Page 115 of Nine Week Nanny

“Easy. Done.”

"And it has to be true." The implication hangs heavy.

I clear my throat and absorb everything he’s telling me. I don’t have words right now. We aren’t currently sleeping together. Hell, she will hardly look at me.

But I was hoping to convince her otherwise.

"Perjury would destroy your credibility with the court. We'd lose Lennon."

I stare at the family photo on my desk. It’s one of me, Val, and Hart at Christmas two years ago.

"So, I state under oath that we aren't involved."

"Only if that's accurate." Warren's voice is carefully neutral.

Silence stretches between us as I weigh the options. Either way, I lose her. Either I cut her out of my life completely, or I watch her get dragged through humiliating depositions that could ruin her future.

At least one option protects her.

"Draft the protective order." My voice comes out cold, detached. "I'll sign the statement."

"Pope—"

“I will only state what is accurate. I won’t lie. It's the right call. Chris doesn't get to destroy her, too."

"You're certain?" Warren probes. "The court takes sworn statements seriously. There can't be any ambiguity here."

I pace to the window, watching the first hint of sunrise stain the horizon pink. "No ambiguity. We ended things."

"This is the cleanest path forward." Warren's voice takes on that soothing tone attorneys use when they're telling you to swallow something bitter. "Chris can't drag her into this if there's nothing there to question. But that’s only if the judge accepts your affadavit.”

"I get it." My fingers press against the cool glass. "It's what's best for Lennon. For Sloane. For the case."

"I'll have the papers to you by noon."

"Fine."

"Pope—"

"We're done here." I end the call with a sharp tap.

The silence crashes down around me. No more words, no more strategy, just the weight of what I've done settling on my chest.

This is protection. This is care. This is necessary.

I repeat these facts to myself, but they don't stop the feeling that I've just performed some kind of amputation, cutting away something vital without anesthesia.

My fingers move automatically, scrolling to find another number. I need to act, to keep moving forward. Standing still means feeling, and I can't afford that luxury.

The call connects on the third ring.

"Elite Nanny Services, this is Vanessa Williams."

"It's Pope Carrigan." I clear my throat, finding the businessman's voice I've perfected over the years. "There's been a development in my guardianship case that requires immediate attention."

"Mr. Carrigan, good morning. How can I help?"

I brace my forearm against the window casing and drop my forehead onto it, the wood pressing into my skin as a lone jogger moves down the beach below. "I need to discuss a change to Ms. Brennan’s placement."