Updated Feb 23, 2026 • ~6 min read
POV: Valencia
Valencia Rivera is twenty-six years old, has a teaching degree from NYU she can’t afford to use, and desperately needs this job.
The St. Clair penthouse occupies the entire top floor of a building in Tribeca—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, minimalist furniture that probably costs more than her annual salary, the kind of wealth that makes Valencia acutely aware of her Target jeans and practical flats.
She’s here interviewing for a nanny position.
Her sixth nanny interview in three months.
The previous five didn’t work out for various reasons: family relocated, position filled internally, overqualified and they worried she’d leave, underqualified despite her teaching degree, personality clash with the family dog.
This one has to work.
Has to.
Because Valencia sends money home to her family in the Philippines every month—her mother needs expensive medication for diabetes, her younger brother is in college, her father’s construction work is inconsistent—and the nanny salary is triple what teaching kindergarten paid in New York.
She can’t afford to fail this interview.
The door opens and Dominic St. Clair walks in.
Valencia recognizes him from her research: thirty-five, tech billionaire, founded an AI education company worth billions, French-American, widowed eighteen months ago when his wife died in a car accident.
Handsome in that severe way wealthy men often are—sharp jawline, grey eyes, dark hair styled perfectly, wearing a suit that probably costs more than her entire wardrobe.
Cold.
That’s Valencia’s first impression.
Cold and distant and conducting this interview like a business transaction.
“Miss Rivera,” he says, not offering a handshake. “You’re overqualified. Teaching degree from NYU, five years of professional childcare experience. Why nanny work?”
Straight to it, then.
No pleasantries.
Valencia sits in the chair he gestures to—expensive leather, uncomfortable in its formality.
“I love working with children,” she says. “One-on-one attention allows me to educate while providing care. My teaching degree means I can incorporate learning into daily activities.”
“You could make more money teaching.”
Not in New York, but Valencia doesn’t say that.
“I prefer the intimacy of individual childcare. Building real relationships with families.”
Dominic’s expression doesn’t change. “Jules is difficult. Six nannies have quit in the past year.”
Six.
That’s… a lot.
“What makes him difficult?” Valencia asks carefully.
“He doesn’t speak.”
Valencia processes this. “At all?”
“Selective mutism. Developed after his mother’s death. He’s five years old and hasn’t said a word in thirteen months. Therapists, specialists, interventions—nothing works. Most nannies can’t handle the… silence.”
There’s pain in how he says it.
Brief, quickly masked, but there.
“I don’t need children to speak to understand them,” Valencia says. “Communication takes many forms. If Jules isn’t ready to use words, we’ll find other ways to connect.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am certain. I’ve worked with selectively mute children before. Patience and consistency are key.”
Dominic studies her for a long moment.
Then: “Would you like to meet Jules?”
“Of course.”
He leads her through the penthouse—past a gourmet kitchen, a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a living room that’s pristinely clean and somehow lifeless—to a bedroom with a dinosaur theme.
Jules St. Clair is sitting on the floor surrounded by building blocks, clutching a stuffed elephant, not building anything.
Just sitting.
Small for five, dark hair like his father’s, wearing dinosaur pajamas at three in the afternoon.
He doesn’t look up when they enter.
“Jules,” Dominic says. “This is Miss Rivera. She might be your new nanny.”
No response.
Jules keeps staring at the blocks.
Dominic’s jaw tightens.
Valencia recognizes that expression: frustration mixed with helplessness mixed with love.
She sits on the floor—not approaching Jules, just occupying the same space—and picks up a block.
“Hi Jules,” she says conversationally. “I’m Val. That’s a cool elephant. What’s his name?”
Jules doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t even look at her.
But his grip on the elephant tightens slightly.
Acknowledgment.
“I had a stuffed elephant when I was little,” Valencia continues, building a small tower with blocks. “Her name was Dumpling. Because she was round and squishy. Does your elephant like building blocks?”
Jules glances at her.
Quick, assessing, then back to the elephant.
More acknowledgment.
Valencia keeps building, not forcing interaction, just being present.
After five minutes, Jules scoots slightly closer.
Not much.
Maybe six inches.
But closer.
Valencia doesn’t react, just keeps building her tower, narrating what she’s doing.
“Blue block on red block. Now yellow. I’m making a rainbow tower. Do you think it’ll fall if I add green?”
Jules reaches out and hands her a green block.
Still not speaking.
Still not making eye contact.
But communicating.
Valencia takes the block with a smile. “Thank you. That’s the perfect green.”
She places it on the tower.
It wobbles but doesn’t fall.
Jules’s mouth twitches.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
Dominic is watching from the doorway, expression carefully neutral, but Valencia can feel his attention.
She spends another ten minutes with Jules—building, knocking down, rebuilding—while Jules slowly warms up, handing her blocks, occasionally pointing when he wants her to place something specific.
Not speaking.
But present.
Engaged.
Communicating in his own way.
When Valencia finally stands to leave, Jules looks up at her.
Direct eye contact for the first time.
Then he holds up his elephant, showing it to her.
“Your elephant is wonderful,” Valencia says gently. “I hope I get to see him again soon.”
Jules nods.
Small movement, barely perceptible.
But a nod.
Dominic walks her to the door.
“That was impressive,” he says.
“He’s not difficult. He’s grieving. There’s a difference.”
“Six nannies couldn’t do what you just did.”
“Six nannies probably tried to force him to engage. I just sat with him. Children respond to presence, not pressure.”
Dominic’s quiet for a moment.
Then: “The position is live-in. Room and board provided, plus salary. Contract is for one year minimum. You’d start Monday if you’re interested.”
Valencia’s heart pounds.
He’s offering her the job.
Right now.
No second interview, no references check, just offering.
“I’m very interested,” she says.
“Excellent. My assistant will send the contract details. Welcome to the family, Miss Rivera.”
Family.
Interesting choice of words.
Valencia shakes his hand—first physical contact, his grip firm and brief—and leaves the penthouse feeling like her life just changed.
She’s right.
She just doesn’t know how much yet.
Doesn’t know that taking this job will lead to falling in love with a man she absolutely shouldn’t.
Doesn’t know that the quiet five-year-old with the stuffed elephant will become the son she never had.
Doesn’t know that “family” will stop being a figure of speech and become her entire world.
But she will.
Soon.
Starting Monday.
When Valencia Rivera becomes the St. Clair family’s live-in nanny and everything changes.
Forever.
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