Page 6

Chapter Six

Maggie

I grip Brat Girl’s steering wheel as the wrought-iron gates glide open without so much as a groan. My vintage Subaru Brat feels hilariously out of place crawling up the pristine cobblestone driveway. The lane winds through frost-laced trees, their bare branches arching overhead like something out of a fairy tale.

Then the forest thins, revealing acres of manicured gardens with twisted hedges, barren shrubs, and life-size statues frozen in snow-dusted stillness.

My four suitcases rattle in the truck bed as I navigate the curves. Two for clothes, one for toiletries, journals, and bedroom essentials, and one crammed with as much of my miniature modeling supplies as I could fit.

Another turn, and suddenly, the Rockwell mansion emerges—massive, glinting under the sunlight, all pale limestone, towering windows, and arched wooden doors. I’ve been here once before, for that insane party, but back then, darkness and drunken chaos softened the impact. Now, in broad daylight, the place looms ahead in all its over-the-top glory.

Denise emailed me detailed instructions with an attached map (yes, an actual map), so I follow the directions to the right parking spot, next to a dark grey Mercedes G-Wagon. I cut the engine and sit there for a moment, drag in a shaky breath and slide my fingers up and down the textured steering wheel a few times. Pretty sure my palms are clammy. The enormity of what I'm about to do is settling in, taking root in the pit of my stomach.

I'm going to be living here. In this mansion. With the Rockwells.

I press the buzzer by the massive wooden door tucked into one of the turrets, fully expecting a white-gloved butler—or maybe that would be weird? Servants greeting other servants? I have no idea how these things work.

Thankfully, it’s Denise who opens the door, smiling warmly. I liked her the few times I met her this summer. She's professional but approachable.

"Maggie, welcome! Come on in."

She ushers me through the arched doorway into what she refers to as The Offices —the hub where the estate’s staff keep the whole Rockwell machine running.

We settle in her office for an hour, going over logistics, expectations, and my general survival guide for the Rockwell Estate. Finn’s out with Rita so we can talk uninterrupted.

As Denise walks me through the intricate web of staff members and their roles, I'm struck by how much she juggles. It's like watching someone conduct an orchestra—every section needs to play their part perfectly for the whole thing to work.

"And Mrs. Rockwell?" I ask carefully. "How often is she home?"

Denise's expression remains neutral, professional. "Jacee’s schedule is unpredictable. I manage her travel, but she makes last-minute changes. The priority is maintaining Finn’s routine, no matter who’s here."

The subtext is clear: Don’t expect much parental involvement.

We cover security, house protocols, emergency contacts—an avalanche of details that make my head spin. Through it all, Denise maintains a calm, capable demeanor that somehow makes this surreal situation feel manageable.

Next is staff introductions. Housekeepers, maintenance, grounds crew. Four full-time chefs. One of whom works through the night because God forbid a Rockwell should have to fix their own pizza pocket, I guess.

Then comes the grand tour. And honestly? The place isn’t even a mansion, it’s a small country with central heating .

The biggest reveal? Barron and Jacee live in their own separate wing . Which is kind of my first insight into the true extent of the divide between the Rockwell parents and their sons.

I don’t get to see it. I don’t meet them. Jacee’s jet-setting lifestyle means she’s rarely home, and Barron—despite being technically here—is apparently just as elusive. He has an office in the 'East Wing', where I gather he spends a lot of his time.

Even the parts of the house Idosee are overwhelming. And while the exterior was clearly built to impress and intimidate, the interior was designed to make you full-oncower. Possibly gag a little, too. Because if there’s one underlying theme, it’sexcess. Marble, chandeliers, arches, gold… So. Much.Gold.

I keep bracing for the inevitable first encounter with Xavier in my official capacity as a member of his family's staff. But we barely even run into any other staff, let alone real live Rockwell family members. Honestly, it doesn't look like anyone lives in this place—even in the areas where Denise tells me the boys spend most of their time. The gaudy Vegas-style Smoking Room—scene of that party—is spotless. No sign of breakfast dishes, let alone a bender.

I do spot a large Carhartt hoodie draped over one of the plush shell-shaped couches in the sitting area off the kitchen, and a couple of neon green guitar pics on the Volvo-sized coffee table. But that's it. The only crumb-size evidence that any people live here.

The tour continues. Another playroom (because ofcoursethere’s more than one). Finn’s pirate ship-themed bedroom (Duke Nathaniel would approve). A large, lavish but comfy-looking seating area upstairs by the boys’ rooms, complete with wall-sized tv, and finally… finally —traces of life. A few brightly coloured Paw Patrol books scattered along one corner of the oversized U-shaped couch, a colorful Lego castle spread out on the massive coffee table, and a half-full bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on one arm of the couch. There are also two empty bottles of Heineken on a side table, and a guitar lying on the section of couch closest to it .

