The Interview
“You’re the baddest bitch I know.”
I let out a snort, nearly choking on my croissant as I steer my battered Toyota toward the tail end of my forty-five-minute commute from our shoebox apartment in Brooklyn to the city.
Cristina’s voice crackles through the phone speaker, smug and full of caffeine-fueled cheer. “I’m serious! Who else could land an interview with the richest family in Manhattan? What did you do, sell your soul?”
“I’ll never tell.”
She laughs, high and unbothered. “Well, text me everything. And don’t screw it up, Hattie.”
Only she calls me that. Hattie. It’s a nickname that somehow bloomed from Manhattan, a name my parents thought was edgy and cool and urban-chic... and that I’ve been trying to survive ever since.
I roll my eyes at the thought. Manhattan Bertelli. It sounds like a drink you order at a bar you can’t afford.
God, I hope the Giovanetti’s don’t take one look at me and burst into laughter. The closer I get to their penthouse, the more my stomach knots.
The Giovanetti family isn’t just rich, they’re legacy rich. Manhattan royalty. The kind of people whose last name gets spoken in hushed tones across boardrooms and whispered through the city’s social elite.
At the top of it all is Gianni Giovanetti, the patriarch. Always crisp, always in control. He’s been photographed more than any man alive, and yet you’d be hard-pressed to find a single scandal tied to his name. He’s the kind of man who never raises his voice and never loses a negotiation. If there’s a skeleton in his closet, no one’s found it yet.
His wife, Cassandra, is just as untouchable. Regal and elegant. The kind of woman who doesn’t blink out of turn. If money had a face, it would probably look like hers in a pearl choker. She rarely speaks to the press, never wears the same designer twice, and smiles like she’s always one step ahead of the conversation.
Then there’s Paris.
He’s the oldest son. The black sheep in designer shoes.
All charm, sharp edges, and reckless energy. Freaking tabloid gold. He’s the opposite of his father in every way, known for being everywhere he shouldn’t be, with women he shouldn’t be seen with.
He’s the reason I’m here. The one interviewing me to see if I’m good enough to take care of his daughter while his wife jet-sets across continents.
He’s nothing like his younger brother, Luca, the golden boy. The calm one. Always polished, always saying the right thing at the right time. He shows up to charity events early, kisses babies, and never has a hair out of place. Everyone loves Luca. He’s never in a scandal.
But Paris has been making headlines since the day he was born. I swear, everyone in America knows way too much about his life. Every public meltdown, every girl he’s ever been photographed with hanging off his arm. There’s always something. A fight with the paparazzi. A trashed penthouse party. Another woman. Or five.
But then a few months ago, he did the unthinkable.
The infamous billionaire heartthrob tied the knot in a jaw-dropping, over-the-top wedding at the Met. Yes, the Met. Where the Gala happens. Still can’t believe they let that circus in there.
And his bride? Aria Mason. The face of every Sports Illustrated cover since high school, basically. She’s flawless. Untouchable. The kind of woman men like him always seem to end up with.
Rumour has it that they met during one of her spring campaigns and sparks flew instantly. Personally? I’ve never bought it. Paris has never been the “settle down” type. More like the type to lose your number before breakfast.
But what do I know?
He’s twenty-eight now, married, and a father to a six-month-old baby.
Maybe love and a baby really do change people.
Or maybe... they just pretend better.
Anyway, I’m just here to hopefully impress him and earn a pretty check.
Cristina and I live in Flatbush, in an apartment so small it makes a shoebox look spacious. I can barely cover my half of the rent working as a singing waitress at Barney’s Diner, where the tips are as dry as the pancakes.
The Giovanettis need a nanny. I need a miracle. This interview is my last, desperate shot at making real money before our passive-aggressive landlord finally kicks Cristina and me to the curb.
I pull up in front of the skyscraper on Fifth Avenue, swallowing the last bite of my croissant and brushing the flaky crumbs off my lips. A quick swipe of lip gloss, a little cheek pinching to fake a glow—this is it. I’m about to either humiliate myself beyond repair or completely change the course of my life.
A tall man in a crisp suit and white gloves holds the door open for me, offering a polite nod.
“Good morning, Miss?” he asks, his voice kind but clipped.
“Manhattan Bertelli,” I reply, trying to sound confident.
His face softens with recognition. “Ah. We’ve been expecting you. Right this way.” He smells like peppermint and old money—maybe a dash of cigarettes too—as he gently guides me toward a statuesque woman glaring at her clipboard like it just insulted her.
Her heels tap out a sharp rhythm against the plush lobby carpet. She’s all angles, attitude, and designer precision.
As the doorman returns to his post, I approach with a sheepish smile and stretch out my hand, painfully aware of my chipped nails. “Hello, I’m—”
“Unacceptable,” she says, scowling at something I can’t see.
“Uh...” I awkwardly pull my hand back.
She taps her earpiece, frowning. Then, with a deep inhale, she shifts her gaze to me. “Sorry. Not you. Conference call. It’s hard being a businesswoman.” Her tone softens but not by much. She pivots on her heel and begins strutting toward a private elevator.
