The air between us goes electric.
“Jess.” My name in that low voice is absolutelyunfair.
I should step back. Should put professional distance between us.
Instead I hear myself ask, “What’s the metric?”
He blinks. The spell breaks. “What?”
“For success. How do we measure if this is working?” My brain is back online.
Thank God.
“Views don’t matter,” I continue. “Followers don’t matter. So what is the metric that matters?”
Marco considers this. His jaw works like he’s choosing words carefully. “Let’s say... Ben’s meltdown recovery time. If we can track shorter latency to calm across her and multiple kids, that’s success. Assuming we can find any other kids among staff families with her anxiety levels.”
“So... not views.”
“Never views.” He says it with such conviction I almost believe my influencer days didn’t matter. “You taught me that. Remember? You can’t schedule joy.”
The callback to pizza night hits different. I remember that conversation. The way he admitted he was wrong about mess and control.
“Okay,” I say. “Recovery time it is.”
He taps his lower lip. “One more thing. Are you planning on posting about this? Eventually?”
I think about my dead Instagram. My silent TikTok. My defunct YouTube. The metrics that used to define my worth.
“Not yet,” I answer honestly. “Maybe never. I don’t know.”
“That’s fair.” He looks at me. “But if you do, it’s your call. Not mine. This is yours, Jess. Your work. Your choice.”
Something in the way he says it makes my throattighten. Like he actually sees me. Not the failed influencer. Not the nanny.
Just...me.
“Thank you.” It comes out whisper-soft.
We’re staring at each other again. His eyes are doing that thing where they’re too intense and I can feel my pulse in my throat.
Then his expression shifts. Goes careful. Guarded.
“Ben’s meltdowns,” he says quietly. “They started when her mother died.”
Oh.
“Marco, you don’t have to—”
“She feels alone.” His voice cracks just slightly. “Even though she has me. Matilda helped. But she was never enough. No one ever is. She’s afraid... afraid one day she’ll come home, and I’ll be gone, too.”
The raw honesty punches through my chest. This man who controls everything just admitted he can’t fix his daughter’s grief.
“You’re enough,” I tell him. “You’re doing everything right.”
“Am I?” He laughs but there’s no humor in it. “I thought routines would save her. Structure. Control. But you taught her to breathe the first day. Thefirstday, Jess. And I’ve been failing her fortwofucking years.”
“That’s not true.” I want to touch him. Want to close the distance and prove he’s not alone either.
