Chapter Text
The scent of chamomile tea and fresh strawberries used to be a sign of absolute calm, but today, in the small apartment he shared with Alex, that smell felt dangerously stale with anxiety.
George Russell was curled up on the couch, his legs drawn tightly against his chest and his gaze fixed on the ceiling, feeling as though the world was crashing down around him. At twenty-four years old, his work record as a kindergarten teacher had been spotless. He loved children, had endless patience, and school principals always praised his tact as an Omega. At least, they had until month.
A stupid jar of acrylic paint left improperly sealed, the ruined clothes of an extremely influential Alpha’s child, and a cowardly administration that preferred to cut the rope at its weakest point rather than admit that the shelves were defective.
Fired. Without the right to defend himself.
“If you keep sighing like that, you're going to end up hyperventilating, George. And I don't have the budget to take you to the emergency room.”
Alex Albon walked into the living room carrying two mugs of instant coffee. As a Beta, Alex was immune to the density of the distress pheromones George was releasing, but he was not immune to the miserable look on his best friend's face.
He set one mug on the coffee table and sat down at the end of the couch, gently nudging George’s knees aside to make room.
“It’s unfair, Alex. I wasn’t the one who left that paint jar there,” George protested, his voice dull and exhausted. “But of course, that Alpha wasn’t going to admit that his kid is basically a tornado. It was easier to blame the substitute Omega teacher. Now I don’t know how I’m going to pay my half of the rent next month. My savings will barely cover two weeks of groceries if I live on noodles.”
Alex sighed sympathetically and took a sip of his coffee. He had known George since university and knew his passion for teaching was genuine, so seeing his professional pride wounded like this hurt him too.
“Well, not all hope is lost,” Alex said, reaching toward the kitchen counter to grab a folded newspaper. “I know it sounds prehistoric to buy a physical newspaper, but the lady downstairs was about to throw it away, and I figured I’d check the classifieds while I was riding the elevator up. Look at this.”
Alex unfolded the paper and tapped a finger against a highlighted advertisement framed in black.
George narrowed his eyes and read aloud:
“Full-time nanny wanted. Must have verifiable experience caring for infants and young children. Immediate availability required. Extreme patience and absolute discretion are essential. Salary well above market average. Benefits included. Interviews will be conducted at the offices of Verstappen Racing Corp."
George blinked as he processed the information.
“Verstappen Racing Corp? The motorsport management company? Alex, that’s huge. The owner is…”
“Max Verstappen,” Alex completed with a grimace. “Yeah, they say he’s got an unbearable personality, but look at that salary, George. One month working there and you could pay three months of rent and still have enough left over to buy those designer blazers you like so much.”
George stared at the advertisement. His pheromones seemed to regain some of their natural sweetness at the spark of hope.
“It says ‘extreme patience.’ Are the kids really that bad?”
“They’re children from a millionaire family. They’re probably spoiled, but you managed twenty-five hyperactive kindergarteners at the same time. This job shouldn’t be any challenge for you. Think about it.”
---
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, the atmosphere on the top floor of the Verstappen Racing Corp building was anything but calm.
Max Verstappen rubbed his temples, feeling a sharp migraine throbbing behind his eyes. His computer monitor displayed financial performance charts that urgently needed his attention, but his ears were occupied by something far more stressful: the constant crying of a baby coming through the baby monitor sitting on his desk.
The door to his office opened without warning, and Oscar Piastri walked in carrying a tablet and a folder full of contracts. Oscar, a notably younger Alpha with a level of composure Max often envied, paused when he heard the baby crying and saw the disaster of paperwork spread across the desk of his business partner.
“Still not sleeping?” Oscar asked, closing the door behind him to muffle the noise from the offices outside.
“He’s nine months old, Oscar. At nine months old, babies are supposed to sleep for more than two hours at a time,” Max grumbled, his voice rough from exhaustion. “And Kimi hid my spare keys this morning because he didn’t want to go to daycare. I practically had to drag him there. I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“What you need to do is accept that you’re not a superhero, Max,” Oscar replied in his usual flat, pragmatic tone as he sat down across from him. “As your friend, I still seriously think that if you don’t find someone to take care of your kids, you’re going to burn yourself out. You’ve done an incredible job managing on your own this past year, but admit it—you need help.”
Max clenched his jaw. His Alpha pride was wounded, and any mention of his family situation always opened a crack he tried desperately to keep sealed.
A year ago, his former partner, an Omega who had simply decided that family life and the responsibilities of parenthood did not align with their personal ambitions, packed their bags and left. They never asked for custody. They never requested visitation rights.
