Updated Feb 23, 2026 • ~7 min read
POV: Valencia
Valencia’s new room is bigger than her entire previous apartment.
That’s not hyperbole.
Her studio in Queens—where she lived for the past two years while working various nanny jobs—was four hundred square feet of cramped efficiency.
This guest room in the St. Clair penthouse is easily six hundred square feet, with an ensuite bathroom that has both a soaking tub and a separate shower, a walk-in closet that currently holds her entire wardrobe with room for ten more people’s clothes, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan.
It’s obscene.
It’s luxury Valencia has never experienced.
It’s her new home for at least the next year.
She’s been moved in for a week now and still isn’t used to it.
The contract was generous: live-in nanny, private room and bath, all meals provided, salary that made Valencia’s eyes water when she saw the number, full benefits including health insurance that covers her pre-existing conditions and even has international coverage for her family in the Philippines.
Dominic St. Clair doesn’t do anything halfway, apparently.
Valencia’s unpacking the last of her belongings—which doesn’t take long because she doesn’t own much—when there’s a knock on her door.
“Come in,” she calls.
Dominic enters, looking uncomfortable in his own home.
That’s been a pattern this week: he’s stiff and formal in the common areas, like he’s not sure how to share his space with an employee.
“Settling in okay?” he asks.
“The room is beautiful. More than I need, honestly.”
“It’s the smallest guest room.”
Valencia laughs. “Your smallest guest room is bigger than my last apartment.”
Dominic’s expression shifts—something like discomfort mixed with awareness.
Class difference.
That’s the undercurrent in every interaction they have.
He’s a billionaire living in a Tribeca penthouse with art that probably costs more than Valencia will earn in her lifetime.
She’s working class, sending money home to family, living paycheck to paycheck before this job.
Different worlds colliding.
“I wanted to discuss boundaries,” Dominic says. “The penthouse is large. I don’t want you to feel confined to… staff areas.”
“Staff areas?”
“Your room, the kitchen. Some live-in employees feel like they need to stay out of the way when not actively working.”
Valencia sits on her bed—king-sized, ridiculously comfortable. “Isn’t that appropriate? I’m staff.”
“You’re Jules’s caregiver. That’s family-adjacent. You live here. Please use the library, the living areas, the terrace, whatever you need. This is your home too, for the next year.”
It’s kind.
More generous than Valencia expected.
But also strange—she’s never had an employer tell her to treat their home as her own.
Usually there are clear delineations: staff spaces versus family spaces.
“I don’t want to intrude on your privacy,” Valencia says carefully.
“You won’t. The penthouse is fifteen thousand square feet. There’s plenty of space for privacy. But I don’t want you hiding in your room when you’re off duty. Watch TV in the living room. Read in the library. Make yourself at home.”
“That’s very generous.”
“It’s practical. Jules is getting attached to you. He’ll want to spend time with you even when you’re not technically working. Easier if you’re comfortable occupying shared spaces.”
Dominic’s framing it as logistics, but Valencia hears what he’s not saying:
He wants her integrated into their life.
Not separate.
Not just the help.
Present.
“Okay,” Valencia agrees. “I’ll try not to hide in my room.”
“Good. Also, feel free to personalize your space. Art, photos, whatever makes it feel like home. The decorator will hate it but I don’t care.”
Valencia smiles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dominic lingers in the doorway like he wants to say something else.
Then: “Jules asked if you could eat dinner with us tonight. Instead of eating separately. Is that acceptable?”
“Of course. I usually eat with families I work for.”
“The previous nannies preferred to eat alone.”
“The previous nannies quit.”
Dominic’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
Almost.
“Fair point. Dinner is at six. Mrs. Chen cooks—she’s our housekeeper, comes daily. She’s making something Filipino tonight. I asked her to… I noticed you’ve been a bit homesick.”
Valencia’s throat tights.
He noticed.
Her employer noticed she’s been missing home and arranged for Filipino food.
