Page 55

Willow

T he courtroom feels colder than I expected.

Cold in the amount of people staring at me with impassive looks. Cold in the way every shuffle, breath, and movement echoes too loud in my ears. Cold in this dark wood, dimly lit room with its hard seats that feel anything but welcoming.

I sit stiffly in the witness chair, palms flat against my thighs, spine stiff, and heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingers. The gallery is full of reporters and strangers and people with notepads pretending they’re here for a headline.

Flashes went off as I entered the courthouse.

Cameras may be banned inside, but that hasn’t stopped the damage. My name’s already smeared across every tabloid. Each headline twisting the story to outdo the next so theirs is the one that goes viral. “Nanny Scandal.” “Sleeping Her Way To a Fortune.” “The Rock Star Buys Her Off with Sex.”

Their salacious nature is ridiculous, and yet people are talking, are commenting on the posts, and then sharing them to feed this beast.

And to ruin my reputation.

It’s been an overwhelming turn of events I never anticipated.

Me, being the bad guy in all of this. Me, possibly being the reason Rocket wouldn’t get custody of Poppy.

I’ve never had my integrity questioned more than I have in the last twenty-four hours, and it’s been disheartening, overwhelming, and terrifying.

Rocket has tried to shield me from it, but it’s about as effective as standing in front of a freight train. It’s impossible to stop.

But I’m a big girl, and he has way more important things to focus on than protecting me.

Like making sure he maintains his cool during these proceedings and proving the Whitmore’s claims that he’s a hothead fueled by hard partying, recreational drug use, and a hectic lifestyle to be wrong.

And while he is a multimillionaire with what I presume is an impressive set of lawyers, they have grief on their side.

And grief is a powerful drug that feeds every other emotion.

My hands tremble, and I brace them on my thighs as the procedural silence in the courtroom continues.

It takes everything I have not to look at Rocket. I know if I do, I might lose what little composure I’ve scraped together.

And yet, I sneak a glance at the courtroom gallery and am startled to see Gizmo sans Hendrix, who is watching Poppy for us, Vince and Bristol, and Hawkin and Quinlan, all sitting behind Rocket like a phalanx to protect him and show unity.

My chest constricts at the sight. At knowing they’re trying to show that Rocket has his own loving and supportive family who’ll help him when and if he needs it.

I begged my parents not to come—not wanting to subject them to this circus—and I’m grateful that, despite putting up a fight, they did as I asked.

My eyes shift to Rocket now. He’s sitting—stone-faced, beautiful, devastated—beside Sandra. His jaw is set, and his hands fist on the table, like he’s holding himself back from getting up and dragging me out of here.

I don’t belong here—in this courtroom or in this narrative. And yet I’m here.

Because of Poppy .

Because in taking this job, I made a promise to protect her. To do what’s best for her. And this is doing just that.

The judge calls the room back to order. Olivia’s parents are seated across the aisle with stoic expressions and stiff postures, and dressed in dark colors.

I take a breath and go through the motions. I swear to tell the truth, but I don’t even hear my own voice anymore. Instead, I focus on the court reporter’s fingers clicking on her keys.

Sandra moves to the well of the court and stands in its center. “Ms. Adams, can you describe your role in Poppy’s life?”

“I’m her nanny.”

“And when were you employed and by whom?”

“Child Protective Services contacted me to assist with a traumatized orphan while they located and verified who the father was. I agreed to help, and then when the father was confirmed to be Mr. Caldwell, he asked that I stay on and help him with Poppy’s care.”

“And that care included what?”

“Everything from daily hygiene, nutrition, and foundational education to facilitating therapy appointments, enrichment activities, and snuggles. You name it.”

“And you are on-site, correct?”

“Meaning do I live at the Caldwell residence? Yes. My room is right next to Poppy’s for convenience and safety.”

“I see,” Sandra says as my heart continues to race. I know the questions that will be coming and yet answering them in Sandra’s comfortable office is far different from this cold courtroom. “And are you aware if Mr. Caldwell knew of Poppy’s existence prior to her arrival?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“And how would you describe his adjustment to fatherhood and to Poppy?”

I inhale sharply and look just over the heads of the gallery.

“I think he’s adjusted well. Understandably, he was shocked initially, as I assume anyone would when thrown into that position as a new parent.

He struggled at first. But he’s made effort to learn how to communicate with Poppy, he’s adjusted things in his house to be safe for a toddler, and when he was on tour with Poppy, he ensured her ears were protected from loud music if she was backstage, and attempted to provide as normal a routine as much as possible.

He is patient and funny and ...” My throat tightens, and my voice breaks.

“He’s become her most favorite person and vice versa. ”

Sandra nods. “Thank you. No further questions.”

Then the lawyer for the Whitmores stands. Where Sandra came across as welcoming and non-confrontational, this man intimidates me with his slick hair and smug smirk.

“Ms. Adams. Hi.” His smile holds no warmth.

