"Fourteen professional caregivers had already quit Adrian Vale’s mansion, two had left by ambulance, and now I had exactly seventy-two hours to survive the four boys everyone else called impossible. I couldn’t afford to fail because my younger sister needed life-saving surgery, but before Adrian even finished warning me about his sons, something came flying over the second-floor railing straight toward my head.

The heavy leather baseball felt solid and cold in my palm. I tossed it gently up into the air, caught it without looking, and slid it into the side pocket of my coat.

Above me, four pairs of eyes stared down from the carved mahogany balustrade of the second-floor landing.

Evan, the eleven-year-old ringleader, had a sharp chin, bruised knuckles, and eyes that looked like they had been forced to grow up far too fast. Beside him stood Caleb, nine, whose nervous fingers kept pulling at the frayed threads of his oversized hoodie. Seven-year-old Noah had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, scowling with deep suspicion, while six-year-old Luke was peeking between the wooden spindles, a half-eaten chocolate bar smeared across his cheek.

"Nice throw, Evan," I said, my voice calm, projecting clearly into the cavernous foyer. "A bit wide on the strike zone, but solid control."

Evan’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "You're not supposed to catch that. The last woman screamed and fainted."

"The last woman wasn't raised with three older brothers in South Boston," I replied, taking off my gloves and folding them neatly into my coat pocket. "And she definitely wasn't getting paid to make sure you didn't accidentally break your own collarbones."

Beside me, Adrian Vale stood frozen, his dark eyes shifting between me and his sons. The powerful, enigmatic billionaire—a man rumored to control half the private ports along the Eastern Seaboard—looked strangely out of place in his own hallway. He managed multi-million-dollar corporations and negotiated with underworld bosses, yet he was completely held hostage by four traumatized boys.

"Nia," Adrian said quietly, his voice carrying a flat, authoritative weight. "My offer stands. One hundred thousand dollars for the first month if you can handle them through the weekend. Another hundred thousand if you stay six months."

One hundred thousand.

That wasn't just money. That was my little sister Maya’s heart valve replacement at Boston Children’s Hospital. That was six months of intensive physical therapy. That was her life.

"I don't need six months to decide if I'm staying, Mr. Vale," I said, turning to face him. "I just need seventy-two hours. But under my rules."

"Your rules?" Adrian’s brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his stern features. "In my house?"

"In their home," I corrected gently, pointing toward the stairs. "Rule number one: No guards with exposed firearms inside the living quarters. Rule number two: You eat dinner with your sons at six o'clock every single night. No phones, no business calls, no bodyguards standing behind your chair."

A sharp intake of breath echoed from the security guards standing near the front entrance. Nobody talked to Adrian Vale like that.

Adrian stared at me for three long, silent seconds. The tension in the grand foyer was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Then, to everyone’s shock, his lips twitched into a cold, barely perceptible shadow of a smile.

"Deal," Adrian murmured. "Let's see if you survive until six o'clock."

He turned on his heel and walked back into his private study, the heavy oak doors closing with a decisive thud.

I turned back to the stairs. The four boys were still watching me, but the initial bravado was beginning to crack, replaced by intense curiosity.

"All right, boys," I called out, picking up my battered duffel bag. "Who wants to show me which room doesn't have booby traps installed on the door frame?"

Evan snorted softly. "Room 4B. End of the hall. Don't touch the brass doorknob."