Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 117920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
I slowly close the door behind me and turn to face him. I’m not going any closer.
“This,” he says emphatically, holding the phone out for me to see, his arm stiff. I have no choice but to come forward until I see the screen.
It’s a picture of me.
No.
A breathless gasp falls from my lips as I take the phone from him.
I have no idea what it says but it’s obviously some Danish tabloid or gossip site and there’s a whole slew of pictures of me and the girls from yesterday. Of course, they’re all terribly unflattering and you can almost see up my skirt from the picture where I’m crouching down and trying to console Clara.
“You have two seconds to explain yourself,” he says.
“That’s hardly enough time,” I say weakly, because fuck, it’s worse than I imagined. Why are there so many pictures? Oh shit, there’s even a video! Some wanker was videoing us at the part when I told them I’d sue them!
I give the phone back to Aksel and put my face in my hands, trying to breathe. I didn’t think this invasion of privacy would bother me like this but it’s so much worse than I imagined. I feel absolutely violated, and more than that, I feel like I failed as a nanny. My job was to take care of Clara and Freja and this feels like I flat-out failed. This didn’t protect them at all, and now they’re tabloid fodder all because of me.
“You fucked up,” Aksel says, and his words are knives into my heart, only adding to the pain. “Part of your job description is to keep these girls away from the paparazzi and to keep them calm and orderly. They aren’t some daughters of a CEO in France, they are heirs to the throne of Denmark!”
I turn and glare at him, feeling heat rising up my throat, spreading across my face. “They’re still girls, and girls are going to have breakdowns and temper tantrums every now and then.” I don’t know where I find the nerve to argue back but I feel like I’m at a breaking point.
His jaw clenches as he angrily shoves the phone back in his robe. It’s only now that I’m realizing he’s just in pajamas underneath. He must have woken up and seen this first thing. “Your job, Aurora, is to make sure these temper tantrums are managed. Your job isn’t to make it worse. Yelling at the public like that? Threatening to sue? Do you know how that looks? Do you know what you’ve done?”
God, he’s mean. So handsome and so mean.
“Well, they shouldn’t be filming us!” I yell. “If it were anyone else they wouldn’t dare!”
“That’s because we’re not anyone else! I don’t care who you worked for before, none of it counts. I don’t think you’ve gotten it through your thick skull yet that this is a royal fucking family.”
Whoa. Whoa. “Thick skull?” I repeat, and now I feel hot tears prickling behind my eyes.
Oh my god. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry here!
“Yes,” he says, though he hesitates slightly. “Because you don’t act like you get it. I haven’t changed my opinion about you. You’re just not fit for this job, you’re not cut out for it. If you were, then this wouldn’t happen.”
Holy fuck. This hurts. I mean, this hurts. I knew he was an asshole but his words never hurt me until now. Jesus, why am I even letting him get to me?
Maybe because I believe it myself.
Maybe because he’s right.
Maybe because it’s been nearly a month and I still feel like I’ve barely got my head above water. I’ve been trying so hard to persevere and stay positive and go with the flow but … but …
The tears start to spill.
Shit. I can’t cry in front of him. He’ll probably fire me for crying if he hasn’t fired me already.
I turn away from him, choking on a sob, and head for the bathroom.
He grabs my arm and pulls me toward him before I even get two steps.
His palm is warm against my forearm, his grip strong. I keep my eyes closed, my face turned from his, trying to breathe through it.
Don’t cry, don’t cry. Suck it up.
“Hey,” he says to me, his accent deepening. “What’s this?”
What’s this? Despite myself, I look up at him through blurry eyes. “I have a hard time believing you’ve never made anyone cry before.”
Then I pull my arm out of his grip and wipe away my tears with the heel of my palm, taking a few more deep breaths until I know the tears are at bay.
“Look,” he says. His voice is quiet, his stance unsure. He doesn’t know what to do with me now. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
He frowns. “For … making you cry.”
I sniffle and tighten the sash around my robe. “I’m not crying over you, so don’t flatter yourself. I’m crying because … because you’re right. Because maybe I’m not cut out for this. I’m trying but … it’s hard. It’s really hard. And yesterday was horrible.”