Chapter 1: The Interview with Granny
The only sound in the expensive condo was the frantic whisper of fabric being shoved into a suitcase. Soleil moved in the dark, her hands trembling as she folded the delicate lace teddy, the silk slip dress, the jeans that hugged her curves like a second skin. Every piece was chosen by him, to please him, to be provocative for him. Now, they were just things to take as she ran. She didn’t turn on the light. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 3:17 AM. Derrick wouldn’t be back until morning, his scent of expensive cologne and someone else’s perfume still lingering.
She zipped the bag, her eyes darting to the bedroom door. A fresh bruise, the color of storm clouds, throbbed under the careful layer of concealer on her jaw. Last night’s “lesson,” he’d called it. For smiling too long at the waiter.
The city bus station at four in the morning was a world of peeling linoleum and stale coffee. She bought a ticket with cash. “How far does this go?” she asked, her voice barely a scratch.
The clerk didn’t look up. “Last stop is Lafayette, Louisiana. Change there if you want.”
“One to Lafayette, please.”
The bus ride was a blur of diesel fumes and fear. She curled against the window, her body aching, every mile a fragile thread between her and the life she was leaving. She watched the swamps give way to fields, the sky bleeding from black to bruised purple to a dusty morning blue. Lafayette was humid and loud. She saw another bus, this one heading deeper into the parishes, to a place called Mireaux. It felt far enough. She boarded.
Mireaux was a small town where the air felt thick enough to drink. Spanish moss clung to everything. She walked until she found a motel with a flickering ‘Vacancy’ sign. The room smelled of mildew and bleach. She stayed there for a week, sleeping, jumping at every sound, living on gas station snacks. Her money was bleeding away.
On the seventh day, walking to buy a loaf of bread, she saw a handwritten sign in the window of a ramshackle general store: Live-In Nanny/Housekeeper Needed. Room & Board. Apply at Baptreaux Plantation, Cypress Lane. Ask for Doretha.
She stood there for ten full minutes, the bread forgotten in her hand. A room. Board. A place to disappear.
The plantation house wasn’t what she’d imagined from movies. It was a giant, weathered Creole-style home with a deep wraparound porch, shadowed by ancient, sprawling oaks. The air hummed with cicadas and carried the heavy scent of damp earth and blooming magnolias. Spanish moss brushed the railings like ghostly fingers. Soleil smoothed her hands over her simple floral sundress—the least provocative thing she owned—and climbed the steps. Her knock on the screen door was a timid tap.
It opened almost immediately.
The woman who stood there was regal. Older, with skin like polished mahogany and a crown of long, stunning white dreadlocks. Her eyes, a sharp, knowing brown, took Soleil in from the top of her nervous head to her scuffed sandals.
“You here about the sign, cher?” Her voice was like warm honey, edged with gravel.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Soleil Pope.”
A slow smile softened the woman’s face. “Come on in out of that heat, Soleil Pope. I’m Doretha Baptreaux. Everybody calls me Granny.”
She led Soleil to a sitting room crowded with family photos and thriving plants. She poured two glasses of iced tea, so sweet it made Soleil’s teeth ache. “Sit,” she commanded, not unkindly.
The questions started simple. Where was she from? What experience did she have with children?
“I’m from… up north,” Soleil said, her voice soft. “I helped with my cousins a lot. I like kids. They’re… honest.”
Granny sipped her tea, her eyes never leaving Soleil’s face. “You runnin’ from something, Sunshine?”
The nickname, so sudden and gentle, almost undid her. Soleil’s brittle smile felt transparent. “No, ma’am. Just looking for a fresh start.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Granny set her glass down. “The job’s for my grandson, Kordell. He’s got two boys. Sire’s five, Saint’s two. Their mamas… ain’t in the picture. Kordell’s a good provider, but he’s a man. And those boys are wild as March hares. House is a mess. They need a woman’s touch. You think you can handle that?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The answer was instinctive. Cleaning, cooking, caring—that was a language she understood. A sanctuary she could build.
“You see that bruise peeking under your makeup, cher?”
Soleil’s hand flew to her jaw. Her eyes widened, panic flooding her system.
Granny leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I ain’t gonna ask. But this here is Baptreaux land. What you’re runnin’ from stops at our property line. You understand me? Nothing and nobody gets past me or my Old Man to hurt what’s under our roof. You do your job, you care for those boys, you’ll be safe here.”
Tears, hot and sudden, welled in Soleil’s eyes. She just nodded, unable to speak.
“Good. You’re hired. Let’s go meet your new family.”
Granny led her off the main porch and down a crushed-shell path to a whitewashed cottage nestled under more oaks. It was charming from the outside, but the sounds coming from within were of pure chaos—thumping, shrieking laughter, and something that sounded like a pan hitting the floor.
