He Tumbled Down the Marble Stairs and Played Unconscious, But the Nanny’s Next Move Exposed the Family Secret Everyone Swore Was Buried
The first thing Elena noticed about the Deveraux house was how quiet it was.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet. Not the soft, lived-in hush of a family home where someone forgets to turn off the kettle and laughter lingers in the corners.
This was engineered quiet—thick carpets, sound-dampening panels disguised as art, doors that closed like a vault. Even the air seemed trained to behave.
Elena stood in the entry hall, holding her tote bag with both hands, and tried not to look up at the chandelier. It hung like a frozen waterfall over a marble staircase that curved elegantly into shadow.
A place like this didn’t need a nanny.
It needed a witness.
“Miss Rivas?”
The voice came from the left, from a corridor lined with framed photos that all looked too perfect to be true. A man stepped into view: late forties, expensive casual clothes, hair combed as if even his mornings were managed by assistants. He wore a smile that seemed practiced—friendly in shape, cold in temperature.
“Mr. Deveraux,” Elena said.
He nodded, as if her name barely mattered. “Call me Adrian. Everyone does.”
Elena had learned that wealthy people often said “everyone” when they meant “people who aren’t allowed to disagree.”
He offered a hand. His grip was firm, quick, and already withdrawing, as if physical contact was a transaction he preferred to keep brief.
“You’re early,” he said.
“I like to be,” Elena replied.
“Good,” Adrian said, and the word sounded like a test graded in real time. “Punctuality is… rare.”
He led her through the hall. As they passed the photos, Elena registered details without letting her face change: the same girl in nearly every frame—dark curls, bright eyes, a gap-toothed grin. She was six or seven, maybe. Some photos had a mother in them, but only partially—an arm, a shoulder, a blurred laugh caught at the edge. The father was always centered.
And in every photo, the girl’s smile seemed to be reaching for something just out of frame.
“She’s upstairs,” Adrian said, as if discussing a piece of furniture. “Mina. My daughter.”
“Mina,” Elena repeated, tasting the name, anchoring it. Names mattered.
Adrian paused near a small table where a sleek tablet rested on a stand. “Before we begin, we have rules.”
Elena waited.
“No personal phone use while on duty,” he said. “No visitors. No social media mentions, obviously. And you’ll sign an NDA.”
“A… confidentiality agreement?” Elena asked, keeping her tone neutral.
“It’s standard,” Adrian said smoothly. “For privacy.”
Elena nodded as if that made sense.
“Also,” he added, tapping the tablet, “this controls the house systems. Security, cameras, doors. You’ll have access for childcare and safety. But everything is logged.”
Elena’s stomach tightened, just slightly.
Logged.
Of course it was.
Adrian watched her reaction like a man watching a scale. “Any questions?”
Elena had a dozen. She asked none of the dangerous ones.
“Just one,” she said. “Where is Mrs. Deveraux?”
Adrian’s smile twitched. “Traveling. Long-term.”
Elena didn’t press. She’d learned that in houses like this, questions were currency. If you spent them too early, you ran out when you really needed them.
Adrian started up the marble stairs.
Elena followed, her shoes clicking softly, and fought the strange urge to count the steps. She didn’t know why, only that her body was cataloging the environment the way it did when something felt… off.
At the top landing, Adrian turned down a hallway. The walls were lined with soft lighting that turned the air golden. It should have felt warm.
It didn’t.
“Mina,” Adrian called, his voice brightening a fraction. “Your new nanny is here.”
A door opened. A little girl stepped out, clutching a stuffed rabbit by one ear. Her eyes were the exact kind of sharp that made adults uncomfortable—observant, too aware.
Mina didn’t smile.
She stared at Elena as if Elena were a question she didn’t want to answer.
“Elena,” Elena said gently, crouching so she wasn’t towering. “Hi.”
Mina’s gaze flicked to Adrian.
Then back to Elena.
Then she whispered, so quietly Elena almost missed it: “Don’t trust the stairs.”
Adrian laughed, a quick burst. “She’s dramatic. Always has been.”
Mina didn’t laugh.
Elena kept her face calm, but something inside her shifted into focus.
“Are you ready to show me your favorite place in the house?” Elena asked Mina.
Mina hesitated.
