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

The door opened. Isabella stepped out, pale, her eyes still swollen. When she saw him, she froze. “What are you doing here?”

“To apologize,” Ethan said softly. “And to ask you to come back.”

She shook her head, tears glistening. “No, Ethan. There’s a whole world between us. I don’t belong in your life.”

He took a step closer. “You’re wrong. You’re the one who made it a home. Not the walls, not the wealth. You.”

She lowered her gaze, whispering, “Are you sure? I’m just an ordinary woman.”

He reached out, taking her hand. “That’s what makes you extraordinary.”

Isabella said nothing, but when he knelt and opened a small velvet box—a simple, delicate ring shining softly inside—her tears fell freely.

“I don’t want you to be Noah’s nanny,” he said, his voice trembling for the first time. “I want you to be my wife and his mother.”

She cried, falling into his arms. The pain, the loneliness, the misunderstandings, all dissolved in that embrace. Above them, the evening sky blazed in hues of gold and crimson. It felt as if fate had finally led them home.

A month after the press conference, the skies over San Francisco seemed brighter. Ethan and Isabella decided on a small wedding: intimate and sincere, surrounded by those who truly mattered.

That afternoon, the garden behind the mansion bloomed under the golden sunset. White roses lined the path. Soft music—“Can’t Help Falling in Love”—drifted through the air. Dolores and Martha bustled around the tables, arranging desserts, while little Noah ran among the rose bushes, giggling freely.

Isabella appeared in a simple white dress, her veil fluttering in the breeze. As she walked down the steps, Ethan couldn’t move. To him, she was the only thing that existed.

Victoria was there, too, standing quietly in the back row, her eyes red but smiling sincerely. When their eyes met, Isabella gave her a gentle nod. It was a silent, deep forgiveness.

When the officiant asked, “Do you promise to love and cherish her for the rest of your life?” Ethan held Isabella’s hand tightly, his eyes glowing. “I do with all my heart.”

And when her turn came, Isabella’s voice was soft but firm. “I do, today and every day after.”

Applause filled the garden. Noah, dressed in a tiny suit, ran forward, shouting, “Mama! Daddy!”

Ethan lifted him up, kissed his forehead, and Isabella wiped her tears with a radiant smile. Grandma Rosa sat nearby in her wheelchair. “My little girl finally found her happiness,” she whispered, her eyes shining with joy.

As the evening faded, Ethan slipped an arm around Isabella’s shoulders. “I once thought I didn’t deserve to be loved again, but you taught me that everyone can start over.”

She leaned against him. “Love doesn’t erase the past, Ethan. It heals it.”

Three years later, the Whitmore mansion was no longer a place of sorrow. It was a home filled with life.

Morning light filtered through the wide windows, spilling gold across the polished wooden floor. In the kitchen, Ethan was trying to flip a pancake and, as usual, failed. A thin wisp of smoke curled upward, making Isabella laugh behind the counter. “You burned it again,” she said.

He shrugged. “I call it my signature style.”

At the table, Noah was helping his little sister, Lila—their “Little Star”—with breakfast. He fed her slices of strawberry, and she responded with bright, bubbling laughter. The sound filled the house, and Ethan smiled a peaceful smile he once thought he’d never wear again.

After breakfast, Isabella walked Noah to his preschool. He held her hand tightly, singing along the way. At the school gate, he turned back, waving. “Bye, Mama!”

Isabella laughed softly. “Go on, my brave boy.”

Back home, she tidied up and then sat by the window, writing in her small notebook—short stories of hope, inspired by her own life.

When Ethan returned from the office, he found her there. “Writing again?” he asked, leaning against the doorway.

She smiled without looking up. “Yes, maybe one day I’ll publish them for Mrs. Rosa.”

He stepped closer. “You should. You’ve been writing our story since the beginning.”

That afternoon, while Isabella was preparing dinner, the phone rang. It was Noah’s teacher. “He fell on the playground,” the teacher said quickly. “It’s not serious, but he scraped his forehead. We’d like his parents to pick him up.”

Ethan’s face changed as he overheard. In his mind flashed the sound of an ambulance siren, red lights flickering through the rain—the night Amelia died.

“I’ll go get him,” he said hoarsely.

At the school, Noah sat on a bench, a small bandage on his forehead, his lips pressed together in pride. “Daddy, I didn’t cry.”

Ethan knelt, his hand trembling slightly as he touched his son’s face. “You’re so strong, my boy.”

That night, after both children were asleep, Ethan sat at his desk. Beyond the window, the San Francisco Bay shimmered with distant lights. Ethan began to write.

Dear Amelia,

It’s been four years. Noah has your smile—bright, stubborn, and proud. And our daughter has Isabella’s heart. I think you’d like her. She didn’t come to replace you, but because of you. Maybe you sent her to remind me that love still exists even after loss. I hope you’re at peace, because now, we are too.