Chapter 1
My name is Yana Doyle, and in my world, I'm the trainer everyone calls to handle the wildest of dogs.
So when socialite Mary Yeats hired me to "tame" her unruly son, I thought it'd be just another job.
"We'll be out of town," she said breezily. "Don't worry. My boy will let you in."
The door swung open. I was stunned.
Since when did "boys" stand six-foot-three with a carved eight-pack and a stare that could freeze hell?
Then, glowing words flickered above me like some twisted subtitle.
[This nanny's dead in three days. Male lead's first victim.]
[If he doesn't break, how will Sunny Chase become his light?]
A month later, I collected my check and walked out.
Ryan Yeats said he would never forgive me.
Years passed, and he found me again, tall, fierce, and cornering me. He leaned in, voice rough, eyes burning. "Not going to feed your puppy anymore, Yana? He's starving."
*****
Ryan, the CEO's son, hardly ate or slept, barely spoke, and seemed bent on self-destruction. They'd brought in every specialist out there, but nothing helped.
Word had spread that I was a top-tier dog trainer, so Mary, desperate and out of options, decided to take a chance on me.
Her assistant tracked me down and offered $1.5 million if I could turn things around.
I needed the money badly, so I didn't think twice and accepted it.
"We've tried all kinds of experts, but Ryan is a lot. None of them lasted more than a few days," Mary told me.
"No problem, Mary. I'm willing to give it a shot," I said.
"We're away on business. The boy will let you in. Thank you for helping, Ms. Doyle," she replied.
I showed up at the villa as agreed and knocked for a good thirty minutes before anyone answered.
When the door finally opened, I was stunned.
Who on earth calls a six-foot-three guy with a six-pack a "boy"?
Before I could get a proper look, floating comments began appearing above my head:
[This nanny's poor. She is dead in three days. Male lead's first victim.]
[If he doesn't break, how will Sunny Chase become his light?]
Nanny? I blinked, suddenly confused.
Were they talking about me? A chill ran down my spine.
Hold on, was this some kind of story world? Was I really going to be killed by Ryan in a few days?
But backing down wasn't my style. They were underestimating me.
I've trained enough wild dogs to fill a parade. I wasn't about to run.
Besides, Mary's offer was too good to pass up, enough to make rolling the dice worth it.
[No way this girl survives the night.]
[She's definitely getting killed off. Can we skip to the sunshine girl already?]
Ignoring the comments, I took a seat across from Ryan.
He was slumped on the couch, gaming, with dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept in weeks.
"Hey, your mom asked me to look after you. Let me know if you want anything to eat," I said.
He didn't glance up. "Get lost. Don't bother me. Now that someone's here, I actually have to wear clothes."
Wow, this guy was a real piece of work.
"It's fine," I said with a professional smile. "Honestly, you don't have to dress up for me."
Ryan's hand slipped, and his game character died instantly.
"What kind of nanny are you? Did my mom really let someone this wild into the house?" he muttered, looking stunned.
"I'm not your nanny," I said.
Ryan snorted, eyes still glued to the screen. "Alright then. What do you do?"
"I train dogs," I replied.
Three seconds of dead silence followed.
"What the—" Ryan jumped up, face flushed with anger. "You're treating me like a dog?"
"No," I said, holding his gaze. "You're not even as obedient as a dog."
At least my dogs wouldn't swear.
He stormed off, slammed his bedroom door, and didn't come down for dinner.
The live comments went wild.
[Whoa, Ryan's ears are turning red! This girl is different.]
[Stop thirsting! She's annoying. Ryan should just kick her out.]
After watching the chat argue for a bit, I reheated dinner.
The house felt too empty and quiet. Honestly, a few barkings would've been welcome.
Tray in hand, I headed upstairs to his room.
The lock was gone, just a dark hole where it had been. I gave the door a light push, and it swung open.
Ryan was inside, punching a heavy bag bare-fisted. His knuckles were torn and bleeding, staining the nylon.
He shot me an irritated glare when I walked in.
"Get out," he snapped.
I ignored him and set the tray on the table. "How about some fuel? Wouldn't want you passing out from punching air."
He finally stopped, giving me a sarcastic look. "You just walk in without knocking? What if I was doing something you shouldn't see?"
"Your door's broken. Knocking wouldn't change much," I said.
Throwing shade? Let's see who was the first to back down.
Maybe I struck a nerve, because Ryan froze, then stormed into the bathroom and locked the door.
"Get out! And take your damn food with you," he yelled from inside.