.
My chest tightens until each breath becomes deliberate work. Everything I've built, my professional reputation, my new position at Coastal, the stability I've fought for, is suddenly a house of cards in a hurricane.
Chris. It must have been Chris who leaked these. Pope had mentioned a private investigator, but I never imagined...
I stumble to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection stares back, eyes wide with panic.
This isn't something I can ignore or wish away. By morning, everyone will have seen it. My colleagues. The families of my clients. The other therapists.
My phone pings with another message. Unknown number.
Ms. Brennan, this is Laural Harrelson from the Palm Beach Post. Would you care to comment on your relationship with Pope Carrigan during the custody evaluation of Lennon Lopez?
The room spins as I sink to the bathroom floor, my carefully reconstructed life crumbling around me.
Two WeeksLater
My supervisor's office smells like every pediatric therapy clinic. It's a jarring mix of industrial disinfectant and the artificial fruit scent of reward stickers.
I focus on a child's finger painting displayed behind Dr. Marken's desk. Bright swirls of orange and blue in the artwork remind me of the tide pools Lennon loved.
"Sloane, I want you to know this isn't personal." Dr. Marken slides a manila folder across her desk. Her silver bangles clink against the wood. "We value the work you've done here."
