Becoming Mom To the Billionaire's Daughter

THIRD PERSON POV

Mr. Wolfe's voice thundered through the phone as he snapped, "What the hell do you mean Diane made the caretaker from France insane? She's an eight-year-old child!"

Dana Ellis winced on the other end, scrambling to defend herself. "Sir, believe me, it wasn't my fault. She kept live lizards in her purse, and when the caretaker saw them, she couldn't help but shriek and run straight out of the mansion," she said, panic creeping into her voice.

Shawn pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, exhaling sharply. "Dana, look, I don't care how you do it—just get a new caretaker before I come downstairs. Otherwise, you'll be the one doing her laundry."

He ended the call abruptly, leaving Dana muttering curses under her breath as she dropped her phone onto the desk.

"Damn it. Where in this city am I supposed to find a caretaker in under five hours? If I don't, I'll be the one washing her dishes," she cursed, pacing the room.

She wandered back and forth, brainstorming frantically until her frustration melted when she spotted a dusty applicant archive tucked away in Mr. Shawn's study. "Eww, look how dusty it is. How long has this been here? Marianne, Silver, come clean this up," she ordered.

Dana flipped through the pages until one name jumped out at her: Rennie Brooks.

A recommendation letter from Saint Mary's Orphanage was clipped to the top, handwritten in bold, elegant strokes:

"Kind. Patient. Remarkably good with children who test boundaries."

Dana smirked, murmuring "Bingo," as she dialed the number with renewed hope.

RENNIE'S POV

The phone vibrated in my hand, flashing a private number.

I squinted. "If this is another scammer calling for me to invest in their Ponzi scheme, I swear—"

Before I could finish my incessant rant, a woman's voice cut in—calm, controlled, professional.

"Good afternoon. This is Dana Ellis, assistant to Mr. Shawn Wolfe. Ms Rennie, I'm calling with a job offer. You were referred to us by Saint Mary's Orphanage Home."

My heart skipped a beat. This sounded too good to be true. Renowned businessmen didn't hire ordinary people—they hired top-notch professionals, not someone who spent half her life budgeting a hundred dollars for a five-day feeding plan.

I blinked, ready to answer sarcastically. "Okay… well, this is Rapunzel calling from the mystical tower. How may I grant your wishes?"

"Huh? I just told you who I am," the caller replied, irritation flaring in her tone. I was less concerned, already reaching for the hang-up button, when a notification popped up:

"The caller is requesting a video call," I read aloud. My eyebrows shot up.

This had to be a prank. I mean, come on—it's L.A. And who calls from a private number about a job offer?

Curiosity got the better of me. I pressed accept.

My jaw dropped instantly. The screen filled with the view of The Wolfe Estate—the kind of mansion that belonged in luxury magazines. Golden gates, sculpted fountains, sunlight glinting off sleek black cars. It was all real.

I sat up straighter on the park bench, brushing bread crumbs from my thrift blouse. "I… I'm sorry," I stammered. "You just caught me off guard."

Dana didn't blink. She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed, and continued. "Mr. Wolfe's daughter is in need of a live-in caretaker. You'll handle her meals, studies, and daily supervision."

"Wait. So… a nanny?"

"Not just a nanny. A live-in housekeeper and companion. Full access. Plus housing, transport—and well compensated."

I blinked. "How well?" I tried to sound casual, but deep down, if it was even two grand, I'd be ready to pack my life in a backpack right then.

"Six figures annually," Dana said without flinching.

I almost dropped my phone. "Six figures? Like—actual numbers?"

"Yes. But there's one thing—Mr. Wolfe is extremely selective. He doesn't tolerate incompetence."

Of course he didn't. Billionaires never do.

I glanced down at my one overstuffed backpack, my whole life packed inside, my pride hanging by a thread.

"When do I start?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"Five hours. Be here before Mr. Wolfe comes downstairs."

And just like that, the line went dead.

ARRIVAL AT THE WOLFE MANSION

Three hours later, my cab stopped in front of the Wolfe Estate.

I stood before a golden-black iron gate so tall it seemed it could block out the sky.

The driver gawked at the house like it might walk away. "Are you sure this is the right place? People like you don't usually get invited to places like this."

I glared at him. "People like me just paid you. Drive." He laughed as he drove off, while I adjusted my bag strap, trying to steady my breathing.

"Okay, Rennie," I muttered. "Confidence. Grace. Don't faint. Don't touch anything shiny."