“Boys!” Granny called out, pushing the door open. “Y’all come here!”
Two small tornadoes skidded into the front room. They were both covered in what looked like jelly and dirt. The older one had fierce eyes and a defiant set to his jaw. The younger one had a head of dark, tight curls and a pacifier plugged firmly in his mouth. They stared at her with unblinking suspicion.
“This is Miss Soleil. She’s gonna be staying with y’all.”
Before anyone could react, a voice, low and cold as a bayou winter, cut through from the hallway.
“Granny, I told you I had—”
He stepped into the room, and Soleil’s breath hitched.
Kordell Baptreaux was shirtless, glistening with a sweat that traced the hard lines of his chest and the intricate tapestry of tattoos that covered his skin. His shoulder-length locs were tied back, emphasizing the sharp, handsome cut of his jaw. A gold canine glinted when his lips parted. He held a wrench loosely in one hand, his dark eyes sweeping over her with a look of utter disinterest, like she was a stray dog his grandmother had dragged home.
“Kordell, this is Soleil Pope. She’s your new nanny,” Granny announced, her tone brooking no argument.
His gaze was a physical weight. It moved from her nervous eyes, down the curve of her body in the sundress, and back up with no appreciation, only assessment. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Be nice,” Granny warned, though it sounded like a formality. “Show her around. I’ll be up at the big house.” She gave Soleil’s arm a reassuring squeeze and was gone, leaving Soleil in the stifling silence with this cold man and two sticky, silent boys.
Kordell tossed the wrench onto a cluttered side table. “Look. Granny’s heart’s in the right place. This is for her peace of mind. I’m doin’ this for her.” He took a step closer, and Soleil had to fight the urge to step back. He smelled like motor oil, sweat, and something uniquely dangerous. “But since you here, we gonna do it right. For my boys.”
He ticked the rules off on his fingers, his voice a deep, lazy drawl that didn’t match the intensity in his eyes.
“You sleep in my room. In my bed. Every night. That’s non-negotiable. Boys need to see a united front.” He let that sink in. “You cook. You clean. You help care for these hellions. And you’ll kiss me. In front of them. When I come home, when I leave. But that don’t mean nothing. I’m still gonna be me. You ain’t chainin’ me.”
Soleil just nodded, her throat too tight to speak. He was terrifying, but the command in his voice tapped directly into her submissive nature. This was just another set of rules to survive.
“Last thing,” he said, his eyes locking onto hers, compelling obedience. “You call me Daddy. Like they do.” He nodded toward the boys. “And I’ll call you Mama. To them. That’s the dynamic. You got it?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes, what?”
She swallowed. “Yes… Daddy.”
A flicker of something—satisfaction, maybe—crossed his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Good. I’ll be back by six for dinner. House is yours.” He grabbed a clean t-shirt from the back of a chair, pulled it on, and without another word or a glance at his sons, walked out the door. A minute later, an engine growled to life and faded away.
Soleil stood in the quiet, the weight of the chaotic cottage settling on her shoulders. She turned to look at the boys. Sire crossed his arms. Saint popped his pacifier out and threw it at her feet.
She took a deep, shaky breath. Then she smiled, a real, soft one. “Alright,” she said, her voice finding its gentle strength. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
The tour was brief. Two bedrooms. One was clearly the boys’, a explosion of toys, clothes, and crumpled sheets. The other was Kordell’s. A king-sized bed with gray rumpled sheets, a dresser with spare change and bullet casings scattered on top, a pervasive scent of his cologne and musk. The bathroom was a disaster. The kitchen… she almost cried. Dishes were piled high in the sink and on every counter. The floor was sticky. The fridge was full, thankfully, but chaotic.
She hauled her bags into Kordell’s room, placing them neatly in a corner. This wasn’t hers. She was just a visitor in his space.
Then she got to work. She started in the kitchen, washing and drying every dish, wiping down every surface, scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees. The boys watched her, silent and suspicious. She ignored the mess they made behind her, just patiently cleaned that too. She sang as she worked, soft, wordless lullabies, her true voice a hidden, mellifluous thing she only used when alone or with children.
As she folded a mountain of laundry, Sire came close, watching her hands. “You loud,” he stated.
“I’m just singing, baby,” she said softly.
“You gonna leave?” he asked, his little face fierce.
“Not today,” she answered honestly.
By late afternoon, the house smelled of lemon cleaner and simmering garlic and onion. She’d made a rich chicken and sausage gumbo, rice simmering on the back burner. The transformation was profound. Floors shone, curtains were straightened, toys were in a neat basket. Laundry was folded and put away.
Then she turned to the boys. “Bath time.”