“So many calls, so little time,” she says over her shoulder. “Manhattan Bertelli, right on time.”
“I also go by Manny.”
She glances back at me with a flick of amusement—or maybe irritation. “Cute. I’m Bianca. Paris’ personal assistant. Thanks for being the only candidate who showed up on time this morning.”
She scans a keycard and presses the button for the 88th floor. My eyes widen.
“You’ll get used to it. If you’re hired,” she adds with a knowing smile. “Hope you’re not afraid of heights.”
I glance through the glass walls of the elevator as the city begins to shrink below us. “I wasn’t. But after this ride, I might be.”
Bianca lets out a short laugh.
“So, any tips on impressing Paris?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
She eyes me for a moment, calculating. “Honestly? If you’re as composed in there as you are in this elevator, I think you’ll be fine.”
“Composed?” I snort.
“You’d be surprised how many applicants come in drooling or secretly trying to land a tabloid scoop. You’re the most normal person I’ve met all morning.”
I smile, only for her phone to buzz. She takes a call, voice sharp and commanding as she negotiates something that sounds way above my pay grade.
This is it.
I take a slow breath, trying to calm the storm in my stomach as we climb higher and higher above Manhattan. By the time the elevator chimes and the doors glide open, I’m already sweating.
The moment I step out, I’m hit with something unexpected. A scent. Warm, expensive, unplaceable. It smells like polished wood, power, and things I’ve never touched.
This is a different world.
I swallow the nerves clawing at my throat as I trail behind Bianca into what feels less like a penthouse and more like a modern art museum. Massive, abstract paintings stretch across the gallery walls, each one probably worth more than my life. We make a sharp left into a sprawling living room, where she gestures toward a sleek, dark suede couch with a nod of her perfectly-coiffed head.
“Wait here in the solarium. Mr. Giovanetti will be with you shortly.”
The solarium. Of course. I didn’t even know that was a real thing outside of a Nancy Meyers movie.
I smooth my hands over the thighs of my black pants, trying to coax my heart rate back down. Across from me is another matching couch, this one dressed with throw pillows that scream luxury and probably cost more than my car and three months’ rent combined.
Overhead, the cloudy Manhattan sky spills light through a glass ceiling that makes it impossible to forget how high up we are. The floor-to-ceiling windows are so tall I feel like a speck inside of a snow globe. To my right, an oversized oval mirror hangs from the wall, beckoning me like a forbidden fruit.
Just one look. Just a quick check to make sure every curl is still in place and that I don’t look like I spent my morning speed-scrolling the Maps app trying to find breakfast while debating whether to subway it or revive my sad little car.
I tug at my collar, folding and unfolding it until it starts looking worse than before. Another final swipe of lip gloss. A silent prayer. Then I start mentally rehearsing my intro.
Thank you so much for considering me!
No. Too eager.
I’m really excited to meet you and your daughter!
Great. Now I sound like a stalker with a baby obsession.
I exhale and mumble to myself, “What am I even doing here?”
“Hopefully, you’re here to see me.”
The voice comes from behind. Deep, velvety, and far too self-assured. I freeze. I don’t need to turn around. I already recognise that voice from every late-night E! News segment of my teenage years.
In the mirror, I catch his reflection leaning against a marble column, arms folded across his broad chest with a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Paris Giovanetti in the flesh.
I turn to face him, my heart doing somersaults. He’s wearing a crisp button-down, no jacket, and a loosely knotted tie. Tattoos peek out from under his sleeves and his collar, the artwork painted across golden skin in delicate designs. His hair looks tousled like he just rolled out of another scandal.
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
His eyes travel down and back up my body with casual, practised confidence. Then he moves, slow and unhurried, extending a hand toward me.
“You must be Manhattan. Interesting name.”
I shake his hand. It’s warm, and steady, and held a beat too long.
“Some people call me Manny,” I offer, my voice steadier than I feel.
“I think I like Manhattan better,” he says, letting my hand drop as he tugs at his tie, loosening it more. “It’s... different.”
The word drips off his tongue like whiskey.
“Follow me.”
As he turns and leads me through the penthouse, I catch a whiff of his cologne. It’s earthy and sweet, like the pines back in Georgia after a thunderstorm. It mixes with the luxurious air up here, the kind that probably costs a fortune to breathe. I want to bottle it.
He guides me into a sleek study and closes the door behind us. I take a seat in one of the leather chairs facing his desk, the kind of chair you could accidentally fall asleep in during a board meeting. He leans back into his own with a casual authority, undoing the top button of his shirt. A tattoo inked along his neck peeks out. It reads Famiglia.
He clears his throat and folds his hands together. “I gotta say, your resume’s... unique. You bartend at Barney’s Diner and nanny for families in Flatbush?”
“I used to do both,” I say. “Not at the same time.”
His brow furrows slightly, curiosity sharpening his expression. “So, what made you want to apply here?”