I pressed the massive doorbell, which activated the automatic security feature. "State your name," a robotic voice commanded.

"Rennie Brooks. I'm here to see Mr. Wolfe."

A pause. Then the gates groaned open like the start of a horror movie.

My heart pounded in rhythm with my footsteps. Inside, marble steps gleamed, fountains sparkled, and staff moved with silent precision. Everything looked expensive.

Then came her—Dana Ellis. The woman from the call, only ten times more intimidating in person. Tailored gray suit, perfect posture, not a hair out of place.

"You're early," she said, eyes flicking over me. "Good. Mr. Wolfe values punctuality."

"I took the first cab I could find. I didn't want to risk being late," I said, trying to sound calm.

She nodded once—approving, but not impressed. "Follow me."

Inside, the mansion was warm but intimidating. Dark wood floors. Modern art. Minimal, expensive. It didn't smell like home—it smelled like new money and old expectations.

Dana led me to a sitting room. "Wait here. He'll be down shortly."

I perched on the edge of a white sofa, careful not to wrinkle the perfection. My fingers fidgeted with the hem of my thrift blouse, anxiety gnawing at me.

Then I heard sudden footsteps—measured, heavy, confident. The owner of the house entered the room like he owned the air itself.

I stared down and gazed at his feet. He was tall, built, exuding power. Dark tailored suit, darker eyes, a physique that belonged on a magazine cover.

The moment I looked further and my eyes met his, my heart stopped. Not slowed—totally stopped.

A flash of memory slammed into me like a truck: the weekend with the girls eight years ago, the man I had locked eyes with on the rooftop dinner—the same calm, silent, impossible power.

I blinked twice, trying to convince myself it couldn't be him. No. No way. This world was too big for coincidences this cruel.

I forced myself to breathe, to blink, to erase the recognition burning up my spine. I schooled my expression as he stopped across from me, hands in his pockets, appraising me like a stock option.

"Miss Brooks," he said, voice low and smooth. "You come highly recommended."

My throat tightened. "T-thank you, s-sir," I managed, though my mind screamed, Is he… could he really be the same man?

"Don't call me sir. Mr. Shawn is fine."

Mr. Shawn. That name cooled me like cold water. So it wasn't him—or did he change his name… or maybe I was losing my mind.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to wave the thought away. Stop it, Rennie. There's no way. Don't be stupid.

Still, when he extended his hand, my own trembled embarrassingly as I placed it into his. Warm. Firm. Steady. Exactly like the memory.

I pulled back quickly, pretending nothing happened while my pulse hammered in my throat. He didn't seem to notice… or maybe he did.

"Okay, I guess you're still having the jitters. Let's move on—I don't like strangers around my daughter. Why should I let you stay?"

Straight to the point. No warm-up.

"Because I'm not just a babysitter," I said. "I understand kids—their needs and feelings—and I'm multifunctional. I can play the role of both babysitter and professional housekeeper."

After hearing him speak, I was definitely sure it wasn't him, and it finally put me at ease. I could finally smile.

For a flicker of a moment after I smiled, something passed through his eyes—something like she's trustworthy, but suddenly, they got covered with a duvet of professionalism.

"And what makes you think you can handle those difficult roles?"

"Because I'm not afraid to try—and I've got years of experience as both a babysitter and housekeeper."

He studied me, scanning like a detector. I didn't look away. Finally, he nodded once. "She's upstairs. Dana will show you the guest room. You start now."

Just like that, I had a job. Just like that, I stepped into the lion's den.

THE GUEST ROOM

The "normal guest room" turned out to be a suite—an actual suite. Cream-colored everything. Walk-in closet. Private bathroom with a rainfall shower. I tried not to look impressed, since Dana was standing outside.

After Dana left, I exhaled, checked everything, played with the shower knob, and peeked into drawers filled with luxury lotions—which I was definitely planning to sneak home on my next break.

What had I just agreed to? Uhm, let me guess—a one-way ticket out of poverty?

Everything sounded fun with no risk… until curiosity crept in as I asked myself, could Mr. Shawn be the man from the resort—and most importantly, what kind of child could drive twenty nannies away in a week?

That was when I heard it—a laugh. High-pitched. Mischievous. The kind that sent chills down my spine and promised trouble.

I followed the sound down the hallway until I stopped at a pastel door with DIANE painted in golden cursive letters. I took a deep breath, straightened my blouse, and pushed the door open.

And what I saw next… was something words could barely describe.