I blamed Elise for everything, but at 2:03 a.m., I discovered she was the only person who could make my daughters laugh again.

Elise fumbled with the bulky headphones, pulling them down around her neck as if she had just been caught committing a felony. The bright yellow rubber cleaning gloves looked entirely absurd against the sleeves of her conservative navy cardigan.

“I... I was just trying to settle them, Mr. Caruso,” Elise said, her voice dropping into a defensive, apologetic register. She straightened her posture, though her shoulders remained tense. “Standard lullabies weren't working. The classical music playlist you installed on the nursery smart-system was making them anxious. So I improvised.”

I looked from her flushed face down to the twins, who were now quietly sucking on their pacifiers, their eyelids drooping heavily with sudden, peaceful exhaustion.

“Improvised,” I repeated, crossing my arms over my chest. “By wearing cleaning gloves and pretending to be a sea bird at two in the morning?”

“Penguin, actually,” she corrected softly, meeting my dark gaze with a flicker of stubborn pride that caught me completely off guard. “And it works. Their neurological systems are reacting to visual comedy and erratic movement because it breaks the cycle of grief-induced cortisol loops. I read pediatric psychology at Northwestern before working in family support.”

I stared at her. Most nannies who came through my agency recited rehearsed platitudes about patience and early childhood development. None of them had ever quoted cortisol loops while dressed like a rubber-handed clown to make my daughters laugh.

“You never mentioned your degree during the interview,” I noted.

“Your agency didn't ask,” Elise replied evenly, kneeling down to carefully untie and slip off the yellow gloves. “They only cared if I could cook low-sodium meals and operate your alarm systems. They didn't ask if I knew how to make a baby forget that her mother is never coming back.”

The bluntness of her words struck me like a physical blow.

In my world—the cutthroat corporate environment of downtown Chicago logistics and private equity acquisitions—people wrapped their malice in polite euphemisms. Here was a twenty-six-year-old woman speaking absolute, unfiltered truth into the quiet shadows of my nursery.

“Take the gloves off, Elise,” I said quietly, uncrossing my arms.

She paused, looking down at the rubber gloves in her hands. “Am I fired, sir? I understand if this violates your protocol for professional decorum. I know the agency has strict guidelines about—”

“You’re not fired,” I interrupted, the words escaping my lips before my analytical brain could stop them.

Elise blinked, looking up at me in genuine astonishment. “I’m... not?”

“Put the girls back to sleep,” I ordered, turning toward the doorway. “And tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, I want you in my study. We are going to rewrite your employment contract.”

Before she could formulate a response, I stepped out into the hallway and pulled the nursery door shut.

Back in my master bedroom, the digital clock now read 2:34 a.m.

I sat on the edge of my mattress, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the glittering skyline of Chicago. For the first time in four months, the silence of the house didn't feel suffocating.