Updated Feb 23, 2026 • ~8 min read
POV: Valencia
By week two, Valencia and Jules have established a routine that works.
Morning: Breakfast together in the kitchen at 7:30 AM. Jules always wants scrambled eggs and toast cut into triangles, which Valencia makes while he watches from his spot at the counter, feet swinging, clutching his elephant.
Dominic usually joins them—brief appearance before he disappears into his office for back-to-back video meetings—but his presence has become part of the routine. Coffee, quick scan of the news on his tablet, occasional comment about the weather.
Small family moment before the day truly starts.
After breakfast: reading time. Valencia built a cozy corner in Jules’s room with pillows and blankets, turned it into their reading nook. They read together for an hour—picture books, early readers, anything Jules points to when asked what he wants.
He still doesn’t speak, but his communication is evolving. Points more precisely. Makes excited gestures when he likes something. Even attempted to sound out a word yesterday by moving his mouth silently.
Progress.
Mid-morning: educational activities. Valencia incorporates learning into play—counting blocks, identifying colors, tracing letters, basic addition with toys. Jules is smart; she can see it in how quickly he grasps concepts, how he problem-solves when building complex structures, how he remembers details from books read days ago.
He just chooses silence.
Trauma has that effect.
Lunch: 12:30 PM, usually simple. Sandwiches, fruit, vegetables Jules actually eats because Valencia makes them fun—carrot sticks become “crunchy swords,” cucumber slices are “shields,” cherry tomatoes are “power-up balls.”
Silly, but it works.
Afternoon: park time.
This is Valencia’s favorite part of the day.
Central Park is ten blocks from the penthouse. She and Jules walk there together—Jules holding her hand the entire way, which still makes her heart squeeze because trust from a traumatized child is precious—and spend two hours on playgrounds, walking paths, sometimes just sitting on a bench watching people.
Today they’re at their usual playground.
Jules on the swings, Valencia pushing him gently while he leans back, face tilted toward the sky, almost smiling.
Another child approaches—girl, maybe six, pigtails and a bright pink jacket.
“Can I swing too?” she asks Valencia.
“Of course!” Valencia says. “Want me to push you?”
“I can do it myself!” The girl climbs onto the swing next to Jules, starts pumping her legs.
Jules watches her, curious.
The girl notices. “Hi! I’m Emma! What’s your name?”
Jules doesn’t answer.
Valencia’s about to intercede—explain that Jules doesn’t speak right now—when Emma continues cheerfully.
“You don’t talk? That’s okay! My brother didn’t talk until he was five. Now he won’t shut up. Mom says it’s a problem.” Emma giggles. “Do you like swings? I LOVE swings. They make my tummy feel funny.”
Jules nods.
Emma grins. “Me too! Do you want to see who can swing higher?”
And just like that, they’re having a conversation.
One-sided verbally, but Emma doesn’t seem to mind.
She chatters about her school, her annoying brother, her new puppy named Cupcake, while Jules listens and responds with nods and gestures.
Valencia sits on a nearby bench, watching carefully.
This is socialization.
Peer interaction.
Exactly what Jules needs.
After fifteen minutes, Emma’s mother approaches—professional woman in her late thirties, friendly smile.
“I’m Melissa,” she introduces herself to Valencia. “I see our kids are bonding.”
“Valencia. I’m Jules’s nanny.”
“He’s adorable. Emma loves making new friends. She doesn’t care that he’s quiet—she talks enough for both of them.”
They watch the children swing together, Emma still narrating everything.
“Would Jules like a playdate?” Melissa asks. “We live nearby. Emma would love to have him over.”
Valencia hesitates. “I’d have to ask his father—”
“Of course! Here’s my number. If you’re interested, we’d love to have him.”
Melissa hands over a business card.
Valencia pockets it, makes a mental note to ask Dominic.
Socialization is important.
Jules needs friends.
Even if they’re the kind who talk enough for two people.
Evening routine: Dinner at 6 PM. Dominic has started joining them every night—clearing his schedule, working shorter days, being present.
Valencia notices.
Notices how he asks Jules about his day, showing genuine interest even when Jules can only answer with gestures.
Notices how he’s more relaxed than he was three weeks ago, less stiff, more comfortable sharing space with her.
Notices how sometimes Dominic watches her interact with Jules with an expression she can’t quite read.
Something like gratitude mixed with something else.
