“Sir, breathe,” she says, steady as a metronome.
You try to snarl at her, to reclaim control with the only weapon you still have—your voice.
“Don’t touch me,” you snap, and you hate how weak it sounds compared to the old you.
But she doesn’t flinch, and that’s the first time you realize she isn’t afraid of your money.
She positions her hands with a precision that doesn’t belong to a “just a nanny.”
She tells you what to do, counts softly, and guides your body like she’s translating you back to yourself.
Before you can protest again, she lifts and shifts and seats you into the chair with frightening ease.
You swallow hard, staring at her like she just cracked a code nobody else could read.