It was a battle. A wet, soapy, shrieking battle. But she was gentle and relentless. She washed the grime from their skin, untangled Sire’s wild curls, patiently washed Saint’s. She wrestled them into clean pajamas. They emerged from the steam smelling like baby soap and innocence.
She set the small table in the kitchen, three places. Just as she was laying out the bowls, she heard the truck pull up. Her heart leaped into her throat.
The door opened. Kordell walked in, stopping dead just inside.
His eyes did a slow scan of the room. The clean floors, the tidy counters, the sparkling sink. The air, fragrant with food instead of stale chaos. His gaze fell on the table, set neatly, and then on his sons. They were clean. Pacified. Sitting in their chairs, waiting. Saint in a fresh onesie, Sire’s hair damp and combed.
Finally, his dark eyes landed on her. Soleil stood by the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand, her floral dress smudged with cleaner, her curls escaping her ponytail. She looked soft and capable and utterly out of place.
He just stood there. The cold sneer was gone. In its place was a stunned, unreadable stillness. He looked from the transformed home, to his tranquil sons, to the woman who had wrought the change in a single afternoon. Something in his hardened face shifted, a crack in the ice so faint it might have been a trick of the light.
“Dinner’s ready,” Soleil said softly, her voice barely disturbing the new, clean silence.
The silence held for three long heartbeats. Kordell’s eyes, dark and unreadable, stayed on her. Then he moved, not with his earlier prowling grace, but with a deliberate slowness that felt heavier. Each step across the clean floor was measured. He stopped in front of her, so close she could see the faint sweat dried along his temples, the subtle flicker of the gold in his canine.
He just looked down at her, his expression giving nothing away. His hand came up, not to touch her face, but to brush a stray curl that had escaped her ponytail back behind her ear. The calloused pad of his thumb grazed her cheekbone. It wasn’t a caress. It was a claim.
“For the routine,” he said, his voice a low rumble meant only for her.
He leaned in. Soleil’s eyes fluttered shut instinctively, her body tensing. This wasn’t like Derrick’s demanding, punishing kisses. Kordell’s lips were firm, warm, and completely still against hers for a suspended second, as if testing her consistency. Then they moved, a deliberate, closed-mouth press that was shockingly gentle yet unnervingly possessive. He didn’t deepen it, didn’t ask for more. He simply held her there, his hand now cradling the side of her neck, his thumb resting on the frantic pulse just under her jaw. The scent of him—outdoor work and clean sweat—filled her senses. When he pulled back, her lips tingled. Her eyes opened to find his already on her, watching her reaction with a detached curiosity. He gave a single, shallow nod, as if filing something away.
“Smells good,” he stated, finally turning away, breaking the spell.
She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her hands trembled as she lifted the pot of gumbo. She served him first, ladling a generous portion over a mound of fluffy white rice into a large bowl. Then, she carefully served smaller, manageable portions into two plastic bowls for the boys, blowing on a spoonful to cool it before putting it in front of Saint. Finally, she served herself a modest amount and took the remaining seat.
For a moment, there was just the sound of spoons scraping ceramic. Kordell took his first bite. He chewed slowly, his gaze distant, then his eyes cut to her. A flicker of something—surprise, maybe approval—chased the coldness away for a split second. He gave another nod, deeper this time, and dug in with purpose.
The boys watched their father, then followed suit. Sire, trying to mimic Kordell’s deliberate pace, soon gave up. The gumbo was too good. He began shoveling it in, rice and sausage and okra spilling down his chin. Saint, clumsy with his spoon, mostly smashed the rice and tried to pick up bits of chicken with his fingers, getting dark roux all over his face, his high chair tray, and his fresh onesie. He grunted in happy frustration.
“Here, baby, like this,” Soleil murmured, scooting her chair closer to Saint. She took his chubby hand gently, guiding his spoon. “Scoop, then to your mouth. See?” He let her help for two bites before deciding fingers were superior, but he smiled at her, a gummy, messy grin, his pacifier forgotten.
She ate her own food, the rich, savory flavors a comfort. It was the first proper meal she’d cooked and eaten in weeks. Every so often, she’d reach over with a napkin to wipe Saint’s cheek or catch a droplet from Sire’s chin, her movements automatic, nurturing.
Kordell watched it all. He said nothing, just ate, his eyes missing nothing. The way she tended to Saint without a thought. The soft, encouraging smiles she gave Sire. The careful way she dabbed, never scrubbed. He finished his bowl and sat back, pushing it away slightly.
“You cook good, Mama,” Sire announced, his mouth still full.
The name, in his little boy voice, sent a jolt through Soleil. She met Kordell’s gaze across the table. His expression was unreadable again. “Yeah,” he said, the word rough. “She does.”
