I Was Hired To Be A Silent Governess — But I Refused To Let My Broken Boss Hide In The Dark

Part 1

I arrived at Kensley Park with exactly three shillings to my name and a trunk held together by a fraying strap.

The estate loomed out of the fog like a sprawling fortress of darkened limestone.

This position was not a grand opportunity, but rather a desperate lifeline.

Dan, my new employer, did not even look up when I stepped into his study dripping wet.

He looked entirely exhausted, his dark hair pushed carelessly back.

You are the fourth governess this year, and the last one left weeping because my son put a toad in her tea.

He spoke bluntly, staring right through me as if I were a ghost.

Why should I believe you will last the month?

Perhaps because I have lived through far worse than a toad in my tea.

I did not offer him the deferential tremble he was clearly waiting for.

I find I prefer the company of children to the company of most adults.

A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he leaned back in his leather chair.

They are feral.

Tyler is angry, and Heather does not speak.

You will keep them in the West Wing and you will not bother me with petty grievances.

I understand that you wish your children to be invisible.

I kept my voice quiet but entirely firm.

I will manage their education, but I am a governess, not a jailer.

His hands gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Go to the nursery before I put you back out in the freezing rain.

The nursery smelled of boiled cabbage and old copper.

Tyler had eyes full of defensive malice, while Heather communicated only through wide, terrified stares.

I simply existed in their space, becoming an immovable object of routine.

The winter storm hit two nights later, thrashing against the ancient window frames.

I crept down to the main library in my thin nightdress, carrying a pathetic halo of candlelight.

I stretched for a history volume on the top shelf, my shawl slipping off one shoulder.

You are trespassing.

Dan sat in a high-backed armchair in the darkest corner, smelling heavily of alcohol and stale tobacco.

The nursery lacks adequate materials.

I didn’t step away, pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders.

Unless you want your heir educated purely on fairy tales and dust, I require access to this room.

He stepped closer, the scent of cedar and whiskey enveloping me.

You are a nuisance.

You are loud, and you disrupt the quiet.

The quiet is killing your children.

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

And it is killing you.

His eyes flared with sudden fury, and he planted his hand flat against the bookshelf directly beside my head.

Do not presume to know anything about me, or what is killing me.

He was inches from my face, his breath brushing my cheek.

Then prove me wrong.

I whispered right back, looking straight into his storm-colored eyes.

Stop hiding in the dark and stop punishing a nine-year-old boy for existing.

The tension in the air snapped, shifting from pure hostility to a dense, suffocating physical awareness.

He leaned in just a fraction of an inch, his gaze dropping to my mouth.

Then abruptly, he pulled away, running a rough hand aggressively through his hair.

Take the book and get out.

Weeks later, Tyler woke with a brilliant, unhealthy flush, his small body radiating heat like a furnace.

I spent two grueling hours in a physical battle against the fever, pressing freezing vinegar cloths to his skin.

At midnight, the nursery door slammed open.

Dan froze in the threshold, all the color draining from his face as he stared at the thrashing boy.

He wasn’t seeing his son, but rather the wife he couldn’t save.

No.

He backed away, shaking his head.

I can’t.

Look at me!

I grabbed the lapels of his dressing gown with my wet, vinegar-soaked hands and yanked him forward.

She is dead, but your son is right here and he is terrified.

If you walk out that door right now, he will never forgive you, and I will never forgive you.

A harsh sob ripped from his throat.

He fell to his knees beside the low cot, gathering his thrashing son into his arms.

By four in the morning, the fever finally broke.

Thank you for not letting me run.

He whispered, looking at my raw, reddened hands.

I realized with a terrifying certainty that I was no longer just fighting for my wages.

I was fighting for him.

Then, on the anniversary of his wife’s death, he walked into the library smelling of scotch and radiating intense heat.

He grabbed my face in both hands and kissed me with a desperate, crushing collision.

I tangled my fingers in his heavy hair, kissing him back with every ounce of longing I had bottled up.

He backed me into the mahogany desk, his breath searing against my neck.

Then he froze, pushing himself away with a look of absolute horror.

I cannot marry you.

His eyes were frantic, slamming a barricade down between us.

The risk, the blood, I won’t do it again.

I stared at the wealthy, powerful man who wanted to make me his secret mistress, and I knew exactly what my answer had to be.