Not Just A Nanny: The Genius Returns

The tie was silk, a deep midnight blue that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Althea smoothed it down against Easton's chest, her fingers brushing the crisp cotton of his shirt. He didn't look at her. He was busy scrolling through emails on his phone, his jaw set in that permanent line of impatience that had defined their mornings for the last three years.

Althea reached for his cuffs to fasten the links. That was when she saw it.

Caught in the fabric of his dark suit jacket, right near the wrist, was a single strand of hair. It was long. It was blonde. And it was definitely not hers. Althea's hair was a dark, chestnut brown, currently pulled back into the severe, practical bun Easton preferred because he said loose hair looked "messy" at official functions.

Her breath hitched, a tiny, jagged sound in the quiet of the massive walk-in closet. She went to pick it off, her fingers trembling slightly.

Bzzzt.

Easton's phone vibrated. He jerked his arm away before she could touch the evidence.

"We're late, Althea," he said, his voice clipped. He finally glanced at her, his eyes sweeping over her beige dress with a look of mild disappointment. "Try not to blend into the wallpaper tonight. The Harringtons are hosting, not hiding."

He turned and walked out. Althea stood there, her hand suspended in mid-air, grasping at nothing. The closet felt suddenly airless, smelling of cedar and his expensive cologne-a scent that used to make her heart race, but now just made her stomach turn.

She lowered her hand. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She simply adjusted her own pearl earrings, the ones Eleanor, her mother-in-law, had given her with the comment that they were "modest enough for her station."

Althea walked down the grand staircase. The car was waiting.

The ride to the charity gala was silent. Easton typed furiously on his phone. Althea looked out the window, watching the New York skyline blur into streaks of light. She felt like a ghost haunting her own life.

When they arrived, the flashbulbs were blinding. A wall of noise and light erupted as the car door opened. Easton stepped out first, buttoning his jacket, the picture of the powerful, benevolent CEO. He reached a hand back, not for her, but to wave at a camera.

Althea climbed out, her heels clicking on the pavement. She moved to stand beside him, practicing the smile she had perfected over five years of marriage.

But before she could take her place, a figure in shimmering gold glided between them.

"Easton!" Georgina Knight's voice was like champagne bubbles-bright, intoxicating, and giving Althea a headache.

Georgina was wearing a dress that matched Easton's tie perfectly. The midnight blue accents on her gold gown were unmistakable. She looked like the Queen to his King. Althea, in her beige, looked like the help.

"Georgina," Easton's face softened. It was a transformation that physically hurt Althea to witness. The tension left his shoulders. "You look stunning."

"I had help picking the color palette," Georgina winked, linking her arm through his. She glanced back at Althea, her smile tight and predatory. "Oh, Althea. You came. That dress is... very sensible."

The photographers went wild. "Mr. Harrington! Ms. Knight! Over here! Closer!"

Althea was pushed to the side by a cameraman moving for a better angle. She stumbled slightly, catching her balance on a velvet rope. No one noticed. Easton and Georgina were already moving down the red carpet, a golden couple basking in the adoration of the press.

Althea followed three steps behind.

Inside the ballroom, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and money. Althea found a table in the corner, far away from the head table where Easton sat with Georgina and the board members.

She watched them. She watched Georgina lean in to whisper something in Easton's ear. She watched him throw his head back and laugh-a genuine, deep laugh she hadn't heard directed at her in years.

"Mom!"

Althea snapped her head around. Holt, her four-year-old son, came tearing through the crowd. He was sweating, his expensive little tuxedo rumpled. He was clutching a limited-edition robot toy that blinked with obnoxious red lights.

"Holt, slow down," Althea said, her mothering instinct kicking in. She reached into her clutch for a handkerchief. "You're sweating, baby. Come here, let me wipe your face."

She reached out to dab his forehead.

Holt recoiled as if she had burned him. He slapped her hand away.

"Don't touch me!" he screamed. The music in the room seemed to dip, or maybe it was just Althea's hearing failing. "You'll mess up my hair! Georgina Auntie did it special!"

People at the nearby tables turned to look. The whispers started.

Althea froze. She lowered her hand slowly. "Holt, that's not polite. I'm your mother."

Holt rolled his eyes, a gesture he had learned from his father. "Ugh, stop it," he said, his voice loud and petulant. "You're not my mom, you're just the nanny. Daddy said so."