When everyone was done, Soleil stood and began clearing. Kordell stood too. “I’m gonna shower. Gotta go out later.” He announced it like a decree, then disappeared down the hall. The sound of the shower running soon followed.
She cleaned the kitchen a second time, wiping down the boys’ high chair and tray, washing the pots until they gleamed. The domestic rhythm was a balm.
“Okay, bedtime,” she said, turning to her sticky charges.
“No!” Sire yelled, darting under the table.
Saint, taking his cue, began to fuss, slumping in his chair.
It took coaxing, patience, and a few firm words to corral them into the bathroom for a quick wash of hands and faces. As she dried Saint’s plump cheeks, Sire tugged on her dress.
“We sleep in Daddy’s bed,” he stated, a challenge in his eyes.
“You have your own beds, though,” she said softly.
“We sleep in Daddy’s.” This was delivered as immutable law.
The bathroom door opened, steam rolling out. Kordell stood there, a low-slung towel hanging from his hips, water droplets clinging to the tattoos on his chest and arms. Soleil’s breath caught. He was all hard lines and damp, dark skin. She forced her eyes to the boys.
“They do,” Kordell said, his voice echoing in the tiled room. “Every night. Part of the routine.” He said the last part directly to her, his meaning clear. The fake routine. He walked past her, the heat from his body and the clean scent of soap briefly enveloping her.
Feeling flustered, Soleil shepherded the boys into the bedroom. Kordell’s room. She helped them climb onto the massive bed. They immediately burrowed into the pillows on what was clearly their side. Kordell, unabashed, dropped his towel and began to dress right there, pulling on black boxer briefs and then a pair of gray sweatpants. Soleil turned her back quickly, her cheeks burning. She focused on the boys, pulling the sheets around them.
“Story!” Sire demanded.
She found a well-worn book about trucks on the nightstand. Sitting on the very edge of the bed, her back rigidly to where Kordell was dressing, she began to read. Her voice, soft and melodic, filled the room. By the second page, Saint’s eyelids were drooping. Sire fought it, watching her face intently, but by the fourth page, his breathing had evened out.
She carefully marked the page and set the book down. When she turned, Kordell was sitting in a worn armchair in the corner, watching her, now wearing a white t-shirt. He was just… studying her.
“I’ll, um… I’ll go shower,” she whispered, grabbing her small bag of pajamas and fleeing to the bathroom.
Under the hot spray, she tried to calm her nerves. The kiss. His near-nakedness. The weight of his gaze. It was all a performance, she reminded herself. For the boys. She dried off and put on her pajamas: a simple but soft lavender shorts set, the top a delicate camisole with thin straps and a lace trim. It was feminine, and though it covered her, the soft fabric clung to her curves. She took a final steadying breath and opened the door.
The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight through the window. All three of them were in the bed. The boys were conked out, a tangle of limbs on one side. Kordell was on his back on the other, his arms behind his head. His eyes were open, reflecting the faint light.
“Get in,” he said, his voice a quiet command in the dark.
She walked to the empty side—his side—the space between him and the edge. The sheets felt cool as she slid in, keeping her body tense and close to the brink.
“Further.” The word was soft but absolute.
She inched backward. Her back lightly brushed against his bare arm. He moved then, shifting onto his side. In one smooth motion, he slid behind her, his body curving around hers. He was warm, solid. An arm draped heavily over her waist, pulling her firmly against him until her back was flush with his chest. The intimacy of it stole her breath.
The boys, sensing the shift in warmth, stirred. Sire mumbled something in his sleep and rolled, his small back pressing against her stomach. Saint followed, wiggling until his forehead was against her thigh. They were bookended, burrowing into her warmth from both sides.
Kordell’s arm tightened around her waist, his hand splaying possessively against her stomach. His face was buried in the damp curls at the nape of her neck. He inhaled deeply. The gesture was so unexpectedly husband-like, so at odds with his coldness, that her eyes pricked with tears. This was the pretence. It felt terrifyingly real.
“You’ll wake up before me,” he muttered into her hair, his breath warm on her skin. “Make breakfast. Grits. Eggs. Andouille if we got it. Then you wake me and the boys up to eat. I leave for the shop at seven.”
“Yes, Daddy,” she whispered into the dark, the title feeling stranger here, in the intimacy of the bed, than it had at the table.
He didn’t reply. His breathing slowly deepened, evening out. But his arm never loosened its hold. He held her close, anchored against him, as if she were the only solid thing in the room. Soleil lay still, surrounded by the heat of two sleeping boys and the confusing, formidable man at her back, listening to the chorus of their breaths, and wondered what fresh hell, or perhaps what fragile heaven, she had just walked into.