Huh. I guess Xavier plays guitar. Which… yeah, I guess I can sort of picture. He looks like a guitar player. If that's even a thing—to look like a certain kind of instrument player.

And finally—my room.

Whoa.

More 'Vegas penthouse' than 'nanny’s quarters' . And oh my God, a soaker tub.

Denise motions to a closed wooden door across the hall. "And Xavier’s room is right here."

I swallow, really aware now, after touring his home, how much I am totally infringing into Xavier's personal space by taking this job.

No. I cut that thought off at the root. That's part of my job. I'm gettingpaid to live here. And Xavier's used to it—having nannies and cooks and various full-time staff live in his home, sharing the halls and flitting about the zillions of rooms. He can't resent me for that.

Right?

Denise knocks lightly. "Xavier, hon? You in there?"

Silence.

She glances at her phone. "Could still be sleeping." Another knock.

It hits me then—maybe there was a party last night. With this many staff, they could have cleaned it up by morning. God, this world is so weird. The Rockwell boys live like modern-day princes. No responsibilities. No consequences. Not a care in the world.

Still no answer.

Good . I’m not ready to face him yet. Give me a couple more hours to acclimate to my lavish new reality, then I’ll be all set.

"Well, that’s too bad," Denise says, leading us back toward the grand staircase. "I was hoping to introduce you before Finn gets home. Normally I’d go over the basic ground rules for Xavier—occasional homework check-ins, no drinking or drugs… that sort of thing. But given your similar ages, I realize that would be awkward. "

Ironically, she brings up these apparent "ground rules for Xavier" just as we're walking back past the coffee table with the empty bottles of Heineken. Makes me think most likely, the real underlying "ground rule" where Xavier is concerned is for staff to turn a blind eye. There's a reason I had to sign an NDA form, stating I wouldn't divulge anything about the Rockwells' private lives to anyone.

"I’ll just check in with him from time to time," Denise continues. "But please, Maggie, let me know if anything gets to be more than you can handle. Obviously with Finn… but with Xavier, too." Her voice is softer now. More serious. "Xavier can be… testy with Finn’s nannies."

I nod, plastering on what I'm hoping is a neutral expression.

"But I’m hopeful that since you’re his peer—not some stern middle-aged au pair—there won’t be any issues," she adds. "It’s one of the reasons I reached out to you, honestly. When Finn kept talking about you."

Oh. That throws me a little. It never occurred to me that Denise was hoping I’d have a better experience with Xavier.

Pretty sure she’s in for a shock.

"Xavier’s behavior with Finn’s nannies—it’s not a reflection of who he is," she says carefully. "He's just… With the nannies, it's—" She swallows. "Xavier's life is… complicated."

Yeah, poor Xavier Rockwell and his super tough complicated life.

"I'm sure," is what I decide to go with, though.

"If he gives you a hard time, tell me, and I'll handle him."

Good to know I'm only paid to handle Finn's temper tantrums. Xave's are someone else's to deal with, thank God. Still, no way will I let Xavier Rockwell be the reason I go running to Denise for help.

"I’m sure it’ll be fine," I say, throwing in my best optimistic employee voice. Because I really do need to try and be more positive about this weird dynamic between Xavier and I. For both our sakes. And for Finn's.

Denise looks relieved. "I think so, too." She smiles. "I’ll introduce you later. Or most likely, you’ll run into him before then. "

"Oh, uh, I’ve actually met him before." I wanted to say it earlier, but didn’t want to interrupt her spiel on Xavier’s… challenging personality.

Denise looks surprised. Then briefly worried. Then hopeful. "You know Xavier?"

"I mean, I don’t know him. But we’ve met." I don’t mention that the few encounters I have had were enough to confirm that I don't want to know him.But for Finn’s sake, I’m willing to start fresh.

"Oh, wonderful!" Denise looks relieved. Probably used to nannies quitting shortly after having met him.

We end our tour just beside a floor-to-ceiling woven tapestry of… Oh my God. Jacee Rockwell in a black bikini . Draped across anoversized bowl of fruit.

So. Flipping. Weird.

I pretend it isn't. That none of this is.

A short while later, after Denise returns to the offices , I head up to my room, thrilled to find that all my bags have already been brought up for me.

I could definitely get used to this lifestyle.

The next two hours disappear, unpacking, settling in, and calling Mom to check in. I curl up on the built-in window seat, staring out at the sprawling grounds—an infinity pool covered for winter, ornate terraces perched over crashing ocean waves.

It still doesn’t feel real.

But before I can fully process holy crap, this is my home now, it’s nearly time for Finn to get back. I head downstairs, rubbing my palms against my thighs when I reach the bottom of the marble staircase.

And then my breath stutters.

Because there, sprawled across one of the velour shell-shaped couches, is Xavier Rockwell.