Six Years of Searching
title: "The Performance" wordCount: 2373
Dominic didn't wait for Marcus to speak—he opened the meeting by saying, "I understand there are concerns about my judgment regarding Sloane Whitley. Let me address them now."
I sat three chairs down from him at the mahogany table that probably cost more than my entire childhood apartment building. My hands were folded in my lap so no one could see them shaking. The boardroom stretched out like a cathedral, all glass walls and recessed lighting that made everyone look like they were glowing with divine authority.
Marcus leaned back in his chair at the opposite end, fingers steepled. Waiting.
"Miss Whitley's credentials were flagged during our standard background check," Dominic continued. His voice had that boardroom quality—smooth, unshakeable, the kind of tone that made you believe he'd already won. "I was made aware of the discrepancies before I extended the offer of employment."
My stomach dropped. He was going to throw me under the bus. That tracked.
"And yet you hired her anyway." Marcus's voice was silk over steel. "Despite knowing she had falsified her qualifications."
"I hired her because she was the best candidate for the position." Dominic's gaze swept the table, landing on each board member for exactly two seconds. "Her ability to connect with Iris, her instincts regarding child development, her references from previous families—all of these were exemplary. The credential in question was a certificate from an online program that, frankly, I consider less valuable than lived experience."
A woman in her sixties with silver hair cut sharp as a blade leaned forward. Patricia Caldwell, according to the nameplate in front of her. "You're saying you knowingly hired someone who lied on their application."
"I am saying I made an executive decision based on merit rather than paperwork." Dominic's teeth pressed together, the only tell that he wasn't as calm as he sounded. "Miss Whitley has been with us for three weeks. In that time, Iris has shown more progress than she did in the previous six months with three different nannies who had impeccable credentials."
"Progress." Marcus said the word like it tasted bad. "Your daughter still does not speak, Dominic."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"My daughter's trauma is not relevant to this discussion," Dominic said, and his voice went so quiet I barely heard it.
"Of course it is." Marcus spread his hands, the picture of reasonable concern. "We are family. Your grief, your judgment, the decisions you make for Iris—these all affect the company. When you bring someone into your home, into your daughter's life, someone who has already proven themselves willing to deceive—"
"I didn't deceive anyone." The words came out before I could stop them.
Every head turned toward me.
My nails dug crescents into my palms. "I mean, yeah, no, I took a shortcut on one certificate because I couldn't afford the official program. But I didn't lie about my experience. I didn't lie about my references. I didn't lie about anything that actually matters."
"Integrity matters, Miss Whitley." Marcus's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Surely you understand that in our world, trust is currency. And you have already shown us that your word cannot be trusted."
"In your world," I said, "people pay more for a handbag than I made in six months at my last job. So, yeah, forgive me if I don't take lectures about integrity from someone who probably hasn't worried about rent since the Reagan administration."
Patricia made a sound that might have been a laugh or a cough.
Marcus's smile widened. "You see, Dominic? This is precisely what concerns me. You have brought someone into our family who does not understand our values, our standards—"
"Our family." Dominic's voice cut through the room like a blade. "You keep using that word, Marcus. But let us be clear about what this meeting actually is. You called an emergency session of the board to discuss my household staffing decisions. Not a merger. Not a quarterly report. A nanny hire."
"A nanny hire that reflects on your judgment," Marcus said. "And your judgment affects this company. We have a responsibility to our shareholders—"
"Our stock price has tripled in the eighteen months since I took over as CEO." Dominic stood, buttoning his suit jacket with precise movements. "Our Q3 earnings exceeded projections by forty-two percent. We have expanded into three new markets and acquired two competitors. And you are questioning my leadership because I hired a nanny who took an online certificate course instead of attending an in-person program."
Silence.
"So let me make this simple," Dominic continued. "Miss Whitley's employment is not up for discussion. It is not subject to board approval. It is my decision, and I have made it. If anyone at this table has concerns about my judgment as CEO, you are welcome to call for a vote of no confidence. Otherwise, this meeting is adjourned."
He moved toward the door.
"I call for a vote of no confidence," Marcus said.
Dominic stopped, his hand on the door handle.
My heart was trying to punch through my ribcage. This was it. This was the moment where everything fell apart, where Dominic realized protecting me wasn't worth losing his company, where he made the smart choice and cut me loose.
"You cannot be serious," Patricia said.
"I am always serious when it comes to this company." Marcus looked around the table, his expression grave. "Dominic is my nephew. I love him. But his wife died eight months ago, his daughter has not spoken since, and now he is making reckless decisions that put our reputation at risk. We have a fiduciary duty—"
"To make money," Patricia interrupted. "Which Dominic has done brilliantly. Your concern is touching, Marcus, but let us not pretend this is about the company's wellbeing."
"Then what is it about?"
"You tell me." Patricia's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "You have been angling for the CEO position since your brother died. Everyone at this table knows it. And now you are using a nanny hire as justification for a coup."
"That is not—"
"Save it." She turned to the rest of the board. "Dominic has increased our portfolio value by three hundred percent. He has navigated two major acquisitions without a single regulatory issue. He works ninety-hour weeks and has never missed a board meeting, even when his wife was in hospice. And we are going to question his leadership because he hired someone who fudged a certificate?"
One of the other board members, a man with a comb-over and a tie that screamed mid-level ambition, cleared his throat. "Patricia makes a valid point. The optics of calling for a vote over something this minor—"
"It is not minor," Marcus said, but his voice had lost some of its smoothness. "It is about judgment. About trust. About whether Dominic is still capable of making rational decisions."