Then, slowly, she extended the rabbit toward Elena, as if offering a treaty.
Elena took it carefully. “Thank you,” she said.
Mina’s mouth tightened. “It’s not for you,” she said. “It’s for him to see.”
Adrian’s expression didn’t change, but the air did.
Elena handed the rabbit back. “Of course,” she said softly.
Adrian clapped his hands once. “All right. Let’s go over the schedule.”
They moved toward Mina’s room. Elena followed, listening, watching, absorbing. Adrian spoke about routines with the precision of someone describing a machine. Meals at exact times. Lessons with vetted tutors. Playtime in approved areas. No unsupervised outdoor time unless he approved it personally.
“Consistency creates stability,” Adrian said.
Elena thought: Consistency creates control.
By the time Adrian finished his list of expectations, Elena felt as if she’d been given a job description and a warning in the same breath.
Then Adrian’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at it and frowned. “I have to take this downstairs,” he said. “Mina, show Elena your toys. Be good.”
Mina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I am always good,” she said, and the words sounded less like pride and more like a shield.
Adrian left.
His footsteps echoed down the hall, then faded.
Elena waited until she was sure he was out of earshot.
Then she turned to Mina. “What did you mean about the stairs?” she asked quietly.
Mina hugged the rabbit to her chest. “The stairs are… where things happen.”
“What kind of things?”
Mina’s gaze slid to the ceiling corner. Elena followed it.
There, almost invisible against the wall, was a camera lens embedded in a smoke detector housing.
Mina’s voice became a whisper. “He watches. He likes it when people look scared.”
Elena held her breath.
That was not a child’s exaggeration.
That was a child’s translation of something she didn’t have adult words for.
“Has anyone gotten hurt?” Elena asked carefully.
Mina shrugged in a way that was too old. “Not… like that. But people leave. And he says it’s because they weren’t trustworthy.”
Elena’s fingers curled slightly around the strap of her bag. Her pulse didn’t race. It steadied, like her body was preparing itself.
“Do you feel safe here?” Elena asked.
Mina didn’t answer right away.
Then she said something that made Elena’s throat tighten.
“I feel safe in my room,” Mina whispered. “When the door is locked. But he doesn’t like locked doors.”
Elena nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said. “I hear you.”
Mina searched Elena’s face for something—maybe sincerity, maybe weakness. Elena didn’t offer promises she couldn’t keep.
Instead she said, “How about we start with something easy? You show me what you like to do. And I’ll show you that I pay attention.”
Mina watched her for a long beat.
Then she walked to a bookshelf and pulled out a board game. It was missing pieces.
“Elena,” Mina said suddenly, “do you know what pretending is?”
Elena blinked. “Yes,” she said. “Pretending can be fun.”
Mina shook her head. “Not like games. Like… pretending so someone thinks you’re one thing when you’re another.”
Elena felt a chill that had nothing to do with winter outside.
“Yes,” Elena said carefully. “I know that kind too.”
Mina nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. “Good,” she whispered. “Because he does that.”
Elena didn’t ask who “he” was.
She already knew.
Over the next week, Elena did what she always did: she became the calm in Mina’s day.
Breakfast became a small ritual—fruit arranged like tiny art, the rabbit seated politely at the table, Mina allowed to talk without being corrected every three seconds. Lessons became less like drills and more like curiosity. Elena found ways to soften the rigid schedule without breaking it outright.
And all the while, she watched the house.
She noticed how the staff moved quietly, how they avoided eye contact with Adrian, how the housekeeper’s hands shook slightly when she polished the banister.
She noticed how Adrian appeared unexpectedly, like he enjoyed catching people mid-breath.
She noticed the cameras.
Not just one. Many.
And she noticed something else, something subtle: Adrian loved creating situations where the “right” choice was unclear.
On Tuesday, he announced—without warning—that Mina was not allowed dessert because she’d “been disrespectful.”
Mina’s eyes filled but she didn’t cry. She just stared at her plate.
Elena asked, “What happened?”
Adrian smiled. “She sighed when I corrected her posture.”
Mina said nothing.
Elena could have argued. She could have challenged him.
Instead she said, “Mina, would you like to help me make tomorrow’s dessert?” Her voice was bright, casual. “We can plan it together.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed, as if trying to detect defiance. But Elena hadn’t defied him.
