Page 7 of The Love Syllabus

My application.

“Uh, yes, that’s true,” I admit cautiously. “But I’ve never been a nanny. That’s entirely out of my skill set. And I don’t even know thisemployer. I must’ve been… tipsy when I applied because I’d never agree to live with a stranger. They could be a serial killer or something.”

Vicky chuckles again, light and amused. “I can assure you, he isn’t.”

I sit up straighter. “Wait.He?If I may be honest, ma’am. I think I’d need to see a background check on him. This is starting to sound like the plot of a Lifetime movie. I’m going to need more details.”

“And you’ll receive them,” she says, her voice smooth as silk. “During your trial interview.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. “Say what now? A simulation? That sounds suspiciously like free labor. And I’m not in the business of working for free.”

“You’ll be compensated quite handsomely.” She assures me, not missing a beat.

I pause as the wordhandsomelyfloats around in my mind. Lord knows I could use the money.

But an NDA? Exclusivity? Living on an estate? It’s a lot to ask for a job I didn’t even apply for, let alone know how to do.

“May I think about it?” I ask, my hesitation clear.

There’s a brief pause before she responds, her tone clipped but polite. “Of course. You have until 11:59 p.m. tonight to accept, or the interview request will be rescinded.”

The firm deadline throws me off, but it doesn’t matter. I already know I’m going to turn it down.

“Cool. I’ll let you know,” I say flatly before hanging up.

I slump back in my chair, staring at the ceiling while Tum Tum purrs contentedly in my lap, oblivious to my existential crisis. This whole situation is ridiculous yet strangely intriguing.

And Idoneed a job.

Maybe… I need to start taking risks. I’ve played it safe for too long, permanently settling for the bare minimum. Perhaps it’s time to step out of my comfort zone. After all, staying comfortable has only led me into the most uncomfortable situations.

But instead of making any real decisions, I push the thought aside and open my laptop, convincing myself I’ll be productive. I start by searching“local attorneys,”which quickly spirals into Googling“how to infiltrate a corrupt justice system to prove my innocence and get my job back.”

Spoiler alert: there’s no helpful guide.

Needless to say, what started as research turns into a full-blown rabbit hole, and before I know it, I’m watching back-to-back episodes ofLaw & Orderuntil it’s time to get ready for Izzy’s grand opening, aka a breeding ground for Greer’s most pretentious elite.

After a long, hot shower, I stand in front of the mirror, debating whether to go for effortlessly chic or elegantly polished. Eventually, I settle on both. My hair falls in loose curls, framing my face with just the right amount ofI woke up like thissophistication.

Thanks to Serena’s outrageously expensive wardrobe, I have options. I select a soft pink gown with a high slit that whispers elegance while screaming,‘I’m thriving’even though my bank account says otherwise. I pair it with simple diamond earrings—just enough sparkle to say classy, but not trying too hard.

As I take one final look in the mirror, something unexpected happens—a flicker of confidence blooms inside me. My dress hugs every curve and complements my deep brown skin like it was made for me.

I feel powerful.

I remember the days I was trapped in a loveless marriage, drowning in self-doubt, questioning my worth. I truly forgot how beautiful I was. How strong I was. But those moments seem like shadows of a past life.

Now, as I stand here, I recognize myself for who I am, who I always was—the best, the baddest, the most beautiful, the most capable, and the most indestructible woman I’ve ever met.

Suddenly, a knock on my bedroom door jolts me from my self-affirming thoughts.

“You ready, Cinderella? Your pumpkin carriage awaits,” my mom’s voice calls out, light and teasing.

I can’t help but smile. No matter how blunt my parents are, they always know how to make me laugh, even when I don’t want to.

“I’m not sure you qualify as my fairy godmother, Mom,” I call back, slipping into my heels. “But points for enthusiasm.”

The door creaks open, and she peeks her head inside, giving me a once-over with that sharp, discerning gaze only moms have. “Fairy godmother?” she repeats with a grin. “More like the one keeping you sane while figuring out your life.”

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