"He just made one," Patricia said. "He chose merit over bureaucracy. That is exactly the kind of leadership this company needs."
The room erupted into overlapping voices, board members arguing over each other, and I sat there feeling like I was watching a car crash in slow motion. This was my fault. All of this was because I'd been too broke and too desperate to do things the right way.
Dominic still hadn't moved from the door.
"Enough." His voice wasn't loud, but everyone stopped talking. "Marcus, you want a vote? Fine. But let us be clear about what you are actually voting on. You are not voting on Miss Whitley's employment. You are voting on whether you trust me to run this company. So vote."
The neither spoke out like taffy.
"All in favor of a vote of no confidence in Dominic Ashford's leadership," Marcus said, "raise your hand."
Marcus raised his hand. One other person, a woman I didn't recognize, raised hers halfway, then lowered it.
"All opposed."
Six hands went up, including Patricia's.
"Motion fails." Patricia stood, gathering her papers. "This meeting is adjourned. And Marcus? Next time you want to stage a coup, make sure you have the votes first."
She walked out, heels clicking against marble.
The other board members filed out after her, some of them shooting me looks that ranged from curious to hostile. Marcus was the last to leave, pausing next to my chair.
"This is not over," he said quietly. "You should think about that."
Then he was gone, and it was just me and Dominic in a boardroom that suddenly felt too big and too empty.
"You knew," I said. My voice came out hoarse. "You knew about the certificate before you hired me."
"Yes."
"And you hired me anyway."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He finally turned to look at me, and something in his expression made my chest tight. "Because Iris smiled at you. Because you spoke to her like she was a person, not a problem to be solved. Because in fifteen minutes, you did more for my daughter than anyone else had managed in six months."
"That's not—" I stopped. Started again. "You just risked your company for me."
"I risked nothing. Marcus does not have the votes, and he knows it."
"But you didn't know that when you opened your mouth."
His jaw worked. "No."
"So you gambled. On me. On someone you barely know, someone who lied to get this job—"
"You did not lie about anything that mattered," he said, echoing my own words back at me. "And I know you better than you think."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he didn't know me at all, that I was exactly the kind of person who would let him down. But my throat had closed up, and all I could do was stare at him while something dangerous and terrifying unfurled in my chest.
"I need to check on Iris," I managed finally.
"Sloane—"
"I'll see you at dinner."
I left before he could say whatever he was about to say. Before I could do something stupid like believe him.
Patricia caught me in the hallway outside the elevators.
"Walk with me," she said. Not a question.
I fell into step beside her, my sneakers silent against the marble while her heels announced every step. We passed assistants and executives who all nodded at Patricia with the kind of respect that came from fear, not affection.
"You are in over your head," she said when we reached the elevator bank.
"No, yeah, I'm aware."
"I do not think you are." She pressed the button for the ground floor. "Marcus will not stop. He has been waiting for Dominic to show weakness since the day his brother died, and you just handed him ammunition."
"I didn't ask Dominic to—"
"It does not matter what you asked for. What matters is what you are willing to do now." The elevator doors opened, and she stepped inside. I followed. "Dominic just painted a target on both of you. He chose you over his uncle, over family politics, over the easy path. And Marcus will make him pay for that."
My stomach churned. "So what am I supposed to do?"
"You decide if you are in this or not." Patricia's gaze was sharp enough to dissect me. "No middle ground. Either you commit to being part of this family, with everything that entails, or you walk away now before more damage is done."
"I'm just the nanny."
"You stopped being just the nanny the moment Dominic defended you in front of the board." The elevator dinged. Ground floor. "Marcus knows it. I know it. The question is whether you know it."
She walked out, leaving me standing in the elevator with my blood rushing and my hands shaking.
The doors started to close. I stuck my hand out, stopping them, and stepped into the lobby.
I didn't know what I was doing. Didn't know if I was making the right choice or the stupidest mistake of my life. But I knew I wasn't ready to walk away.
Not yet.
Iris's playroom was on the third floor, tucked into the corner of the house where afternoon light streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows. I found her sitting at her art table, surrounded by papers covered in crayon drawings.
"Hey, bug," I said softly. "What are you working on?"
She didn't look up, just kept coloring with fierce concentration. I moved closer, careful not to startle her, and my breath caught.
The drawing showed a woman with long red hair, arms outstretched, falling through darkness. The background was all black crayon, pressed so hard the paper had torn in places. The woman's mouth was open in a scream, but no sound came out.
"Iris," I said carefully. "Who is that?"
She didn't answer. Just picked up a red crayon and started coloring the woman's hair with violent strokes.
I reached for the paper, intending to move it aside, to see what else she'd drawn. But the moment my fingers touched the edge, Iris's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.
Her grip was surprisingly strong for a six-year-old. Her fingers dug into my skin, and when I looked down at her, her eyes were wide and terrified.
"It's okay," I said. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here."
But she didn't let go. Just held on tighter, her whole body starting to shake.
"Iris, honey, you're hurting me a little. Can you—"
She opened her mouth.
I froze.
In three weeks, I'd never seen her try to speak. Never seen her do anything but shake her head or nod, communicate through gestures and expressions. But now her mouth was open, her throat working, and I could see her trying to force words out.
Nothing came.
Just a sound like a sob, raw and broken, and her grip on my wrist tightened until I felt my bones grind together.
"It's okay," I said again, even though nothing about this was okay. "You don't have to talk. You don't have to do anything. I'm here. I'm not leaving."
Her eyes filled with tears.
And then Dominic's voice from the doorway, sharp and cold: "What did you do to her?"