CHAPTER 6: LAURA THOMPSON

Author's POV

Laura Thompson was not just an average five-year-old. She was a child born into wealth and privilege, with every imaginable luxury at her fingertips. But for all the material comforts her world offered, Laura’s life was far from ordinary.

She was a striking child, her features sharp and defined, a miniature version of her father. Her dark hair framed her pale face perfectly, and her piercing gray eyes—so cold and calculating for someone so young—often left people unsettled. Laura wasn’t the kind of child who giggled or played carelessly. No, she observed. She calculated. She spoke with precision, her words often cutting deeper than any tantrum ever could.

It was clear that Laura had been molded in the image of her father, Gerald Thompson. There was an air of authority about her, a confidence that made her seem far older than her years. She didn’t ask for things; she demanded them. And woe to anyone who failed to meet her expectations.

But beneath the sharp tongue and icy demeanor was a lonely little girl. Laura’s world was governed by structure and routine, with every moment of her day meticulously planned. Tutors, etiquette lessons, and enrichment classes filled her schedule, leaving little room for childhood innocence or joy.

Her father, though providing for her every material need, made sure he wasn't an emotionally distant figure. Gerald Thompson did coddle or spoil her in the traditional sense even though he wasn't really good at it because he felt none while growing up, he tried his best. In all, he viewed her also as a project—a future heir to the Thompson legacy. His high expectations loomed over her like a storm cloud, pushing her to excel.

To the outside world, Laura appeared perfect: well-mannered, intelligent, and poised. But those who spent any significant time with her quickly realized she was far from easy to handle. She tested boundaries with a sharp wit and an uncanny ability to exploit weakness.

Yet, for all her rudeness and defiance, there were moments when her true self peeked through—fleeting glimpses of a child who longed for affection, understanding, and maybe even motherly love. Moments that suggested Laura Thompson was more than just her father’s miniature shadow.

But it would take someone with patience, persistence, and a heart big enough to weather her storms to uncover the vulnerable little girl hidden behind her frosty exterior. Someone who could see past the armor she’d built around herself.

And perhaps, just perhaps, Kayla Evans was that someone.

Kayla's POV

By noon, I had finished preparing Laura’s favorite lunch—a simple pasta dish with a side of sliced strawberries and blueberries, plated carefully under the watchful eyes of the chef. I’d barely set everything on the table when Dr. Melvin appeared, her tone brisk as always.

“Laura will be arriving shortly. It’s customary for the nanny to greet her at the door,” she said.

I wiped my hands on my apron, nodding nervously. “Of course.”

Making my way to the grand foyer, I stood near the towering double doors, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and unease. A low hum of an engine announced her arrival, and moments later, a sleek black car pulled up to the circular driveway. The driver stepped out, moving with practiced efficiency as he opened the rear passenger door.

Out stepped Laura.

She was even smaller in person than I’d imagined, but there was nothing timid about her. Her dark hair was neatly tied back with a satin bow, and her perfectly tailored navy dress spoke of a child accustomed to only the finest things. She moved with an almost regal confidence, her chin held high and her gray eyes scanning the estate with practiced indifference.

“Go,” Dr. Melvin urged me from behind.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward as Laura approached the door, her polished black shoes clicking softly against the marble steps. “Hello, Laura,” I said with as much warmth as I could muster.She stopped in front of me, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took me in. Her gaze traveled over my modest apron and simple shoes, and I could practically feel the weight of her judgment.

She didn’t say a word. Instead, she gave me a look that could only be described as disdain. It was a look far too practiced for a five-year-old, and it struck me like a blow.

Then, as if I were nothing more than a piece of furniture, she walked past me without so much as a greeting, her little chin tilted up as though she were the queen of the mansion.

I stood there, stunned, watching as she disappeared up the staircase, her small figure flanked by the driver carrying her school bag.

Dr. Melvin's voice broke the silence. “Laura can be… particular,” she said, though there was no real sympathy in her tone. “You’ll get used to it.”

I wasn’t so sure. My first encounter with Laura had left me feeling small, inadequate, and utterly out

“Kayla, you’ll follow Laura upstairs,” Dr. Hart instructed, her tone as clipped as always.

“Assist her with her bath and get her ready for lunch.”I nodded, though my stomach twisted nervously.

“Of course,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

I hurried to her room, my shoes tapping softly on the gleaming wood. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, Laura had long disappeared into her room.

The door was slightly ajar, so I pushed it open and stepped inside.The room was breathtaking. Soft pastels painted the walls, and the furniture looked like it had been custom-made for a fairy tale princess.

A canopy bed sat in the middle, draped with delicate lace, and shelves lined with books and toys stretched across one side of the room. Everything was perfect—so perfect, it felt untouched.

Laura stood in the center, her hands clasped in front of her, staring at the floor. She didn’t move or speak, just stood there like a doll waiting to be posed.

“Hi, Laura,”

I said, keeping my voice light— I felt my heart soften towards her—she was mine, my own daughter, my flesh and my blood — I felt my eyes become misty.

“I’m Kayla, your new nanny."

I’ll be helping you from now on.”I said wiping a tear dry with my left thumb.

But nothing.

She didn’t even look up at me.

I tried again, taking a step closer.

“I thought we could talk while I help you get ready for lunch. Do you like stories? Or maybe music?”

Still no response.

It was as if I wasn’t even in the room.I sighed softly but didn’t let it show. Instead, I walked to the en suite bathroom and turned on the taps, adjusting the water until it was just the right temperature.

The sound of the water filled the room as I set out towels and laid out a fresh change of clothes.

“Your bath is ready, Laura,”

I said, turning back to her with a smile.

“Shall we?”Without a word, she moved toward me, stepping past with the same icy composure she’d had since she walked through the door.

She let me help her out of her crisp navy dress and into the bath, her silence as heavy as the steam rising from the water.

I tried to make a conversation as I helped her bathe, asking about her day, her favorite toys, anything to get even a flicker of a response. But she remained mute, her piercing gray eyes focused on the tiles or the water, never on me.

By the time she was clean, dressed, and ready for lunch, I felt like I’d run a marathon. The silence wasn’t just awkward—it was calculated.

It was her way of keeping me at arm’s length, a barrier I wasn’t sure I could cross.As we walked down the stairs together, I couldn’t help but glance at her, wondering what was going on in her little mind.

Laura wasn’t just quiet—she was guarded, like she’d built a fortress around herself.I sighed inwardly. This wasn’t going to be easy. But something about her—something about the sadness in her silence—made me want to try.

The day had begun to blur into a rhythm of silence and darkness.

It was dinner time, and I’d just set Laura’s plate at the dining table. She sat stiffly, her tiny hands folded in her lap, staring out the window. Her untouched food sat in front of her as if it were a decoration rather than a meal.

“Laura,” I said softly, crouching beside her. “I made your favorite pasta. Would you like me to help you with it?”

She didn’t look at me, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Maybe we could talk while you eat? I’d love to hear about your classes or—”

“Can you just stop talking?” she snapped suddenly, her voice sharp and cutting.