I sat in the dim morning light of my home office, the glow from the bank of infrared sensors softly pulsing on the wall monitor in front of me. It was just past six a.m., and the house was still mostly quiet except for the muffled sounds of the nanny moving through the hallways and the faint clink of breakfast dishes downstairs.
I watched as the sensors triggered one by one, catching every stray step, every pause.
This moment mattered more than I let on—there was a strange tension in how I was watching her now, as if waiting to catch her in a mistake, yet something felt unsettled, almost off, about the whole setup.
I knew why I did it—I had to protect my children after losing my wife so suddenly, losing her to something I never saw coming.
The empire I built demanded ruthlessness, and so did my heart.
My days fell into a rigid rhythm: early mornings sifting through operational reports, meetings that blurred into each other, and evenings spent verifying the house’s security feeds more times than I’d admit.
The nanny, a woman hired through an agency, was supposed to be a placeholder until I figured out a more permanent solution for childcare, but she lingered.
It was easy to slip into cold routines; the children needed stability if I couldn’t give them warmth.
But there was a power imbalance glaring beneath the surface.
Despite having the authority over the household—and wielding a billionaire’s will—I felt a strange distance from her.
She rarely spoke except when spoken to.
The silence was her armor, her quiet resistance.
I noticed how she managed to navigate the household’s moods and the subtle expectations of the staff with quiet competence, almost like she was shielding something or playing a longer game.
Whenever I questioned her, either directly or through surveillance, her calm deflection left me with little to hold onto.
The escalation was gradual, almost imperceptible.
At first, I installed a handful of cameras and sensors after that restless night when a shadow moved near the children’s room.
Weeks later, more sensors appeared, discreet but everywhere.
When I confronted the nanny about a misplaced item, she shrugged off any wrongdoing with an unsettling steadiness.
A week after that, a private conversation overheard in the kitchen hinted at tensions between her and the rest of the household.
Then, the children began whispering about stories she told them—stories not meant for their ears.
Finally, yesterday, I caught on the infrared feed a moment where she stopped, looked directly at the sensor, and held a gaze that chilled me.
Now, with a board meeting looming and my business empire squeezing every inch of my time, I found myself bracing for an expected visit from a private investigator.
I hired them to follow up on suspicions about the nanny, but I’ve delayed their report and am reluctant to hear what will come next.
The house feels heavier, the sensors’ silent vigil more oppressive.
I don’t know what I’m protecting anymore, or from whom.
The war I thought I was waging outside seems to be coming home.
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