They simply erased themselves from existence.
Leaving Max alone with Kimi, who had been two years old at the time, and a late-stage pregnancy that ended with the birth of a baby in the middle of the chaos of abandonment.
Since then, Max had promised himself that he would never need anyone else. He could handle the company, and he could handle his children.
But reality was hitting him hard.
“I already told you,” Max replied defensively. “The three agencies I hired sent people who quit after three days. Either Kimi throws an unbearable tantrum, or the baby won’t stop crying because he can’t tolerate their pheromones. I don’t trust just anyone with my children.”
“That’s why I placed the ad in the local newspaper instead of the usual online platforms,” Oscar said, sliding the tablet toward him. “Don’t expect much—hardly anyone reads newspapers anymore—but it was the best way to find someone. Usually, only older people bother checking those ads, so the chances are better. The ad was published today. My secretary is already scheduling interviews for tomorrow afternoon.”
Max looked at the screen and examined the layout of the advertisement.
He sighed, letting his shoulders slump.
The weight of sleepless nights and accumulated stress showed clearly in the dark circles beneath his blue eyes.
“Just... make sure it’s not someone trying to impress me, Oscar. I only want someone who can take care of my children and let me work in peace.”
“Understood,” Oscar nodded as he stood up. “Tomorrow we’ll see who survives the first round.”
---
Back at the apartment, George held his cellphone with a slightly trembling hand. Alex watched him from the kitchen, giving him a silent thumbs-up of encouragement.
George took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of tea that always helped him center himself before making an important decision.
He dialed the number printed in the black-framed advertisement.
The line rang once, twice, before a professional office voice answered on the other end.
“Good afternoon, Verstappen Racing Corp. How may I help you?”
George swallowed hard and instinctively straightened his back, adopting his best responsible-teacher voice.
“Good afternoon. My name is George William Russell. I’m calling regarding the job advertisement for the nanny position. I would like to schedule an interview, please.”
The secretary’s tone instantly became more formal and efficient the moment George mentioned the position.
In the background, through the phone, George could hear the faint tapping of keyboards and the murmur of a busy corporate office.
“Very well, Mr. Russell,” the woman said as the rapid clicking of keys filtered through the receiver. “The position requires immediate availability. Do you have verifiable experience with infants and young children? The profile strictly requires references in childcare or education.”
George nodded to himself and cleared his throat, determined to keep confidence in his voice.
“Yes, of course,” George replied, slipping naturally into his most professional tone. “I have a degree in Early Childhood Education. I worked with groups of toddlers and young children, and I can provide recommendation letters and references immediately.”
At the words kindergarten teacher, the secretary stopped typing for a second.
After a string of problematic candidates who had quit because of the Verstappen household’s challenges, a certified childcare professional was exactly the type of applicant had been hoping to find.
“Excellent. That’s precisely what Human Resources is prioritizing,” the secretary commented, her tone becoming noticeably warmer. “By management’s instructions, first-round interviews will take place tomorrow afternoon at the main Verstappen Racing Corp building. I’ll schedule you for three o’clock sharp. Please bring a printed résumé, your certifications, and your letters of recommendation. Be punctual. The CEO’s schedule is extremely strict.”
“I’ll be there. Thank you very much for the opportunity,” George replied politely.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Russell. Have a good afternoon.”
The moment the click signaling the end of the call echoed through the receiver, George slowly lowered the phone.
For several seconds, he remained frozen on the couch, processing the fact that he now had one foot inside one of the most influential and secretive corporations in the city.
Alex, who had not taken his eyes off his friend for a moment from the kitchen counter, dropped the dish towel he was holding and hurried into the living room.
“Well?” Alex asked with an eager grin. “Did they hang up on you, or what did they say?”
George released the breath he had been holding.
His pheromones instantly regained their usual sweetness, losing the stale edge of anxiety that had weighed him down all morning.
He looked at his friend with a spark of renewed determination shining in his pale eyes.
“Tomorrow at three in the afternoon, Alex,” he announced, a small but determined smile appearing on his lips. “Executive floor of Verstappen Racing Corp. I need to prepare my best suit, print my kindergarten references, and pray those millionaire children aren’t as terrible as the ad makes them sound.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Alex cheered, clapping his hands in the air. “I told you, Georgie. That job has your name written all over it. Now go pick out your clothes. I’ll print your paperwork while I finish making dinner.”
George rose from the couch feeling that, for the first time since the disastrous firing on Tuesday, the ground beneath his feet was solid once again.