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Three Parisian single daddies hired me to take care of their children.
Nobody told me they'd take turns taking care of me.
I came for the children.
Three inseparable little souls caught between fathers who can barely be in the same room.
I came to braid pigtails and pack lunches and hold small hands on the walk to school.
But nobody warned me about the fathers.
One whispers "good girl" after bedtime and I feel it everywhere.
Another watches me bend over the kitchen counter like he's deciding what to do with me.
The last one makes me press my face into his pillow whimpering his name while his little girl dreams two doors down.
Older. Commanding. Obscenely rich. Devastating in ways I wasn't prepared for.
They hate each other.
But they want the same thing.
Me. On my knees. Saying please.
They swore they'd never share. But none of them can stand the thought of giving me up.
Somewhere between their beds and their breakfast tables, I forgot this was ever just a job.
After the stories are read. After the nightlights click on. After the hallway goes quiet --
I become something I can't take back.
And the night all three of them end up at my door --
I realize I was never going to say no.
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