Jesus Christ.
“I can triple it,” I say, because apparently I’ve lost my mind. “Whatever you’re making now, times three.”
“Mr. Fiore.” Her voice is patient. Kind. The tone you use with children and idiots. “You don’t understand. I’m set for life. I want to travel. See the world. I’ve been taking care of other people’s children for ten years. It’s time for me to do something for myself.”
The words land like a gut punch. I’m other people. Ben is other people’s child.
“What about Ben?” I ask. “She’s attached to you.”
“I know. And I love her. But she’ll be fine. Kids are resilient.”
Are they? Because my kid cries when I’m ten minutes late to pickup. My kid hoards snack wrappers in her backpack because she’s afraid of running out of food even though the pantry is always stocked.
But I don’t say any of that.
“When can we talk about transition?” I ask instead. “I need time to find someone new.”
“I can finish the week if you need. But after Friday, I’m done.”
Three days. She’s giving me three days.
“Fine.” The word tastes like battery acid. “Thank you for your service.”
I hang up before she can respond.
I stand there in the pantry, surrounded by overpriced organic pasta and imported olive oil, and I want to put my fist through the wall.
But I don’t.
Because Ben is twenty feet away eating breakfast and I need to hold it together.
I’m already mentally mapping the next seventy-two hours. School pickup. Afternoon coverage. Dinner. Bedtime. I can shuffle some meetings. Valentina, my personal assistant, will hate it, but she’ll make it work. Gianna, my COO, can handle the Vegas conference call solo. Matteo doesn’t need me in the kitchen for Thursday’s menu test.
I can cover this.
I open the pantry door. Ben’s finished her pasta. Rosa’s packing her lunch. The kitchen timer goes off. Six forty-five. Time to get shoes on.
“Let’s move,piccola.” I keep my voice light. Easy. “Backpack check.”
She slides off her chair and runs to get her things. I watch her go and something tightens in my chest.
I need someone long-term.
Someone steady.
Someone Ben can trust.
Someone who won’t bail when life getsinconvenient.
My phone is still in my hand. I pull up Ethan’s contact without thinking.
The call connects.
“Yo,” he answers. “Bit early for you.”
“Got a minute?”
“Yeah, sure. Quiet shift this morning. What’s up?”
