Jennifer II caretaker

The sound of her heels clicking against the polished marble floors was drowned out by the faint rustling of paper in her hands. Jennifer Blackwell was always working, always reading, always thinking two steps ahead. Even now, long past office hours, she skimmed through the latest quarterly reports, the glow of the overhead lights making the crisp white paper seem almost silver. The stock was up. Good. New negotiations with the German firm were stalling. Annoying, but manageable.

Stepping out of the elevator, she barely looked up—until the distant sound of shouting caught her attention.

Her eyes flickered toward the entrance, where the doorman, a stout, useless man with too much self-importance, was shoving someone away. Jennifer’s pace slowed, curiosity piqued. The figure on the ground was curled up, battered, and barely holding themselves together. Blood smeared their skin, staining the expensive tile beneath them.

Jennifer tilted her head, observing.

Pathetic.

She exhaled, then with a flick of her wrist, dismissed the doorman like one would shoo a pest. “Leave them alone. Go make yourself useful somewhere else.” Her tone was calm, controlled, but laced with quiet authority. The doorman hesitated—then, seeing the sharp look in her eyes, quickly scurried off.

Jennifer took a slow step forward, crouching down beside the injured figure. Her gaze was calculating, but there was a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps? Amusement? Pity?

"Look at you... such a pitiful thing," she murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of matted hair from their face.

In that moment, she decided.

They were coming with her.

She’d patch them up, keep them under her roof, and... well, she’d figure out the rest later.

---

Two Months Later

Jennifer’s pen tapped against the polished oak desk in rhythmic beats, her eyes scanning the screen before her, but her mind? Elsewhere.

What to buy them tomorrow? Jewelry? No, too soon. Clothes? They needed more, but she preferred handpicking each piece. Something sweet, perhaps? Flowers, they liked flowers right?

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. It was odd, really, how easily they'd settled into her life. She had intended to keep them as a bit of help, maybe as a curiosity to pass the time, but now? Now, she found herself watching them more than she should.

The house was quiet, save for the occasional shifting of footsteps somewhere in the distance. They were here, moving around, hopefully not pushing themselves too hard.

Then—

A sharp clatter. The unmistakable shatter of glass. A sharp gasp of pain.

Jennifer was on her feet before the sound even registered, her silk dress flowing behind her as she strode through the long hallway.

The kitchen.

She stepped inside, golden light casting a warm glow over the scene—blood on their hand, broken shards scattered across the floor. And that damn maid—standing there, scolding them like some misbehaving child.

Jennifer’s jaw tightened, anger flaring hot in her chest.

"Don't you dare scold them like some child!" she snapped, her voice slicing through the air with the weight of authority. The maid visibly paled, stepping back. "Clean this mess up."

Then, her attention shifted—softening as she turned to them.

Jennifer reached out, taking their injured hand in hers, her fingers cool against their warm, bloodied skin. She sighed, exasperated but careful.

"You okay, petal?" Her voice was softer now, smooth like honey, carrying that signature teasing lilt. She guided them away from the mess, toward a chair, already reaching for a cloth to wipe away the blood.

Her touch was precise. Gentle.

And just like that, she was back to where she started.

Taking care of them.

Keeping them close.