I Was His Daughter's Babysitter, Now I'm His Dirty Little Secret

The heavy oak door swung inward before Cerise’s knuckles even made contact, revealing Emmanuel’s five-year-old daughter, Lily, a tiny, solemn figure in a house of imposing scale.

“You’re here,” Lily stated, her voice a small, clear bell in the cavernous entryway.

“I’m here,” Cerise confirmed, stepping over the threshold onto the polished concrete floor. She slipped off her worn canvas sneakers, placing them neatly on the mat, an island of lived-in color in a sea of cool, architectural grey. “Is Dad still here?”

Lily shook her head, her dark ponytail swishing. “He had a late meeting. He said to give you this.” She held out a folded piece of paper. It was Emmanuel’s usual note: emergency numbers she already had memorized, the name of the restaurant she didn’t need to know, and a hastily scrawled, “Thanks, C.”

The house was always immaculate, a testament to a very expensive cleaning service. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto a manicured garden, now sinking into the blue twilight. The air was still and smelled faintly of glass cleaner and the expensive, anonymous scent of a diffuser tucked onto a low-slung bookshelf. It was a beautiful, orderly, and profoundly quiet home, and Cerise always felt the silence settle over her the moment the door closed.

“Okay, little bug,” Cerise said, her voice intentionally warm to fill the space. “Did you eat yet?”

Another shake of the head. Their routine was a well-oiled machine, one Cerise had perfected over the last six months. She led the way to the kitchen, a stunning expanse of white marble and stainless steel that looked more like a showroom than a place where a child ate. She lifted Lily onto a stool at the enormous island, her small feet dangling far above the floor.

While the toaster oven warmed a slice of pizza, Cerise leaned against the counter, watching the girl. Lily was a serious child, her father’s dark eyes set in a delicate face. She didn’t chatter aimlessly, but when she spoke, it was with a thoughtful precision that always surprised Cerise.

“We learned about seahorses today,” Lily announced to the room. “The daddy carries the babies.”

“He does,” Cerise said, sliding the pizza onto a plate and cutting it into neat, manageable squares. “That’s pretty special, isn’t it?”

Lily nodded, taking a careful bite. “Dad says it’s a lot of work.”

The comment hung in the air between them, a simple observation loaded with an adult weariness that felt out of place coming from a five-year-old. Cerise just smiled, wiping a spot of sauce from Lily’s chin with her thumb.

Bath time was next. Cerise filled the oversized tub, the sound of rushing water a welcome noise in the silent house. She poured in the lavender-scented soap Emmanuel always kept stocked, and soon Lily was surrounded by bubbles, her earlier solemnity dissolving as she methodically washed the limbs of a plastic dinosaur.

Finally, tucked into her bed, the sheets crisp and white, Lily chose her story. It was an old favorite, a book about a bear who couldn’t sleep. Cerise’s voice was a low murmur as she read, the cadence familiar and soothing. By the last page, Lily’s breathing had deepened into the soft, even rhythm of sleep. Cerise watched her for a moment, the rise and fall of her small chest under the duvet, before gently pulling the door until it was almost closed, leaving only a thin sliver of hallway light cutting into the darkness.

Downstairs, the silence had returned, heavier than before. It pressed in from the high ceilings and the vast, empty rooms. Cerise gathered her art history textbook and a sketchbook from her bag, settling onto the massive white sofa that probably cost more than her tuition. The house was hers now, for the next few hours at least.

She opened her textbook, the glossy pages reflecting the recessed lighting above. The Influence of Caravaggio on Neapolitan Painting. The words swam in front of her eyes, failing to hold her interest. The silence of the house was a physical presence, a weight that made the academic text feel trivial. Her gaze drifted from the page, across the vast expanse of the living room, and settled on a collection of silver-framed photographs arranged with architectural precision on a floating shelf next to the unlit fireplace.

She’d seen them before, of course, but had always made a point of not looking too closely. It felt like an invasion of privacy, a line she, as the babysitter, shouldn't cross. But tonight, the quiet loneliness of the house seemed to invite it, to pull her in. Pushing aside a flicker of guilt, she rose from the sofa and walked over, her bare feet silent on the cool concrete floor.

