Updated Feb 23, 2026 • ~11 min read
POV: Dominic
The Metropolitan Club charity gala is exactly as insufferable as Dominic expected.
Black tie, overpriced champagne, people who measure their worth in stock portfolios and vacation homes, conversations that circle around money and status and who’s sleeping with whom.
Dominic hates every minute of it.
He’s standing near the bar nursing a scotch he doesn’t want, watching society’s elite mingle and network and pretend they care about the children’s hospital this event is supposedly benefiting.
His mother orchestrated this.
Called three days ago with her “suggestion” (read: command) that he attend, that he make an appearance, that he stop hiding from society just because he’s grieving.
“Charlotte Beaumont will be there,” Genevieve said with pointed emphasis. “It would be polite to say hello.”
Polite.
Right.
Because matchmaking disguised as courtesy is very on-brand for Genevieve St. Clair.
Dominic checked his watch fifteen minutes ago.
He’s been here forty-five minutes.
Minimum appearance fulfilled.
He can leave.
Should leave.
Wants to leave.
“Dominic! There you are!”
His mother materializes from the crowd like a designer-clad specter, Charlotte Beaumont in tow.
Charlotte is objectively beautiful—tall, blonde, impeccably dressed in a gown that probably costs more than most people’s monthly rent, the kind of woman who looks like she belongs in a museum labeled “Society Perfection.”
And Dominic feels absolutely nothing looking at her.
“Charlotte, you remember my son, Dominic St. Clair.”
“Of course.” Charlotte extends a perfectly manicured hand. “It’s lovely to see you again, Dominic.”
“Charlotte.” Dominic shakes her hand briefly, releases it immediately.
Genevieve, unsubtle as ever, excuses herself. “I must speak with the Vanderbilts. You two catch up!”
Leaving them alone.
Forced conversation imminent.
Charlotte smiles—practiced, elegant, empty. “Your mother says you have a son?”
“Yes. Jules. He’s five.”
“Lovely. I’m sure your nanny manages him well.”
The way she says “nanny”—dismissive, like hired help is barely worth acknowledging—makes Dominic’s jaw tighten.
Valencia isn’t just the nanny.
She’s the person who got Jules to speak again.
The person who makes their penthouse feel like home instead of a mausoleum.
The person Dominic thinks about constantly even though he absolutely shouldn’t.
“My nanny is excellent,” Dominic says coolly. “Jules has made remarkable progress under her care.”
“That’s what they’re for, isn’t it? Managing the children so we don’t have to.” Charlotte laughs lightly, like parenting is a chore to be outsourced.
Dominic thinks about Valencia sitting on the floor reading to Jules for hours.
About how she celebrates every small victory like it’s monumental.
About how she chose this work because she genuinely loves children, not because she needs someone else to raise hers.
“Excuse me,” Dominic says abruptly. “I need to leave.”
Charlotte blinks, surprised. “Already? But we just started talking—”
“Family emergency. Apologies.”
He doesn’t wait for her response.
Doesn’t bother finding his mother to say goodbye.
Just hands his drink to a passing waiter and walks straight to the valet, requests his car, stands on the curb loosening his bow tie while waiting.
The drive home takes twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of Dominic thinking about Charlotte’s dismissive comment about nannies managing children.
About how different she is from Valencia.
About how spending five minutes with Charlotte Beaumont—beautiful, appropriate, exactly what his mother wants—felt like suffocating.
While spending five minutes with Valencia feels like breathing.
He takes the elevator up to the penthouse, expecting quiet.
Jules should be asleep—it’s past 9 PM.
Valencia probably reading in her room or watching TV.
Instead he hears music.
Loud, upbeat pop music echoing from the living room.
Dominic loosens his bow tie completely, walks toward the sound—
And freezes in the doorway.
Valencia and Jules are having a dance party.
Full-on, uninhibited, ridiculous dance party in the middle of the living room.
Jules is jumping around in his dinosaur pajamas, giggling hysterically, attempting some kind of spin move that nearly makes him fall over.