Something that makes her heart beat faster when she catches him looking.
After dinner: Bath time, which Dominic handles alone. Valencia respects the father-son time, uses the hour to prep for tomorrow or call her family in the Philippines.
Tonight she’s video calling her mother while Jules splashes in the tub down the hall.
“You look happy, anak,” her mother says in Tagalog.
“I am happy. This job is good.”
“The boy is still not talking?”
“Not yet. But he’s making progress. His father is trying harder. It’s a good family.”
“And this father—he treats you well?”
Valencia thinks about Dominic ordering Filipino food, telling her to use the whole penthouse, asking her opinion on Jules’s care, actually listening when she explains child development concepts.
“He treats me with respect.”
“That’s all I ask. You’re not just the help, Valencia. You’re a professional. Don’t let anyone make you feel less.”
“I won’t, Mama.”
They talk for another twenty minutes—updates about her brother’s college classes, her father’s construction job, her mother’s latest doctor’s appointment.
Valencia sends money home every two weeks now.
More than she could before.
Enough that her mother’s medication is covered, her brother’s tuition is manageable, her father can take a day off occasionally without financial stress.
This job is changing her family’s life.
That matters more than anything.
After the call, Valencia finds Dominic in the living room, reading on his tablet, looking tired.
“Jules okay?” she asks.
“Asleep. Had fun at the park today. He showed me the hand gestures Emma taught him—apparently they created a whole sign language system.”
Valencia laughs. “Emma is a force of nature.”
“Her mother gave you her number?”
“For playdates. I wanted to check with you first.”
Dominic’s quiet, considering. “You think it’s good for him? Spending time with other children?”
“I think it’s essential. He needs peers. Emma doesn’t care that he doesn’t talk—she includes him anyway. That’s rare.”
“Okay. Set up a playdate. See how it goes.”
“You’re sure?”
“You’re the expert. I trust your judgment with Jules.”
Those words—I trust your judgment—land heavy.
Dominic St. Clair, billionaire CEO, trusting her completely with his son.
It’s professional trust, Valencia tells herself.
Nothing more.
But the way he’s looking at her right now—something warm in those grey eyes—doesn’t feel entirely professional.
“I should go to bed,” Valencia says, suddenly aware they’re alone in the dim living room, the space feeling smaller than it should.
“Wait. I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For what you’re doing with Jules. How you’re doing it. The previous nannies were competent but… clinical. You actually care about him. That matters.”
“Of course I care about him. He’s wonderful.”
“You’ve been here three weeks and he’s already more engaged than he’s been in over a year. You gave him that.”
“We both did. You’re showing up more, being present. He responds to that.”
“Because you told me to. You’re the first person since Amelie died who’s been honest about my parenting. Or lack thereof.”
Valencia winces. “I shouldn’t have said—”
“Yes, you should have. I needed to hear it. I was hiding behind work, behind professional distance, behind hiring help instead of actually being his father. You called me out. Made me better.”
The gratitude in his voice is genuine.
So is something else.
Something that makes Valencia’s pulse quicken.
“You’re a good father,” Valencia says quietly. “You’re learning. That’s what matters.”
“You’re a good teacher.”
They’re standing close now.
Closer than professional boundaries probably allow.
Valencia can smell his cologne—expensive, subtle, distinctly him.
She should step back.
Should maintain distance.
Should remember this is her employer and nothing more.
Instead she says, “Goodnight, Dominic.”
His name feels intimate on her tongue.
Not Mr. St. Clair.
Just Dominic.
Personal.
“Goodnight, Valencia.”
She goes to her room and lies awake thinking about the way he said her name.
About the way he looked at her.
About how three weeks working for Dominic St. Clair has somehow made her feel more at home than years living in New York.
This is dangerous, she thinks.
This is exactly the situation she swore she’d avoid.
Developing feelings for an employer.
Especially one still grieving his wife.
Especially one whose class difference from her is measured in billions of dollars.
Especially one whose child she’s responsible for.
But her heart doesn’t care about should and shouldn’t.
It just knows that Dominic St. Clair is becoming important to her.
That Jules is becoming the child she never had.
That this penthouse is becoming home.
That this job is becoming infinitely more complicated than it should be.
Starting now.
Starting with the way her name sounds in Dominic’s voice.
Starting with feelings she absolutely cannot afford to have.
But has anyway.
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