Most were of Lily. Lily on a swing, her face alight with a joyous scream. Lily covered in mud, holding a worm with intense concentration. Lily as a newborn, a wrinkled, red-faced thing swaddled in a hospital blanket. In one, she was held by a woman with bright, blonde hair and a wide, detached smile. The ex-wife, Cerise presumed. The woman wasn’t in any of the other photos.

But it was Emmanuel who held her attention.

In one frame, he was crouched down to Lily’s level on a beach, the wind whipping his dark hair across his forehead. He was laughing, a full-throated, unreserved laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He looked younger, freer. In another, a more formal portrait, he stared out from behind the glass, dressed in a dark suit. The sharp line of his jaw was prominent, his expression serious, professional. This was the man who designed buildings like this house—imposing, precise, and breathtakingly expensive.

Her fingers ghosted over the last photo. It was a candid shot. He was sitting in an armchair, Lily asleep on his chest, a picture book fallen open on the floor beside him. He wasn't looking at the camera but down at his daughter, and the expression on his face was one of profound, bone-deep exhaustion mixed with a tenderness that made Cerise’s breath catch in her throat. The hard lines of the architect were softened into the simple, unguarded features of a father. Tired but kind eyes, she thought. That was it exactly.

An unfamiliar warmth coiled low in her belly. It was entirely unprofessional, this sudden, sharp curiosity about him. What was he like when he wasn't just a voice on the phone or a fleeting presence at the door, pressing cash into her hand? Did he feel as isolated in this huge, silent house as she imagined? The thought of him, alone here after Lily was asleep, night after night, stirred something in her she had no business feeling. It was a dangerous, stupid flicker of empathy that felt far too close to attraction. She traced the edge of the silver frame with her fingertip, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat rising on her skin. She felt like a trespasser, not just in his home, but in the private corners of his life. Pulling her hand back as if burned, she turned away from the photos, her heart beating a little too fast. She retreated to the sofa, forcing her eyes back to the page, but the image of Emmanuel’s tired, gentle gaze was now superimposed over the text, refusing to fade.

She gave up on Caravaggio. The dense paragraphs felt like a wall she couldn't scale. Instead, she reached for her sketchbook and a charcoal pencil. Flipping to a clean page, she began to draw, not from imagination, but from the textbook open on her lap. She focused on a detail from The Calling of Saint Matthew—the stark beam of light cutting through the tavern gloom, illuminating the faces of the tax collectors. It was the light that fascinated her, the way it created such intense, dramatic pockets of shadow. Her hand moved quickly, smudging the charcoal with her thumb to soften the edges, losing herself in the familiar, comforting friction of graphite on paper.

She was so engrossed she didn't hear the faint click of the front door unlocking. It was the soft thud of a leather briefcase hitting the floor that finally broke her concentration.

Her head snapped up. Emmanuel stood in the entryway, shrugging off his suit jacket. He looked utterly spent. His tie was already loosened, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone. The sharp, professional lines she’d seen in the photograph were blurred with exhaustion. He ran a hand through his dark hair, leaving it slightly disheveled, and for a second, he just stood there, his shoulders slumped, as if the sheer weight of the day was pressing down on him.

Cerise’s heart hammered against her ribs. She felt a hot blush creep up her neck, an absurd feeling of being caught doing something illicit. She instinctively snapped the sketchbook shut, as if hiding evidence.

He finally seemed to notice her, a flicker of surprise in his tired eyes. He’d clearly expected to come home to a dark, empty living room. A slow, weary smile touched his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Cerise," he said. His voice was lower than she remembered, gravelly with fatigue. A pleasant, deep rumble that seemed to vibrate in the quiet air. "I didn't mean to startle you. The dinner ended early."

"It's no problem," she managed, her own voice sounding thin and reedy. She started to gather her things, her movements jerky and awkward. "Lily was great. She went right to sleep after her story."

"Good. That's good." He didn't move to get his wallet or to usher her out. Instead, he walked slowly toward the sofa, his gaze fixed on the notebook in her lap. "What were you working on so intently?"

"Oh, nothing. Just… studying." The lie was clumsy and obvious.

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne mingling with the crisp night air that still clung to his clothes. He tilted his head, his eyes landing on the charcoal smudges on her fingers.

"Let me see," he said. It wasn't a demand, but a soft request.