I bite the inside of my lip, choosing honesty. “I’ve worked with kids for years, and I genuinely do love it. It’s always been something I’m good at. But I also... really need the job.”
I shift in the chair, which is far too comfortable for how uncomfortable I feel admitting that.
Three thousand a week? To live here. To care for Isabella. Of course I need this.
Paris leans back, his chair creaking softly. He watches me closely, like he’s trying to read the part of me I haven’t said out loud. “And the Giovanettis? You’re aware of the, let’s say, media attention that comes with us?”
I let out a breath of a laugh. “I’m not interested in the tabloids. I’m not here for gossip or headlines. I just want a stable job and a chance to help.”
“A chance to help,” he repeats, lips twitching with something between amusement and intrigue. “What makes you think you can handle my little girl? Especially with the circus that is my family’s business?”
I straighten in my seat, holding his gaze despite how tempting it is to sneak another glance at that tattoo under his collar. “Because I’ve handled chaos before. I know how to bring calm into a storm. I can keep things running, even when everything’s falling apart. And I’ll take care of Isabella like she’s mine.”
Something shifts in his expression. His smirk returns, but it’s softened by thoughtfulness. He leans forward, folding his arms across the desk.
“Can you handle...me too?” His voice dips lower, a challenge wrapped in a tease.
I suck in a breath, my pulse pounding, and resist the urge to react. Keep it professional, Manhattan.
“I’m here to do my job,” I say simply. “That’s all.”
He nods slowly, eyes searching my face like he’s weighing my words. Then, just when I think he might say something more, a small whimper cuts through the air.
We both glance down at the baby monitor on his desk. His daughter.
Paris looks back up at me and gestures toward the door. “Do you mind putting her back to sleep?”
I rise from my seat, already smoothing my hands over my pants again.
“I’d like to see how you connect with her,” he adds.
I nod, willing my nerves to stay buried. “Of course. I’d love to.”
The nursery is warm, softly lit with buttery sunlight streaming through the sheer, ivory curtains. It smells like powder and lavender and something else expensive I can’t quite place. A few pastel toys are scattered across the floor near a plush armchair and the crib. This baby’s nursery is the size of my entire apartment in Flatbush.
I take one breath, then another, letting the nerves settle in my chest before walking over to the crib. I’ve done this a million times before. This time is no different.
There she is. Six months old and already more glamorous than half of New York. Little lashes flutter against plump, rosy cheeks, and she squirms restlessly, letting out another tiny whimper.
“Hi, beautiful,” I whisper, bending down slowly. I keep my voice gentle, melodic, the way my mother used to sing to me when I had bad dreams. “You’re alright. You’re okay.”
I scoop the baby up carefully, pressing her close. She’s warm and feather-light. She cuddles close, nestling her head under my chin, and lets out a soft coo as if she can already tell she’s safe with me. A few soft hums escape my lips as I barely remember an old lullaby from my childhood. It’s something tender and out of place in a billionaire’s penthouse, but it works.
Little Isabella melts into my arms like butter in springtime.
I rock her gently, wandering over toward the armchair and sitting us both down. Her breathing slows. Her eyelids droop.
“You’re perfect, aren’t you?” I whisper down at her. “Way too good for this world.” I make my way back over to her crib, placing her down slowly as if handling a bomb.
As I turn around, I notice Paris in the doorway, unmoving, resting a shoulder against the frame.
His eyes seem dark and unreadable, focused not on Isabella, but on me. He closes the nursery behind me as I follow him out and into the corridor. There’s an intimate silence following us down the hall. He abruptly turns to face me with his arms crossed, his face twisted with thought. Something flickers in his expression. Not just approval, but something deeper. Warmer. He says nothing as he watches my resolve falter. I’m not sure what to do here with him staring me down like this.
“What?” I blurt out.
His mouth lifts at the corner, slow and confident. Sure. Without looking away, he pulls his phone from his pocket and dials. “Bianca,” he says once it connects. “Tell HR to prepare the paperwork. I’m hiring her.”
A beat of stunned silence echoes from the other end before Bianca’s voice rings out, loud enough for me to hear.
“She’s not even finished the interview.”
“I’ve seen enough.” He ends the call.
My voice rasps and I blink at him, stunned. “That’s it? You’re hiring me?”
Paris steps away, leaning his back against the wall as he finally does away with his silk tie. “You calmed her in under two minutes.” He begins, his voice low and smooth like whiskey. “She trusts you. That’s all I need to know.”
My heart thuds in my chest like a war drum, but I manage to keep my voice level. “And what about your wife? Shouldn’t she—?”
“I trust my gut.” He says simply. “I’m sure she won’t hesitate to do what’s best for Isabella. And I’m sure you are. The best.”
There it is again...that stare. Hungry and knowing but impossible to read. The fire from his eyes burns through my skin, curling under my skin and staying there long enough to hold me upright even after he turns to leave.
In that moment, standing in his dimly lit hall with his decision hanging in the air, I’ve realized something dangerous.
I’m not just in his penthouse.
I’m completely in his world now.
