No Tutor, No Nanny Could Control the Billionaire’s Daughter — A Simple Waitress Did the Unthinkable
Beatrice Sterling wasn’t a child. She was a natural disaster wrapped in silk. Her father, Arthur Sterling, owned half of Manhattan’s skyline.
Yet, he couldn’t buy his 7-year-old daughter’s obedience. She had chewed up and spit out 12 nannies in 6 months. The best psychologists called her untreatable, insisting she needed a frantic team of experts.
But the experts were wrong.
She didn’t need a PhD or a disciplinarian.
She needed Riley, a woman with $3 in her bank account and stains on her apron.
This waitress did the unthinkable, exposing the dark secret hiding behind a billionaire’s gates.
The Tuesday lunch rush at the Silver Spoon Diner in New York City was always a nightmare, but today the air felt heavier. Riley Miller wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, balancing a tray of lukewarm burgers. Her feet throbbed.
The soles of her sneakers had worn through weeks ago, and every step on the hard tile was a reminder of the rent she was behind on.
Riley was 26, but her eyes held the exhaustion of someone twice her age. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Three years ago, she was halfway through a nursing degree before her mother’s diagnosis drained their savings and forced Riley to trade textbooks for aprons.
“Table 4 needs a refill.
Riley, move it,” her manager, Rick, barked from the pass-through window.
“On it,” she muttered, keeping her head down.
The bell above the door chimed, not with the usual tiny ding, but with all the weight of an announcement. The noise in the diner died down instantly. Walking in was a man who looked like he had just stepped out of a Forbes cover shoot: Arthur Sterling.
Even Riley, who avoided the news, knew the face. Sharp jawline, steel gray suit, and eyes that looked like they were constantly calculating the depreciation of everything they touched.
But today he looked harried.
Dragging behind him, holding a pristine white doll by one leg, was Beatrice. Beatrice Sterling was 7 years old, dressed in a Burberry coat that cost more than Riley’s car.
She had golden curls and the face of an angel, but her expression was pure, unadulterated malice.
Behind them trailed a frantic-looking woman in a navy uniform. Nanny number 12, presumably.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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