Valencia catches him, laughing, spinning him properly, then doing an elaborate shimmy that makes Jules shriek with delight.
“Again! Again! Do the funny arms, Val!”
Valencia does the “funny arms”—some absurd flailing motion that should look ridiculous but somehow looks endearing—and Jules tries to copy her, both of them laughing so hard they can barely stand.
Neither of them has noticed Dominic yet.
He stands there watching, bow tie hanging loose, jacket still on, completely transfixed.
This.
THIS is home.
Not the Metropolitan Club with its champagne and society women and carefully curated networking.
Not Charlotte Beaumont talking about nannies “managing” children like they’re problems to solve.
Not his mother’s world of appropriate matches and proper standards.
This.
Valencia dancing with his son in their living room at 9 PM on a Friday night, both of them happy and free and exactly where they want to be.
This is everything.
The song changes—something slower, still upbeat but gentler.
Valencia notices Dominic finally, freezes mid-dance move.
“Dominic! You’re home early!”
Jules turns, sees his father, grins widely. “Daddy! We’re dancing! Val taught me the SPIN! Want to see?”
Before Dominic can respond, Jules demonstrates his spin—enthusiastic if not technically proficient—and nearly crashes into the coffee table.
Valencia catches him expertly. “Careful, buddy! Maybe save the spins for when there’s more space.”
“But I’m GOOD at spinning!”
“You are! You’re excellent at spinning. But maybe we should teach your dad our other moves first?”
Jules nods seriously, then runs to Dominic, grabs his hand. “Come dance, Daddy! It’s FUN! Val says dancing makes your brain happy!”
Dominic looks at Valencia over Jules’s head.
She’s flushed from dancing, hair slightly messy, wearing leggings and an oversized sweater, no makeup, completely relaxed.
She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” Dominic says.
“You don’t have to be good!” Jules insists. “You just have to MOVE! Right, Val?”
“Right. Dancing is about joy, not skill. Come on, Mr. Formal Event. Show us your moves.”
There’s a teasing challenge in her eyes.
Dominic should decline.
Should go change out of his tux, maintain dignity, act like the billionaire CEO he’s supposed to be.
Instead he shrugs off his jacket, tosses it on the couch, and says, “Okay. Teach me.”
Jules cheers.
Valencia grins.
And for the next twenty minutes, Dominic St. Clair—tech billionaire, society member, grieving widower trying to figure out how to live again—dances in his living room with his son and the nanny he’s falling in love with.
Jules shows him the spin (Dominic’s version is only marginally better than Jules’s).
Valencia teaches him some move she calls “the sprinkler” that’s intentionally ridiculous and makes Jules laugh so hard he gets hiccups.
They do a conga line around the furniture.
They freeze when the music stops (Jules’s idea, implemented with utmost seriousness).
They’re silly and free and happy in a way Dominic hasn’t felt since before Amelie died.
Eventually Jules starts yawning between songs.
“Bedtime, buddy,” Valencia says gently.
“Nooooo! More dancing!”
“We can dance tomorrow. But right now, you need sleep so your body can build strong dancing muscles.”
Jules considers this logic, decides it’s sound. “Okay. But Daddy has to read me a story! Because he missed bedtime!”
“I did miss bedtime,” Dominic agrees. “What story do you want?”
“The dinosaur one! The big one with T-Rex!”
They head to Jules’s room—Dominic carrying Jules, Valencia trailing behind—and settle into the reading chair.
Jules sits on Dominic’s lap while Valencia perches on the arm of the chair, close enough that Dominic can smell her shampoo.
Coconut.
She always smells like coconut and something else he can’t identify but has started associating with comfort.
Dominic reads about dinosaurs while Jules provides sound effects.
By page five, Jules is yawning more than roaring.
By page seven, he’s asleep against Dominic’s chest.
Dominic carries him to bed, tucks him in, kisses his forehead.
“Sleep well, buddy. I love you.”