Hesitantly, feeling strangely exposed, she opened the sketchbook again to the page she’d been working on. He leaned in to get a better look, one hand resting on the back of the sofa, right behind her head. The proximity was sudden and intense. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and she held her breath, acutely aware of every inch of space between them.

He was silent for a long moment, his focus entirely on the drawing. She watched his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the faint stubble shadowing his chin. The silence stretched, thick and charged.

"You have a real talent, Cerise," he said finally, his voice a low murmur directly beside her ear. He pointed, his finger hovering just above the page, not quite touching it. "The chiaroscuro… you captured it perfectly. The way the light falls right here."

The compliment landed with a physical weight, settling deep in her chest. It wasn't a polite, throwaway comment. It was specific, observant. He saw what she was trying to do. He understood. His voice, a low and intimate rumble so close to her ear, sent a shiver straight down her spine, making every nerve ending in her body stand at attention.

"Thank you," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She closed the sketchbook, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The warmth from his body was a tangible pressure against her side. "I just... it helps me unwind."

He straightened up, breaking the spell, and the air rushed back into Cerise's lungs. "Well, whatever the reason, don't stop." He gave her a small, tired smile. "Come on, let me get you paid. I think I left my wallet in the kitchen."

He turned and walked toward the kitchen, and Cerise scrambled to her feet, grabbing her bag and coat. She followed him, her socked feet padding silently on the cold floor. The kitchen was a cavern of stainless steel and white marble, illuminated by a single, stark light above the island. The clinical brightness felt even more exposing than the dim living room.

He didn't go for his wallet. Instead, he pulled open a drawer next to the state-of-the-art refrigerator and took out a small stack of crisp fifty-dollar bills held together by a money clip. He slid the clip off, his movements economical and precise.

"Is this right?" he asked, counting out four bills onto the marble countertop. Two hundred dollars. Her standard rate. The transaction felt suddenly cheap, transactional in a way it never had before. It was a stark reminder of their roles: he was the employer, she was the employee.

"Yes, that's perfect. Thank you," she said, reaching for the money.

As her fingers closed over the bills, his hand covered hers, pressing them flat against the cool stone. It wasn't an accident. His touch was deliberate, his fingers firm, his palm hot against the back of her hand.

Cerise froze, her breath catching in her throat. She looked up from their hands, and her eyes met his.

He was staring at her, his gaze intense and unwavering. The exhaustion was still there, etched in the faint lines around his eyes, but it was overshadowed by something else now. Something raw and searching. It was the same look from the photograph—the tired father—but now it was directed at her, and it was laced with a distinctly male hunger that had nothing to do with fatherhood. The air crackled, thick with everything they hadn't said for the past four weeks. Her heart began to hammer a frantic, heavy rhythm against her ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage.

His thumb moved, a slow, almost imperceptible stroke over her knuckles. A jolt of pure electricity shot up her arm, pooling hot and heavy between her legs. She felt her nipples harden against the fabric of her bra, a traitorous, involuntary response. The whole world seemed to shrink to the space of that kitchen island, to the heat of his hand on hers, to the dark, questioning look in his eyes. He was asking her something, something dangerous, without saying a word.

Seconds stretched into an eternity. He was so close she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could feel his breath on her face. She should pull away. She should say goodnight, grab the money, and run. It was the smart thing to do, the professional thing. But her hand remained pinned beneath his, her body refusing to obey. A part of her, a reckless, curious part, wanted to see what would happen if she didn't move at all.

Finally, as if breaking through a thick haze, he blinked. He released her hand abruptly, stepping back and breaking the contact. The sudden cold where his hand had been was a shock.

"Right," he said, his voice sounding rougher than before. He cleared his throat. "Drive safe, Cerise."

"I will," she managed to say, her own voice shaky. She snatched the bills from the counter, her fingers clumsy as she shoved them into her jeans pocket. She didn't look at him again. She couldn't.

She turned and fled, grabbing her coat and not bothering to put it on. She practically flew out the front door, the click of the lock behind her sounding like a gunshot. The cold night air was a welcome slap to her heated skin. She fumbled with her car keys, her hands trembling, and finally slid into the driver's seat. As she pulled away from the curb, she risked one last glance back at the house. A single light was on in the kitchen. She could just make out his silhouette, standing motionless by the island, a solitary figure in the vast, quiet house. Her heart was still fluttering wildly in her chest, a frantic, thrilling beat that promised nothing but trouble.