She had simply created a path around his control.
Mina looked at Elena like Elena had just performed magic.
On Thursday, Adrian “forgot” to leave the house alarm code, then watched from the hallway as Elena calmly guided Mina away from the locked door and into a game that made Mina laugh.
On Friday, Adrian offered Elena a glass of water, then watched as she carried it past the stairs and set it down somewhere else.
“You didn’t drink,” he observed.
“I wasn’t thirsty,” Elena replied.
Adrian smiled slowly. “Careful,” he murmured. “Suspicion can be… unattractive.”
Elena met his gaze. “So can traps,” she said.
His smile froze for half a second.
Then he laughed lightly, as if she’d made a joke.
But his eyes didn’t laugh.
That night, Mina woke from a nightmare and crawled into the reading nook where Elena sat with a book.
“He’s going to test you,” Mina whispered.
Elena stroked Mina’s hair gently. “I know,” she said.
Mina’s voice trembled. “If you fail, you’ll go away.”
Elena’s chest tightened. She wanted to say, I won’t leave you.
But promises were easy. Keeping them was the hard part.
So Elena said, “If he tests me, I’ll do what I always do.”
Mina blinked sleepily. “What?”
Elena smiled softly. “I’ll choose you.”
Mina’s eyes fluttered, then closed. She fell asleep against Elena’s shoulder like her body had been waiting to believe that sentence.
Elena stared at the dark ceiling and listened to the quiet hum of the house.
And she wondered how many other people had tried to “choose Mina.”
And what had happened to them.
The fall happened on Sunday.
It was late afternoon. The light outside was thin, pale. Mina was in the playroom with Elena, building a lopsided tower out of wooden blocks.
Adrian was on the phone upstairs, pacing near the staircase. Elena could hear his voice drifting down—smooth, confident, impatient.
“Tell them no. I don’t care what they ‘found.’ They don’t have what they think they have.”
Mina’s fingers stiffened on a block.
Elena glanced at her. Mina didn’t look up, but her face went tight.
Then Adrian’s footsteps moved closer to the stairs.
His voice rose slightly. “If they want to make noise, we’ll drown them out. They always stop when it gets expensive.”
Elena’s jaw tightened.
Mina’s tower wobbled.
And then—
A sound.
A sharp scrape, followed by a heavy thump, then another, then another. Not the soft stumble of someone slipping. Not the frantic flailing of someone losing balance.
It sounded… arranged.
A pause.
Then silence.
Mina went still, eyes locked on the doorway.
Elena didn’t move right away. She didn’t rush like a character in a predictable story.
She listened.
Because in engineered quiet, silence was never innocent.
A faint groan floated up.
Then nothing.
Elena stood slowly. “Mina,” she said, keeping her voice gentle, “stay here for one second.”
Mina grabbed Elena’s sleeve. “Don’t,” she whispered. “He wants—”
Elena crouched. “I’m not going to do what he wants,” she said quietly. “I promise you that.”
Mina’s eyes widened. “How do you know what he wants?”
Elena looked at Mina’s small face—at the fear disguised as composure.
Then Elena said, “Because he keeps showing us.”
Elena guided Mina into the corner nook, behind a low couch where Mina could still see Elena but could not be easily seen from the hall. Elena handed her the rabbit.
“Hold him tight,” Elena said. “If you hear me say ‘Bluebird,’ you do exactly what we practiced.”
Mina swallowed. “Lock my door,” she whispered.
Elena nodded. “And call Mrs. Hsu.”
Mrs. Hsu was the neighbor Mina had befriended through the fence. A retired teacher with a warm laugh. Elena had carefully built that connection like a hidden lifeline.
Mina nodded once, trembling but steady.
Elena stood and walked into the hall.
The staircase came into view—white marble sweeping down, elegant, spotless.
And at the bottom, sprawled across the last few steps like a discarded mannequin, lay Adrian Deveraux.
His eyes were closed. His mouth was slightly open. One arm was bent at an awkward angle, but not convincingly. His suit jacket was rumpled just enough to look dramatic.
Elena stared at him for two seconds.
Then she looked up at the nearest camera in the corner.
She raised her voice, clear and calm, not panicked. “Mr. Deveraux,” she said. “I can see you breathing.”
A beat.
