The office scented faintly of expensive cologne and leather. Marcus slowly leaned back in his leather chair as his fingers drummed against the polished desk. His eyes were sharp, they were cold as ice as they swept over the paper carefully laid in front of him.
Across him stood his personal assistant, Clara, who held a folder in both hands as she was nervous under his watch.
"Clara," he said, looking up.
"Yes, sir?" she straightened while tightly holding a folder. She was precise, reliable, never speaking unless spoken to—a quality Marcus valued.
"Show me the list again," Marcus commanded, his voice steady and firm.
Clara opened the folder, sliding out a neat stack of documents. "These are the shortlisted applicants for the nanny position," she said, voice even, though she already sensed what was coming. "All vetted. All recommended."
Marcus first took a glance at the folder, then flipped it open. He scanned through a few lines in the application, and immediately, he shut it with a snap. "Weak."
"Sir, that candidate has five years of experience with children," Clara replied carefully.
"Children, yes," Marcus said, his voice was low and cutting, for a moment his voice softened, but steadied once more, "but with my child, there is none. Experience is of no use to me if she panics the minute something goes wrong."
Clara could not object; she had no right to. The only job she had to do was 'do as she was told'.
He shoved the file aside and reached out for another. He did another quick skim and gave it the same quick shut.
"Too complacent."
"Sir—" Clara tried to protest, but Marcus had already picked up another file.
His eyes narrowed as he read through the file. After a few seconds of rough skimming, he tossed the folder across the desk. It slid to the edge, shaking dangerously.
"Careless," he spat. "Look at this. Her background check says her brother has a record for theft, and I don't take such lightly. If someone wanted leverage, all they'd need is him."
Clara pressed her lips together like she was disappointed in herself. "Sir, it was a minor accident that happened ten years ago."
"And that's still a weakness, Clara." His voice was steady, like steel hitting stone. "Do you think I'll gamble my son's life on someone else's negligence, or skeletons?"
The silence in the room pushed. Marcus's pen tapped once, twice, before he leaned back in his chair, his expression like carved marble.
"Clara. You've been with me long enough to understand that I don't care about glowing references, nor do I care about warm smiles or tidy résumés. I only care about one thing, and that's whether they can keep my son alive?"
Clara slowly lowered her gaze. "…None of them meet your standard, sir."
Marcus let out a laugh that carried no humor, yet it was as sharp as glass. "Standard? Clara, this isn't about standards. This is about my son's survival as well as mine. My enemies would slit my throat tomorrow if they thought they could reach me. And the easiest way…"
He trailed off, his gaze drifting towards the photo frame of his son on his desk. It was a boy with dark hair and innocent, bright eyes.
"…is through him."
As if on cue, or should I say summoned, a small knock sounded at the study door.
"Enter," Marcus said, his tone softened a little, then hardened.
The door cracked open, and his son walked in, with his pajamas wrinkled, hair mussed from tossing in bed. He clutched a toy car in one hand, eyes wide and uncertain.
"Papa," the boy murmured, "you're still working?"
Marcus rose immediately as his harsh demeanor melted away and was replaced by something more gentle. He bent down to meet his son's gaze.
"I told you, Aaron," he said quietly, his hand brushing through the boy's hair, "I work so you can sleep without being worried about getting harmed."
Aaron frowned a little, "Clara said you're finding me a new nanny, Papa," he said, his voice small but hesitant.
Marcus paused for a second, then glanced at Clara before looking back at his son. He tightened his jaw. "Yes. Someone who will stay with you. Someone who will keep you safe when I cannot."
"But I told you, Papa, I don't want someone new," Aaron said, his eyes shining, "I just want Mama back."
The words cut through Marcus deeper than any blade could. For a moment, they all couldn't speak. After a while of silence, he gathered Aaron into his arms, holding him close, still trying to steady his trembling breath.
"I know," Marcus murmured. "I know."
When he pulled back, his expression was firm again, but his voice was softer. "Go back to bed now. I'll come check on you soon."
Aaron nodded reluctantly and scuffled out of the study.
The door clicked shut. Silence fell again.
Marcus returned to his desk, staring down at the pile of folders with something like disgust. He reached for his glass of whiskey, downed the amber liquid in one swallow, and set the glass down with a critical clunk.
"Clara," he said at last, his voice low, resolute. "Burn these."
Clara blinked. "Sir?"
"Burn them, every file, every name. None of them is worthy. If I bring weakness into my household, I may as well give my enemies the knife and show them my weak spot."
Clara hesitated, but had to give in. She gathered the folders gently and silently.
Marcus adjusted his cufflinks and rose from his leather seat and toward the window. His gaze was, however, beyond the window; they were gazing upon the city beyond.
"The world thinks I'm ruthless in business," he said quietly. "But this—" his hand brushed against the photo of Aaron once more "—this is where I am most ruthless. There will be no mistakes. Not again."
The words hung in the air like a vow.