The Millionaire’s Son Spat At All The Nannies… But Kissed This Maid

His voice broke softly. “You just did something no one else could.”

Isabella looked down at the sleeping child, whispering, “Maybe he just needed to be held.”

A profound silence settled over the room. Outside, the rain had stopped, and a soft, golden light spilled through the window, resting on Noah’s peaceful face. Ethan stood watching, an unexpected lightness in his heart. For the first time in months, the mansion didn’t feel cold.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Isabella Cruz, sir.”

“Have you ever been a nanny before?”

“No, sir. I’ve only taken care of my grandmother.”

He glanced at Noah, then back at her. “If I ask you to be Noah’s full-time nanny, what would you say?”

Isabella blinked in disbelief. “Me? But I’m not qualified.”

“I don’t need ‘qualified,’ Isabella. I need someone my son trusts.”

For a second, Isabella couldn’t breathe. She thought of Grandma Rosa’s unyielding medical bills, her fragile smile, but mostly, she thought of how natural it felt holding this little boy, as if fate had guided her here.

“If you truly trust me, sir,” she said, her voice firm, “I’ll do it.”

Ethan nodded, a wave of relief washing over his face. “Five thousand dollars a month. You’ll live here full-time. Dolores will show you to your room.”

Isabella bowed her head. “Thank you, sir.”

When he left the room, she sat down on the glider, looking at the sleeping child. A single tear slid down her cheek, not from sadness, but from the quiet, staggering realization that her life had just changed forever.

Isabella’s first day as a nanny began not with screams, but with Noah’s delighted giggles at dawn. Dolores, the housekeeper, still regarded her with suspicion. “I don’t understand why Mr. Whitmore chose you. Everyone’s tried before.”

Isabella just smiled gently. “Maybe I just got lucky.”

She spent the morning playing. The little boy laughed, grabbing her fingers, pointing curiously. Isabella understood that beneath the so-called “difficult behavior” was simply a child starving for consistent affection.

At lunchtime, as she fed Noah, Ethan walked in. He stopped dead in the doorway. The boy who usually hurled his bowl across the room was eating quietly, occasionally reaching out to touch Isabella’s hand.

“I can’t believe this,” Ethan murmured, almost laughing for the first time in months.

That night, as she tucked Noah in, Isabella hummed a Spanish lullaby her grandmother, Rosa, used to sing: “Duérmete, niño, duérmete ya…” (Sleep, little one, sleep now…). Her voice was soft, a warm breath of air. Noah’s eyelids fluttered and closed.

Ethan stood outside the door, listening silently. For the first time, the emptiness inside him felt less heavy, filled with something simple and warm: the feeling of a home.

Days turned into weeks, and the Whitmore mansion began to transform. Noah’s laughter became the house’s soundtrack. Dolores and the cook, Martha, no longer frowned but exchanged friendly, conspiratorial smiles with Isabella.

In the afternoons, Ethan would sometimes step away from his laptop and watch from the porch as Noah took his first unsteady steps in the garden, falling, then laughing. His expression was softening, the hard lines around his mouth finally easing.

One evening over dinner, Ethan spoke quietly. “I can’t remember the last time Noah laughed this much. Maybe before Amelia died.”

“Children’s laughter never disappears, Mr. Whitmore,” Isabella replied softly. “It just waits for someone to bring it back.”

Her words hung in the air. Ethan said nothing, but his eyes glimmered faintly.

Late that night, Isabella video-called Grandma Rosa. The old woman coughed but smiled warmly. “You look different, Bella. There’s light in your eyes again.”

Isabella smiled back. “I think this place is teaching me something, Abuela. Maybe how to love again.”

Grandma Rosa just nodded, her eyes glistening.

Before bed, Isabella watched Noah sleeping soundly, his tiny hand gripping her finger. She whispered, “From now on, I’ll be right here, little one.”

Somewhere else in the quiet mansion, Ethan stared at the baby monitor, exhaling softly, as if the immense weight on his chest had finally begun to lift. A temporary job was already changing both of their lives forever.

Mornings in the mansion usually began with soft sunlight. Noah’s laughter echoed from the nursery. Ethan appeared briefly, coffee in hand, his face still clouded with the mist over the bay.

Sometimes, Isabella saw him standing by the staircase, staring at the framed photo of Amelia. She was beautiful, radiant, and her eyes in the picture seemed to follow him everywhere.

“The master still lives in the past,” Dolores whispered to Isabella one day. “Every night, he goes into Mrs. Amelia’s room, turns the light on, and then off again. Just a habit.”

Isabella said nothing. She understood. For all its splendor, this house was haunted by memory.

That afternoon, the sky turned heavy. Rain lashed the windows, and suddenly, Noah grew feverish, his skin burning hot.

“Mr. Whitmore, Noah has a fever!” Isabella called out, her voice tight with panic.