Nothing.
Elena stepped closer, stopping at a safe distance.
She watched.
His chest rose, slow and controlled. His eyelids stayed shut, but there was a tiny flutter at the lashes—the kind people get when they’re forcing themselves not to react.
Elena didn’t kneel beside him.
Instead, she spoke again—louder, aimed at the camera as much as at him.
“I’m calling emergency services,” Elena said. “And I’m securing Mina first.”
That was the moment.
Because if Adrian was pretending, he expected panic. Touch. A frantic rush. He expected Elena to become a mess he could later shape into a story.
But Elena didn’t give him chaos.
She gave him procedure.
She turned and walked back toward the playroom.
Behind her, a sound—barely audible—like fabric shifting.
Elena didn’t turn around.
She went straight to Mina, who was pale and rigid.
“Bluebird,” Elena said.
Mina sprang into action like a child who’d been waiting for permission to survive. She darted out, ran upstairs, and Elena heard her small feet pounding toward her room.
Elena followed, but not too closely—she needed Mina to move fast, unblocked.
As Elena reached the stairs, she glanced down again.
Adrian was still lying there.
Still.
But his jaw was clenched now.
Elena walked upstairs, heart steady, mind sharp.
When she reached Mina’s room, Mina was already inside, pushing the lock.
“Elena,” Mina whispered, “he’s going to be mad.”
Elena knelt, holding Mina’s face gently. “Listen to me,” she said. “You did perfect.”
Mina’s breath hitched. “What are you going to do?”
Elena stood. “I’m going to make sure the truth is louder than his story,” she said.
Elena pulled her own phone from her bag—something she had technically been told not to use. She had kept it off, hidden. Not because she planned to break rules.
Because she planned to protect Mina.
She hit record, keeping the camera pointed toward the hallway.
And then she walked back toward the staircase.
Adrian was no longer fully still.
He was halfway sitting up now, as if his body couldn’t tolerate being ignored.
His eyes snapped open when he saw her. The friendly mask was gone.
“You left me,” he hissed.
Elena held her phone steady. “You fell,” she said calmly. “And I prioritized the child. That is my job.”
“I could have been seriously hurt,” he snapped, voice sharp, loud—performing again, but now with anger as the script.
Elena tilted her head slightly. “Then you would want medical help,” she said. “I’m happy to call for it. Do you want that?”
Adrian’s eyes flashed. He didn’t answer.
Because if he said yes, he lost control of the scene.
If he said no, he admitted he wasn’t hurt.
He stood slowly, smoothing his jacket, as if dignity could be ironed back into place.
“You think you’re clever,” he said.
Elena didn’t flinch. “I think you’re used to people being afraid,” she replied.
Adrian’s smile returned—thin, sharp. “I was testing you,” he said smoothly, as if this explanation could erase the ugliness.
Elena glanced up at the camera. Then back at him. “Testing me,” she repeated, voice steady. “By staging a fall. In front of your security system. In a house full of cameras. Where a child lives.”
Adrian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “This is my home,” he whispered. “My daughter. My rules.”
Elena raised her phone slightly. “And this is my record,” she said, just as quietly.
Adrian’s eyes dropped to the phone. The color in his face shifted.
“You can’t—” he began.
Elena interrupted, clear and calm, speaking now as if addressing a room full of unseen listeners.
“Sunday, 4:42 PM,” she said. “Mr. Deveraux deliberately positioned himself on the staircase and pretended to lose consciousness. He attempted to provoke a reaction. I secured the child and began documenting the incident.”
Adrian’s face tightened. “Turn that off.”
Elena didn’t.
Adrian reached toward her.
Elena stepped back, not dramatic, just deliberate.
“You don’t want this recorded,” Elena said. “Because it’s not about safety. It’s about control.”
Adrian’s voice rose again, performative. “You’re accusing me? In my own house?”
Elena nodded once. “Yes,” she said. “Because Mina told me the stairs are where ‘things happen.’”
The mention of Mina—her name spoken like evidence—hit Adrian like a slap.
His expression changed. Not anger.
Something colder.
“You’ve been talking to her,” he said slowly.
“She’s a child,” Elena replied. “Children talk.”
Adrian’s smile returned, but now it looked like a blade. “Children invent stories.”
