Page 124 of Nine Week Nanny

"Children need consistency," Val says, stirring her tea. "Especially after trauma."

"You think I don't know that?" My control slips. "You think I wanted any of this?"

Hart catches my eye, her gaze steady. "We know you're doing your best in a difficult situation."

The kindness in her voice almost breaks me. I turn away, fixing my gaze on the ocean beyond the windows.

"I have a board meeting at the hospital at six," I say, checking my watch. "I should prepare. You two make yourselves at home, or take a walk on the beach. I think Camila will be gone for a few more hours, so get settled."

Val sighs, but Hart stands, collecting their untouched tea. "Don't you worry about us. We will be just fine."

I standat the head of the polished mahogany table, laser pointer tracking across profit projections glowing on the screen. Twenty pairs of eyes follow every movement.

The boardroom's air conditioning hums beneath my words, a constant white noise that matches the static in my brain.

"Phase one implementation begins next month with the executive health program." My voice echoes in the cavernous room. "Full concierge rollout follows in quarter two, but, and this is crucial, we maintain all existing charity care commitments."

Dr. Reisner, silver-haired and perpetually skeptical, leans forward. "These retention bonuses seem excessive, Mr. Carrigan. Three million dollars to keep staff who might leave anyway?"

I resist the urge to sigh. Focus and control. This is what I'm good at.

"Replacing them would cost five million minimum, not counting lost institutional knowledge and patient relationships." I click to the next slide showing turnover costs. "The nurses' walkout has already cost us eight hundred thousand in temporary staffing. I won't make that mistake twice. Spend the money on the front end to keep everything together until the dust settles.”

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everyone in a sickly pallor. The back of my neck at the base of my skull throbs with the beginnings of a headache, but I push forward.

"The training pipeline partnership with Atlantic University creates our own talent pool while generating community goodwill." I gesture to the proposed budget breakdown. "It's an investment."

A suit from Accounting adjusts his glasses. "The timeline seems aggressive."

"It has to be." I plant both hands on the table, leaning in. "We're hemorrhaging money with the current model. Every month we delay costs us two point eight million in potential revenue."

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Probably Val with a nonsensical question. Or Warren with more legal bullshit from Chris. I ignore it.

"Questions about the phased implementation?" I scan the room, daring anyone to challenge me.

No one does. I've done this a hundred times. The numbers don't lie, and I know how to make them dance. It's the only thing that makes sense anymore.

Someone mentions insurance negotiations. I respond automatically, the words flowing without conscious thought.

Meanwhile, my mind wanders to Lennon's face when he saw Camila. The kid has been slingshotting all over the place. He probably doesn't know what to expect from one day to the next.

"...wouldn't you agree, Mr. Carrigan?"

I snap back to the present. "Absolutely. The data supports it completely."

The meeting wraps up with handshakes and calendar invites. On the surface, I'm composed, victorious, even. The board is convinced. The plan moves forward.

But inside, I'm coming apart at the seams.

I closethe door to my house and lean against it for a few seconds, grateful for the empty house. Seven-thirty. Finally alone.

The skyline glows orange and purple beyond my window as dusk falls over Palm Beach, lights beginning to wink on across the city. My phone hasn't buzzed in twelve minutes. It must be some kind of record today.

I can see Val, Hart, and Camila standing by the fire in the fire pit. Lennon and Camila's kids are running around the yard. I could join them, but I don't want to.

I cross to the minibar and fill a tumbler with soda water, twisting lime over the rim. The fizz dies quickly.

The leather chair creaks under me as I sit and swivel toward the window. On paper, the last two days look clean. The board signed off on my plan, Warren kept Chris at bay, the staff walkout cooled, and Camila’s finally inching forward.