“That’s incredibly thoughtful,” she manages.
“It’s basic decency. You’re far from family. The least I can do is provide familiar food.”
It’s more than basic decency.
It’s care.
Actual consideration for her wellbeing beyond professional obligation.
Valencia doesn’t know what to do with that.
“Thank you,” she says. “Truly. That means a lot.”
Dominic nods, already backing toward the door. “See you at dinner.”
After he leaves, Valencia sits on her enormous bed in her enormous room and processes.
This job is different from every other nanny position she’s held.
Dominic St. Clair is different.
He’s distant, yes.
Professional and formal and clearly uncomfortable with emotional expression.
But he’s also paying attention.
Noticing details.
Trying to make her comfortable despite the vast class difference between them.
It’s… unexpected.
Valencia pulls out her phone, texts her best friend Maria:
New job is weird but good. Boss is emotionally constipated but thoughtful. Kid is perfect.
Maria responds immediately:
“Emotionally constipated but thoughtful” is your type. Remember Professor Anderson?
That was ONE TIME and I did not have a crush on my college professor!
You wrote him poetry.
That was for CLASS.
It was anonymous poetry you left in his mailbox.
I’m blocking you.
No you’re not. Now tell me: is the billionaire hot?
Valencia doesn’t answer.
Because yes, Dominic St. Clair is objectively attractive.
Tall, sharp features, those intense grey eyes, the way he moves with controlled precision like he’s always thinking three steps ahead.
But he’s also her employer.
Her grieving widower employer who’s clearly still processing his wife’s death.
Her off-limits employer who she absolutely cannot develop feelings for.
He’s my boss, Valencia types back. That’s all that matters.
That’s not an answer.
It’s the only answer you’re getting.
You’re already in trouble.
I’m not—
You’re living in his house, caring for his kid, eating dinner with his family. You’re going to catch feelings.
I’m PROFESSIONAL.
Professional people don’t need to announce how professional they are.
Valencia throws her phone on the bed.
Maria’s wrong.
Valencia is excellent at maintaining boundaries.
She’s worked for attractive employers before without incident.
This will be the same.
Dominic St. Clair is her boss.
Jules is her professional responsibility.
This is a job.
A very well-paying, comfortable job in a beautiful home with a sweet child and a generous employer.
Nothing more.
Nothing complicated.
Definitely nothing romantic.
Valencia repeats this to herself while getting ready for dinner.
Repeats it while walking to the dining room at six PM.
Repeats it while sitting at the table with Dominic and Jules, eating adobo that Mrs. Chen made perfectly, listening to Dominic ask thoughtful questions about her family in the Philippines.
Repeats it while Jules—still silent but expressive—shows her his new dinosaur toy and wants her opinion on where it should sleep in his room.
Repeats it while helping clean up after dinner, working alongside Dominic in comfortable silence that feels unexpectedly natural.
She’s professional.
This is just a job.
Nothing more.
The fact that Dominic’s laugh—rare and surprised when Jules does something adorable—makes her chest feel warm?
Irrelevant.
The fact that she’s already thinking of this penthouse as home after one week?
Temporary.
The fact that when Dominic says goodnight and their hands brush accidentally while both reaching for Jules’s sippy cup and Valencia feels electricity shoot up her arm?
Imagination.
Nothing.
Just a job.
Valencia goes to bed in her too-large room and tells herself everything is fine.
She’s lying, of course.
But she doesn’t know that yet.
Doesn’t know that this job will be nothing like the others.
Doesn’t know that professional boundaries will become impossible.
Doesn’t know that she’s already on the path to falling for Dominic St. Clair despite every reason not to.
But she will.
Soon.
When avoiding feelings becomes harder than acknowledging them.
When Jules breaks through his silence and everything changes.
When “just a job” becomes the lie she can’t maintain anymore.
Starting now.
Starting tonight.
In a penthouse that’s starting to feel less like a workplace and more like somewhere she belongs.
Dangerously.
Impossibly.
Home.
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