Elena stared at him. “Then why did she warn me before it happened?” Elena asked softly. “Why did she know you’d test me?”
For the first time, Adrian looked genuinely unsettled—not because he’d been caught in a trick, but because Elena wasn’t playing the game correctly.
Elena took a breath.
Then she did the thing that shocked even her.
She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a folder.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “What is that?”
Elena held it up. “A record,” she said. “Not just of today.”
Adrian’s mouth tightened. “You’ve been collecting—”
“Elena Rivas,” she said, voice calm, “is not my only name.”
Silence.
The air seemed to pull tight, like the house itself was listening.
Adrian stared. “What did you just say?”
Elena flipped open the folder. Inside were printed documents—complaints filed, job listings with sudden removals, pay records, agency emails, a timeline of staff turnover that looked like a heartbeat gone wrong.
“You hire nannies,” Elena said, “and they leave suddenly. Not because they’re unreliable. Because they get scared.”
Adrian’s eyes flicked over the papers. His face hardened again. “You’re trying to threaten me.”
Elena shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m trying to protect Mina.”
Adrian laughed once, harsh. “Protect her from what? A strict schedule?”
Elena didn’t smile. “From becoming the only person in this house who thinks fear is normal,” she replied.
Adrian stepped forward again, voice low. “Who sent you?”
Elena lifted her phone slightly, still recording. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “What matters is what you did.”
Adrian’s eyes darted to the camera in the corner. Then to Elena’s phone. Then to the staircase.
The calculation behind his face was visible now.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said softly. “People like you think the truth saves you. But truth is… flexible.”
Elena’s voice didn’t rise. “Then you’ll have no problem explaining,” she said.
Adrian’s jaw clenched. “Explaining to who?”
Elena looked straight at him. “To the people who answer when a neighbor calls,” she said.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
Once.
Then again.
Then a knock, firm and deliberate.
Adrian froze.
Elena didn’t move.
The knocking continued, louder now.
“Mina!” Adrian barked suddenly, snapping toward the stairs. “Open your door!”
Elena stepped between him and the staircase. “No,” she said simply.
Adrian stared at her like he couldn’t believe a person could say “no” in his house.
The knocking became a voice through the door. “Hello? Is everything okay? I heard—”
Mrs. Hsu.
Adrian’s face shifted. The mask tried to return. “Everything is fine,” he called toward the door, voice instantly warm. “Just a little accident. Thank you.”
Elena raised her voice toward the door. “Mrs. Hsu,” she called calmly, “please stay there and call for assistance. Do not come inside.”
Adrian whipped toward her. “What are you doing?”
Elena didn’t whisper anymore. “Ending the game,” she said.
Mrs. Hsu’s voice came again, sharper now. “Elena? Are you safe? I’m calling right now.”
Adrian took a step toward Elena, rage tightening his face. “You think you can walk in here and—”
Elena cut him off, steady as stone. “I can walk out,” she said. “With Mina safe.”
Adrian’s eyes flashed. “You won’t take her.”
Elena’s voice softened—only slightly. “I’m not taking her,” she said. “I’m making sure she’s not alone in a house where ‘tests’ happen on stairs.”
Adrian’s hands curled into fists. For a moment, it looked like he might do something foolish.
Then he heard it.
Distant.
Approaching.
The unmistakable sound of vehicles outside, tires on gravel, doors shutting.
Adrian’s face changed again, fast—anger folding into strategy.
He backed up a step, smoothing his jacket again, putting the mask back on like a man slipping into a role.
“Elena,” he said, voice calm now, “this is going to look very bad for you.”
Elena nodded slowly. “I know,” she said. “That’s why I recorded everything.”
Adrian’s smile twitched. “You can’t prove intent.”
Elena glanced at the staircase. “You can’t erase pattern,” she replied.
Footsteps approached the door.
Voices.
Mrs. Hsu speaking urgently.
Adrian’s posture straightened. His face became concerned, fatherly, composed.
Elena looked at him and realized something that made her stomach turn:
He wasn’t scared of consequences.
He was excited.
Because an audience had arrived.
And Adrian Deveraux loved an audience.
The front door opened.
Two uniformed responders stepped in, scanning the scene. A third voice followed—firm, official, asking what happened.
