Not Just The Help

Chapter 1

Monique

My day begins the way the worst endings always do—suddenly and without apology.

I’m standing in the middle of my kindergarten classroom, clutching a stack of macaroni art and finger-painted “I love you” cards, when Principal Dorsey clears her throat behind me. Her voice is clipped and tight, the kind of voice that prepares you for bad news dressed in professional clothing.

“We’re closing down for the summer. Effective immediately.” Her tone makes it sound like she’s informing me of the weather, not unraveling five years of my life.

I blink. “Wait. What?”

“The school board pulled funding last minute. We lost the lease. I’m so sorry, Monique.”

She says it like she’s practiced it in the mirror—like maybe she’s said it five times already this morning and now it’s lost all flavor.

My throat is dry. I look at the tiny desks, the cubbies labeled with glittery names, the rainbows on the walls that I cut out by hand with safety scissors and too much hope. I think about my students—sweet, sticky-fingered chaos in the shape of tiny humans. They’re going to come back from their field trip expecting juice boxes and storytime and instead find a locked door.

“I—uh—I don’t…” My mouth won’t catch up to the panic running marathons in my brain.

“There’s no severance,” she says quickly, avoiding my eyes now. “Just your final check. Human Resources is emailing everyone by end of day.”

I nod, even though I haven’t absorbed anything. There’s a dull, static-y noise in my ears that sounds suspiciously like the sound your heart makes when it folds in on itself.

That’s it.

No warning. No goodbyes.

Just like that, the part of me that felt steady—the part that had a purpose every morning at 6:15 AM sharp—is gone.

I walk out of the building carrying a single box filled with broken crayons, construction paper, and a ceramic ladybug that says #1 Teacher. A gift from a child who finally said his first full sentence in my class last year. I cried for twenty minutes in the supply closet that day.

Now I just want to cry again.

But I don’t.

Outside, the June sun is mocking me with its brightness. The breeze is too light. Birds chirp with a kind of delusional optimism I can’t relate to.

My car is hotter than hell when I slide inside, the leather seats branding the back of my thighs. I rest the box on the passenger seat, fold my hands around the steering wheel, and exhale.

Just breathe.

I’ve got two months of rent saved, a fridge full of expired yogurt, and absolutely no plan.

Perfect.

And as if the universe hadn’t already gotten its laugh for the day, my phone pings with a calendar reminder that reads: Drew’s wedding – Saturday 4:00 PM.

I swipe it away so fast, I nearly fling the phone out the window.

Of course. Of course my emotionally constipated ex-fiancé is marrying a woman who giggles like a woodland fairy and thinks boundaries are "restrictive." He wanted someone soft. Someone manageable.

I was too much for him. Too opinionated. Too passionate. Too loud.

His words, not mine.

It should make me feel better, being left for an inflatable blonde mannequin with Pinterest dreams. But mostly, it just makes me feel tired.

Back home, I spend the next twelve hours alternately applying to every summer gig I can find and deep-cleaning my kitchen like it's a therapy session. I bake three loaves of banana bread I don’t want to eat, reorganize my spice rack by mood, and alphabetize my sticky note collection.

Now, I feel lost.

It’s not just the job.

It’s the fact that I don’t know who I am without it.

The next morning, I’m halfway through writing a cover letter for a private tutoring agency when my phone buzzes.

Unknown Number.

I almost let it go to voicemail, but something in my gut whispers: Answer it.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Montgomery?” The voice is sharp, brisk, and female. “This is Geneva Caldwell, executive assistant to Mr. Gabriel Laurent. Your résumé was forwarded to us through your school’s alumni network.”

I blink. “Wait—the Gabriel Laurent?”

“The same,” she replies coolly. “Mr. Laurent is currently seeking a live-in nanny for his daughter, Amelia. The position is temporary but pays well. Due to the sensitivity of the household, discretion and professionalism are imperative. Would you be available for an interview today?”

I sit up straighter. “Uh… yes. Absolutely.”

“Good. You’ll be picked up at noon. Dress conservatively.”

Then she hangs up.

No address. No confirmation. No thank you.

Just click.

I stare at my phone. Did that actually just happen?

A live-in nanny? For the billionaire who once told Forbes Magazine he doesn’t believe in emotional indulgences?

But this is a job. A real job. With a child. A home. And maybe a chance to find my footing again.

At 11:59 sharp, a black SUV pulls up outside my apartment. The driver doesn’t speak. He just nods and opens the door for me.

The ride is smooth and quiet, winding through the hills of Belcourt Heights—where glass mansions perch like watchful gods over the city below.

When we arrive, I swear I stop breathing for a full five seconds.

The Laurent estate looks like it was designed by an architect with a grudge against joy. All clean lines, polished stone, and intimidating gates. It’s beautiful in that brutal, clinical way—like a sculpture you’re afraid to touch.

I’m led to a grand foyer where the ceilings stretch forever and everything smells faintly of lemon and expensive silence.

And then he appears.

Gabriel Laurent.

All six-foot-something of cold, corporate perfection. His shirt is white and pressed within an inch of its life, sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms—but not too much. His hair is dark, his jaw sharp, his presence arresting in a way that makes my heart hiccup before my brain catches up.

His eyes land on me like I’m an unexpected audit.

“Monique Montgomery,” he says, voice low and almost bored. “You’re early.”

I smile, lifting my chin. “Traffic was light. I figured I’d take the win where I could. And your driver came to pick me up ahead of time.”

He doesn’t return it. He gestures for me to follow.

The interview is… tense.

He asks questions like he’s carving them from stone. I answer them with practiced warmth, trying not to flinch under his gaze. When I mention my degree in childhood development and trauma-informed care, his jaw ticks.

“Amelia doesn’t need fixing,” he says, flatly.

“I wasn’t implying she did,” I reply gently. “I’m just here to support. Kids sometimes need soft places to land.”

He doesn’t answer that.

Eventually, he stands. “If hired, you’ll move in immediately. My assistant will send the NDA. Amelia’s schedule is strict. You’ll adhere to it. And you’ll stay out of my business.”

“Got it.”

As I leave, I catch a glimpse of her.

Amelia.

Tiny. Quiet. Curled at the top of the staircase like a question mark.

Her hair is wild and unbrushed, eyes wide and solemn. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t wave.

But she watches me.

And something in that look… it hits me square in the chest.

It’s the look of a child who’s already been left behind once too often.

I lift my hand and wave, softly.

She doesn’t move.

But she doesn’t look away, either.

That’s the beginning of everything.