The world stopped.

The clinking of silverware, the jazz band, the laughter-it all vanished into a high-pitched ringing in Althea's ears.

Just the nanny.

She looked up. Across the room, Easton had heard. He was looking at them, frowning. Not in anger at his son for disrespecting his mother. No. He looked annoyed that Althea was causing a scene. He made a sharp shooing motion with his hand, telling her to take the boy away.

Beside him, Georgina covered her mouth with her hand, feigning shock, but her eyes were crinkled in amusement.

Althea looked back at her son. Holt was already running off toward Georgina, holding up his toy for her approval. Georgina bent down and kissed his cheek, handing him a sweet from her purse.

Something inside Althea snapped. It wasn't a loud crack. It was the quiet sound of a tether finally breaking after years of strain.

She stood up. She didn't look at Easton. She didn't chase Holt.

She turned and walked toward the exit.

"Althea?" Easton's voice carried over the crowd, tinged with warning. "Where are you going? Don't make a scene."

She didn't break stride. She pushed through the heavy double doors and out into the cool night air. The fountain in the courtyard bubbled cheerfully, mocking the silence in her soul.

Althea stopped at the edge of the water. She looked at the diamond ring on her left hand. The Harrington family heirloom. It felt heavy, like a shackle.

She slid it off. Her finger felt naked, strange, and light.

With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it. It hit the water with a quiet plop and sank to the bottom, settling among the pennies wished upon by people with more hope than she had left.

She pulled out her phone. Her fingers dialed a number she hadn't called in five years.

It rang once. Twice.

"Hello?" A deep, familiar voice answered.

Althea took a shuddering breath. "Bret," she said, her voice trembling but her eyes dry. "I'm done. Come get me."

The house was silent when Althea returned, but the lights in the formal living room were blazing. She walked in, her heels echoing on the marble foyer.

Eleanor Harrington was sitting on the high-backed leather sofa, a glass of sherry in her hand. She looked like a vulture waiting for carrion.

"You left," Eleanor said, not bothering to look up from her inspection of her manicure. "Easton called. He is furious. Leaving a charity gala before the auction? Do you have any idea how that looks?"

Althea kicked off her heels. She walked past the living room toward the stairs. "I don't care, Eleanor."

Eleanor shot up from the sofa, spilling a drop of sherry on the Persian rug. "You don't care? You ungrateful little gold digger. My son pulled you out of obscurity, gave you a life most women would kill for, and this is how you repay him? By throwing tantrums?"

Althea stopped. She turned slowly. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.

"A life?" Althea asked softly. "You mean a life where I manage his schedule, run his household, raise his son, and tolerate his mistress parading around in my clothes? That's not a life, Eleanor. That's a staff position. And I quit."

Eleanor's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "Mistress? Georgina is a family friend! She has stood by Easton through everything! You are just jealous because she has class and you..." Eleanor sneered, looking Althea up and down. "You are just a placeholder."

The front door burst open.

Laughter spilled into the hallway. Easton walked in, carrying a sleeping Holt. Georgina followed, her hand resting possessively on Easton's lower back.

"Shh," Georgina giggled, pressing a finger to her lips. "We don't want to wake the little prince."

Easton saw Althea standing by the stairs. His face hardened.

"You," he growled, his voice low so as not to wake the boy. "We are going to talk about tonight. In the study. Now."

"Look at them," Eleanor crooned, walking over to stroke Holt's hair. "Such a perfect family unit. It's a shame some people don't fit in."

Holt stirred. He opened his sleepy eyes, saw Georgina, and smiled. "Mommy G..." he mumbled, snuggling into Easton's shoulder.

Althea felt the physical blow of those words in her chest. It was a dull ache, radiating outward.

"Put him to bed, Easton," Georgina said softly, playing the role of the benevolent matriarch. "I'll make you some tea. You look stressed."

"You're an angel, G," Easton murmured. He glanced at Althea with pure disdain. "Why can't you be more like her?"

Althea didn't answer. She turned and walked up the stairs.

"I'm talking to you!" Easton hissed behind her. "Make me something to eat. I'm starving. The gala food was inedible."

Althea paused on the landing. She didn't look back. "The kitchen is fully stocked. Or ask your 'angel' to cook. I'm off the clock."

She heard Eleanor gasp. She heard Easton's stunned silence.