Adrian stepped forward immediately, hand to his chest, tone wounded. “It was an accident,” he said. “I slipped. My nanny panicked and… locked my child away.”
Elena didn’t react emotionally. She didn’t argue in a rush.
She simply held up her phone.
“I have a recording,” Elena said calmly. “From before the fall, during, and after.”
One of the responders looked from Elena to Adrian. “Sir?” he asked.
Adrian’s smile tightened. “She’s mistaken,” he said. “She’s… unstable.”
Elena swallowed, feeling the weight of how easily powerful people used that word.
Then Elena did the most shocking thing of all.
She didn’t defend herself first.
She turned her body slightly and called up the stairs, voice gentle but firm.
“Mina,” Elena said, “you are safe. You can stay where you are. You don’t have to come out until you want to.”
Silence.
Then, faintly, Mina’s voice, trembling but clear: “I want to stay locked.”
The room froze.
The responders looked at Adrian again, and this time their expressions shifted.
Because children didn’t say that for no reason.
Adrian’s voice turned sharp. “Mina, don’t be ridiculous.”
Elena raised her hand slightly, palm open. “Please,” she said to the responders, “check the recordings. Check the logs on the house tablet. Check how many staff have left. Ask Mina what she meant when she warned me about the stairs.”
Adrian’s eyes burned into Elena. “You think you’re saving her,” he hissed under his breath, too quiet for others to hear. “You’re just teaching her to betray her own father.”
Elena leaned in just enough to be heard by him alone. “I’m teaching her,” she whispered, “that love doesn’t require fear.”
Adrian recoiled slightly, as if the words were something unpleasant.
A responder stepped forward. “Sir, we need you to step aside while we assess the situation.”
Adrian’s smile flickered. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Anything for my daughter.”
Elena watched him as he moved, watched the performance continue.
But something had changed.
The room no longer belonged solely to him.
Elena stayed near the stairs, not blocking, but protecting the line between Mina and Adrian like a quiet wall.
After a long few minutes of reviewing Elena’s recording and checking the security logs, one responder’s expression turned tight and serious.
They spoke in low voices.
Questions were asked—more than Adrian liked.
And when Mina finally opened her door, she didn’t run to her father.
She walked straight to Elena and slipped her small hand into Elena’s.
It wasn’t a dramatic gesture.
It was simple.
And it changed everything.
Adrian’s face hardened as he watched.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice sweet as syrup, “come here.”
Mina didn’t move.
She looked at him and said, with a steadiness that made Elena’s eyes sting, “You pretended.”
Adrian’s smile strained. “What?”
Mina’s chin lifted. “You weren’t hurt. You were watching.”
Silence again—this time heavy, undeniable.
Adrian laughed awkwardly. “Mina, you’re confused—”
Mina shook her head. “I’m not,” she said. “I’m tired.”
That word—tired—hit Elena like a punch.
A child shouldn’t be tired of surviving her own house.
The responders exchanged another look, and a decision seemed to form among them—slow, careful, but real.
Adrian’s voice tightened. “This is absurd,” he said, the mask cracking. “I demand—”
One responder interrupted calmly. “Sir,” they said, “we’re going to need to continue this with additional support present.”
Adrian’s eyes flashed. “You can’t just—”
Elena didn’t gloat. She didn’t celebrate.
She simply knelt beside Mina and whispered, “You did so well.”
Mina’s lips trembled. “Are you going away?”
Elena swallowed. “Not today,” she said softly.
Mina pressed her rabbit tighter. “He’ll try again,” Mina whispered.
Elena looked at Adrian—at the man who had built a palace of quiet so he could hear fear clearly.
Then Elena looked back at Mina.
And she said, quietly but with certainty, “Then we’ll be ready again.”
Mina’s eyes filled with tears she finally allowed to exist.
Outside, the winter light faded behind the Deveraux gates. Inside, for the first time since Elena had entered that engineered quiet, there was a different kind of sound:
Not silence.
Not control.
But truth, making noise.
And Adrian Deveraux—who had staged a fall to remind everyone who held power—stood in the center of his perfect home and realized something he had never planned for:
A nanny who didn’t fear him was the one kind of person he could not manage.
Not with money.
Not with cameras.
Not with stairs.
Because Elena wasn’t there to be tested.
She was there to choose Mina.
And she had.
THE END
