Resignations were always loud and dramatic—suitcases scraping across marble floors, screams echoing down hallways, doors slammed hard enough to shake the walls. The house seemed to memorize every failure.
And the ones who enjoyed it most were Victor Caldwell’s four children. The billionaire hotel tycoon’s sons and daughters treated every new nanny not as help, but as prey. Making an adult run in tears had become a family ritual.
That night, the scene repeated itself. The seventh nanny in three months stumbled down the stairs, her face streaked with tears, her uniform smeared with blue paint, glue tangled in her hair. “This is impossible,” she shouted. “Your children are monsters.”
From the dark-paneled library, Victor stepped out with a glass of whiskey just in time to receive her furious glare. “No one can control them,” she snapped, before storming into the cold night.
Silence followed—briefly. From the top of the stairs, four figures watched. Isabella, twelve, stood with arms crossed and a sharp smile. Emma, ten, chewed her nails, eyes glittering. Noah, eight, laughed openly. Leo, six, clapped like he’d just seen a show.
“I told you,” Noah said. “She wouldn’t last till dinner.”