My Husband Made My Abuser’s Daughter Our Nanny

Morning arrives with footsteps.

I'm curled on the floor where I fell last night, my cheek pressed against carpet that costs more than most people's monthly rent. The lock clicks. Sterling enters with a man in a white coat, someone I've never seen before, carrying a leather medical bag that looks like it belongs in a different century.

"Selene." Sterling's voice is gentle. Terrifyingly gentle. "Dr. Marsh is here to help."

I scramble backward until my spine hits the bed frame. "I don't need help. I need you to listen—"

"Your behavior last night was unacceptable." Sterling crouches, but he doesn't reach for me. Not yet. "Throwing wine at a guest? Screaming accusations? Darling, you're not well."

Dr. Marsh sets his bag on the nightstand. He's older, gray-haired, with the kind of face that's seen everything and judged most of it. His hands move with practiced efficiency, pulling out a syringe, a small vial of clear liquid.

"What is that?" My voice cracks. "Sterling, what is he doing?"

"Just something to help you rest." Sterling's hand finds my shoulder, pins me in place. His grip is iron wrapped in cashmere. "You haven't slept properly in days. This will calm you down."

"I don't want to be calm!" I try to twist away, but Sterling's other hand catches my wrist. The one with the scar. He knows exactly where to hold me to make me freeze. "Please, just listen to me about James, about what he said—"

"You're hearing things that aren't there." Dr. Marsh's voice is clinical, detached. He doesn't look at my face as he approaches with the needle. "Classic PTSD-induced paranoia. The sedative will help reset your nervous system."

The needle slides into my arm before I can scream.

The world goes soft at the edges. Sterling's face blurs above me, and he's stroking my hair again, that mechanical grooming that used to feel like love. His lips move, forming words that take too long to reach my ears.

"You're too sick to be a mother right now," he murmurs, and his voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. "Ashley will be Nico's mother figure until you're fixed."

I try to say my son's name. My mouth won't cooperate.

Darkness swallows me whole.

---

Time becomes elastic.

I surface occasionally—minutes or days later, I can't tell—to find water pressed to my lips, pills placed on my tongue, Sterling's voice murmuring reassurances that feel like threats. The bedroom door stays locked. Sometimes I hear Nico crying in the distance, and I claw at the sheets, trying to rise, but my limbs are filled with sand.

Ashley's lullaby drifts through the walls. That melody I created in hell, now sung by the daughter of my captor to my son.

I think I scream. Or maybe I just dream it.

---

The fog finally lifts on what might be the third day.

I wake with a mouth full of cotton and a head stuffed with gauze. The bedroom door is open—actually open—and I stagger out on legs that barely remember how to hold me. The penthouse is quiet. Too quiet. Sterling must be at work. Ashley must have Nico somewhere.

I drift through rooms that feel like a museum of my own life. Everything is exactly where it should be, and nothing belongs to me.

The library door is ajar.

I don't remember deciding to enter. I'm just suddenly there, surrounded by leather-bound books Sterling has never read, standing beside the antique globe he bought at auction for some obscene amount. My hand reaches out—steadying myself or reaching for something solid, I'm not sure—and I knock it from its stand.

The globe hits the floor. The top hemisphere cracks open.

Letters spill out like secrets bleeding onto hardwood.

Envelopes. Dozens of them. All addressed to me in careful, desperate handwriting. The return address is the same on every one: Henderson, Seattle, Washington. The postmarks span years. The most recent is dated six days ago.

My hands shake as I tear one open.

*Our darling girl, we've never stopped looking. If you're reading this, please know we love you. We've hired investigators. We've followed every lead. We just want to know you're safe. Please come home. Please let us find you.*

The letter is signed *Mom and Dad*.

Mom and Dad.

I have parents. Real parents who've been searching for me while I've been locked in Sterling's golden cage, believing I had no one, believing I was lucky to be saved.

"I was wondering when you'd find those."

Sterling's voice comes from the doorway. I spin, clutching the letters to my chest, and he's leaning against the frame like we're discussing the weather. His tie is loosened. There's scotch on his breath.

"You kept them from me." My voice is raw. "My parents have been looking for me, and you—"

"They couldn't protect you like I can." He pushes off the doorframe, moving toward me with predatory grace. "They lost you once, Selene. What makes you think they could keep you safe now?"

"They didn't lose me. I was taken—"

"And I found you." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I saved you. I married you. I gave you everything. And this is how you repay me? By wanting to run to strangers?"

"They're my family."

"I'm your family." His grip tightens. "Everything I've done has been to protect you from a world that wants to hurt you. But you keep fighting me. You keep making me the villain."

Footsteps echo in the hallway. Eleanor's voice, sharp and imperious, cuts through the air.

"Sterling, we need to discuss the arrangements."

He releases me, stepping back. "Stay here," he orders, then disappears into the hall.

I press myself against the bookshelf, my heart hammering, and I hear them clearly. They're not even trying to be quiet.

"The facility in Switzerland is expecting her by Monday," Eleanor says. "I've had the papers drawn up. Dr. Marsh agrees she's a danger to herself and the child."

"Mother—"

"Don't be weak, Sterling. She's unstable. She threw wine at a guest. She's clearly having a psychotic break. The King name cannot afford this kind of scandal."

Silence. Long enough that I stop breathing.

Then Sterling's voice, quiet and final: "If she doesn't stabilize by the weekend, sign the papers."

The letters slip from my hands, scattering across the floor like the last fragments of my shattered illusions.

I have until the weekend to disappear.