Althea walked into the master bedroom and locked the door. She didn't turn on the lights. She went straight to the desk in the corner, opening her laptop.

The screen glowed blue in the darkness. She opened a hidden folder titled Exit Strategy. Inside was a draft of a divorce agreement she had written two years ago, after the first time she found lipstick on his collar. She had never had the courage to print it.

She scrolled down to the alimony section. Spousal Support: $50,000 monthly.

Her fingers hovered over the backspace key.

She pressed it. She held it down until the number disappeared. She deleted the request for the house. She deleted the request for the car. She deleted the request for the stocks.

She typed in a single sentence: The parties shall retain their own assets.

From downstairs, she heard Georgina laughing-a sound that vibrated through the floorboards.

Althea hit Print.

The printer whirred to life, the mechanical rhythm soothing in the quiet room. She watched the paper slide out, warm and crisp.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. A text message.

Bret: The lab is ready. Welcome back, Dr. Morrison.

Althea touched the screen, tracing the title she hadn't used in five years. A cold smile touched her lips.

The clock on the wall ticked past 2:00 AM. The house was finally quiet. Georgina had left an hour ago, and Eleanor had retired to her wing.

Althea sat in the leather armchair in Easton's study, the only light coming from a small desk lamp. The folder containing the divorce papers sat in the center of the mahogany desk.

The door handle turned.

Easton walked in. He smelled of scotch and Georgina's cloying vanilla perfume. He loosened his tie-the blue one-and tossed it onto a chair. He startled when he saw Althea sitting in the shadows.

"Jesus, Althea," he snapped, rubbing his temples. "What are you doing sitting in the dark? Trying to creep me out?"

He walked to the wet bar and poured himself another drink. "If you're waiting for an apology, you're going to be waiting a long time. You embarrassed me tonight. Holt is confused. You need to get your act together."

"I have," Althea said. Her voice was steady.

She pushed the folder across the desk. "Sign it."

Easton frowned. He picked up his glass and walked over, glancing down at the paperwork. He read the header: Dissolution of Marriage.

He threw his head back and laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound.

"This again?" He tossed the folder back onto the desk without opening it. It slid across the polished wood and nearly fell off the edge. "Is this your new negotiation tactic? Threaten to leave so I buy you more jewelry? Or is this about attention?"

"I don't want jewelry, Easton. I want out."

Easton leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. He looked at her with a mix of pity and amusement. "Althea, be realistic. You have no job. You have no money. You haven't worked a day in five years. You're a glorified housewife. Where would you go? A motel?"

He took a sip of his drink, his eyes gleaming with arrogance. "You won't last a week without the Harrington trust fund. You'll be back begging Eleanor for grocery money by Friday."

Althea stood up. She smoothed the front of her jeans-she had changed out of the gown.

"I'm not asking for money," she said. "Check the terms. I'm walking away with nothing."

Easton paused. For a second, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. But he squashed it down instantly.

"Right. The martyr act." He stepped closer, invading her personal space. He smelled like expensive alcohol and entitlement. "Stop playing games. Go upstairs, take a bath, and we'll forget this happened. I have a board meeting tomorrow and I need my gray suit pressed."

Althea looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw the lines of stress around his eyes, the slight bloat in his face from the drinking. She looked for the man she had fallen in love with in a hospital room five years ago.

He wasn't there. Maybe he never had been.

"Goodbye, Easton," she said.

She turned and walked out of the study.

"If you walk out that door," Easton shouted after her, his voice echoing in the hallway, "I'm cutting off your credit cards! Don't think I won't do it!"

Althea didn't stop. She walked to the front door where her small carry-on suitcase was waiting. She had packed it hours ago. No designer bags. No jewelry. Just her clothes, her passport, and her degree certificate.

She paused by the console table in the foyer. She took the keys to the Mercedes SUV he had bought her for her birthday-the one that was technically in the company's name-and placed them in the silver bowl. beside them, she placed her black Amex card.

She opened the heavy oak door. The night air rushed in, crisp and clean.

A black sedan was waiting at the curb. Not a town car. An Uber.

Althea walked down the steps. She didn't look back at the looming mansion that had been her prison. She got into the back seat.

"Where to, ma'am?" the driver asked.

Althea looked at the dark windows of the house one last time.

"The Morrison Institute for Biomedical Research," she said. "And please, drive fast."