“Let’s revisit your words.Struggled at first.Interesting phrase.

Would you define, oh, I don’t know, excessive drinking, not coming home until the early hours of the morning multiple times the first few weeks after Poppy arrived, and choosing to be at the studio rather than home as struggling?

Was it really struggling or more like absentee fathering while his nanny did all the work? ”

My heart races. My eyes dart around the room.

“That was before Poppy.”

“Actually, it was in the weeks after Poppy arrived if the gate logs to his community and the metadata on the paparazzi photos taken are correct.”

“Like I said, there was an adjustment period. It was a short amount of time, yes. But—”

“But you’ll say anything because he pays you too, correct?”

“What?”

The lawyer moves around the well and ticks things off on his fingers as he goes. “Paid nanny services. Room and board. Lavish accommodations. VIP travel access. And as reported publicly ... certain personalbenefits?”

I freeze. The movement in the courtroom stills.

“Objection, Your Honor. Neither Ms. Adams, her compensation package, nor her behavior and actions are evidence of Mr. Caldwell’s ability to keep custody of his daughter.

Please have the comment about personal benefits struck from the records.

” She pauses and glances toward the Whitmore’s attorney.

“If Mr. Caldwell is out of the house, it doesn’t matter seeing as his employed nanny is at home caring for the child. ”

“Sustained. The purpose of this hearing is to discuss Mr. Caldwell’s custody of his own child. Is there a question about his ability that you wish to ask Ms. Adams?”

“Yes, Your Honor. You say your employer struggled with his new role. Can you explain what you mean by struggle ?”

Heat flushes through my body. I don’t want to make this any worse. “ I—uh—I think that is a subjective opinion and my opinions aren’t exactly qualified by any means—”

“Your opinions are jaded, are they not? It’s hard to remainunbiasedwhen the father of the child you’re supposed to protect is also yourlover.”

The word cracks like a whip in the air. The gallery murmurs. Someone shifts. A throat clears.

“I care about Poppy. That’s why—”

“Just like you cared at your last charge where you snuggled up to the father in exchange for admission and a scholarship into your undergraduate program.”

“What?” I bark out as the blood drains from my face. “My employer was an alumnus. That’s it. Nothing was traded for anything.”

“An alumnus that secured you a scholarship to pay for your education. What did you have to do in return for that help ?”

“Judge, this is out of line,” Sandra says.

“I’m simply establishing a precedent here to imply why Ms. Adams’s opinions can’t be seen as credible,” the Whitmore’s lawyer says.

“What social media and gossip sites write have no basis in this argument. It’s hearsay. For Mr. Sally to ask these questions based on those articles is irresponsible, inflammatory, and shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Noted and agreed with. I’ll allow the answer to this one question to see where you intend to go with this, but you’re on a tight rope, here, Mr. Sally. Get to the point,” the judge says.

“Of course.” Mr. Sally turns back to me. “You were saying, Ms. Adams. About why you’re here?”

My body’s shaking violently, and I break out in a sweat. I’m flustered, struggling to sound coherent when I answer. I glance to the gallery and see several people shaking their heads, and that only adds to my torment.

“Ms. Adams?” the judge urges.

“I did nothing in return for the letter of recommendation my employer wrote the admissions office.” I try to explain away his lies with the truth but fear it hasn’t done any good.

The judge may get to rule on the outcome, but the hundred or so people in the gallery who are probably posting on their social media channels right now just got more food to feed the fodder.

“No?” Mr. Sally suggests that he knows something no one else does.

I don’t know what he’s asking, and I can barely hear him over my own heartbeat. “I’m not here to lie for Mr. Caldwell. I’m here to tell the truth. I’m here for Poppy’s best interest.”

“Of course. Because you’ve been very ... well taken care of. Haven’t you?”

There’s the scraping back of a chair as Rocket stands up.

It’s the first time I’ve looked at him. Devastation.

Rage. Disbelief. Sandra puts a hand on his arm, whispering fast. No doubt begging him not to take the bait and look like the unhinged, unqualified parent they’re trying to paint him out to be.

I look away as quickly as I look at him. One second longer, and I’ll crumble.

My chest heaves. I blink too fast. My fingers curl into the fabric of my pants.

“Tell me, Ms. Adams, did Mr. Caldwell ask you to testify here today?”

What’s the trick in this question? What is the best way to answer?

I don’t know.

I don’t want to make this worse.

I swallow over the lump in my throat. “No. I volunteered.”

“Of course. It’s only normal to want to protect one’s lover.”

All the breath leaves my lungs and I struggle to reinflate them. I straighten my spine.

“Like I’ve said several times, but you don’t seem to hear. I’m not here for Mr. Caldwell. I’m here for his daughter and what’s in her best interest. The little girl who knows more love in his arms than she’ll ever find anywhere else.”

Mr. Sally’s smile is smarmy. “No further questions, Your Honor.”