“Love you too, Daddy,” Jules mumbles, already half-dreaming. “And Val. Love Val too.”
Dominic’s heart clenches.
Because he loves Val too.
Completely.
Irrevocably.
Impossibly.
They leave Jules’s room quietly, closing the door most of the way, and stand in the hallway in the dim light.
Valencia speaks first: “How was the gala?”
“Terrible.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. My mother introduced me to Charlotte Beaumont.”
Valencia’s expression shifts—something careful sliding into place. “The society woman she wants you to date?”
“Apparently. Charlotte’s beautiful, appropriate, exactly what my mother wants.”
“And?”
“And I lasted five minutes before leaving. She said something dismissive about nannies ‘managing’ children and I couldn’t stay there another second pretending to be interested.”
Valencia’s quiet, processing.
Then: “You left a society gala early because someone insulted nannies?”
“I left because I realized I’d rather be here. With you and Jules. Dancing to terrible pop music in the living room. This—” Dominic gestures vaguely. “This is what I want. Not champagne and networking and women who think children are problems to outsource.”
“Dominic—”
“I know. I know we can’t. I know all the reasons this is impossible. But I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel this way. Tired of acting like you’re just the nanny when you’re—”
“What am I?”
Everything, Dominic thinks.
You’re everything.
But saying that out loud would cross lines they’ve carefully avoided crossing.
Would make this real in ways he’s not sure either of them can handle.
“You’re important,” Dominic says instead. “To Jules. To me. To this family.”
“This isn’t a family. This is an employment arrangement.”
“Does it feel like just employment to you?”
Valencia’s expression cracks—just slightly, just enough that Dominic sees the truth underneath.
She feels it too.
This impossible thing between them.
This connection that goes beyond professional courtesy.
“It doesn’t matter what it feels like,” Valencia says quietly. “You’re my employer. I work for you. That’s the reality.”
“What if we changed the reality?”
“How? You can’t stop being Jules’s father. I can’t stop being his nanny. The power dynamic doesn’t go away just because we want it to.”
“What if you weren’t the nanny anymore?”
Valencia goes very still. “Are you firing me?”
“No! God, no. I’m saying—I don’t know what I’m saying. I just know that I left a party full of eligible society women to come home and dance with you. That I’d rather spend five minutes here than five hours anywhere else. That you’ve become—”
He stops.
Too much.
Too honest.
Too revealing.
Valencia’s looking at him with wide eyes, barely breathing.
“I should go to bed,” she whispers.
“Valencia—”
“Goodnight, Dominic.”
She leaves.
Practically runs to her room, door closing softly behind her.
Leaving Dominic alone in the hallway realizing he just basically confessed his feelings to his employee.
Again.
More explicitly this time.
Without any of the careful distance they’ve been maintaining.
This is getting complicated.
More complicated than it already was.
Because now she knows.
Knows that he left a gala early for her.
Knows that he’d rather be here than anywhere else.
Knows that she’s become essential to his life in ways that have nothing to do with childcare and everything to do with how she makes him feel.
Human.
Alive.
Happy.
In love.
And Dominic doesn’t know what to do with that.
Doesn’t know how to navigate loving someone when there’s a child involved and a power dynamic and a society mother who would lose her mind if she knew.
Doesn’t know how to protect Valencia from the complications he’s creating.
Doesn’t know how to stop feeling what he already feels.
So he stands in the hallway for a long time, still wearing his tuxedo pants and dress shirt, bow tie completely undone, thinking about Valencia dancing with Jules.
About how she looked at him when he said she’d become important.
About how this is impossible but feels inevitable anyway.
Starting now.
Starting with leaving the gala early.
Starting with choosing this—choosing them—over everything else.
Even if he doesn’t know what that choice means yet.
Even if it’s complicated and inappropriate and potentially disastrous.
Starting with the truth that he can’t ignore anymore:
He’s in love with Valencia Rivera.
And he has absolutely no idea what to do about it.
Reader Reactions