Spoilbrat Nanny for my Stepbrother’s Kids

Riley

I woke up to the soft glow of my phone screen, notifications pinging like a private symphony just for me.

Another day in paradise. I stretched across the king-sized bed in my penthouse, the soft silk sheets whispering against my skin, and smiled at the mountain of shopping bags in the corner.

Yesterday’s haul from the new Dior boutique, worth every dollar of Daddy’s black card. Why settle for less when you can have the best?

I am Riley Hart, after all. Twenty-four, untouchable, and living my best life in front of 1.8 million followers. My job? Being fabulous. Posting hauls, rooftop brunches, and vacation diaries from private jets. People ate it up. I was the IT girl every girl desires to be.

The comments always said the same thing: goals, queen, teach me your ways. I tapped out a quick morning story, me pouting in last night’s designer slip dress, caption: Morning from the girl who never settles.

Breakfast was non-negotiable. I called for the driver and slipped into a fresh outfit: a tight little Chanel number that showed off my long legs, paired with Louboutins that clicked satisfyingly against the marble floors. My hair was perfectly highlighted, makeup flawless. I didn’t do “casual.” Casual was for people who had to try.

The rooftop restaurant was my kingdom. Sunlight sparkled off the city skyline as I joined my girls at our usual table. Phones out immediately. I filmed a quick reel, laughing, flipping my hair, making sure the angle caught my new earrings. “Brunch with my faves,” I cooed to the camera. “Living my soft life. You deserve this too, babes.”

The server arrived, a girl around my age in a neat uniform, carrying my avocado toast with truffle oil. She set it down carefully, but I spotted the problem instantly. The drizzle was patchy. Patchy! And the microgreens looked limp.

“Excuse me,” I said, voice sharp enough to cut glass. “This is not what I ordered. I asked for extra truffle oil, generous, not this sad little sprinkle. And these greens? They look like they’ve been sitting out since yesterday. Are you serious right now?”

The server’s smile faltered. “I’m so sorry, Miss Hart. I’ll take it back and have them remake it right away.”

“Remake it?” I laughed, loud and dramatic, making sure the tables around us could hear. “This is supposed to be a luxury spot. Do you even know who I am? I have standards. My followers have standards. Fix this or I’ll make sure everyone knows how terrible the service is here.”

My friends giggled behind their menus, feeding off my energy. I leaned back, crossing my legs, enjoying the power rush. People needed reminders sometimes. I wasn’t just another customer—I was the customer. The one who could make or break a place with one story.

When she brought the new plate, it still wasn’t perfect. I poked at it, then pushed the whole thing away. “This is ridiculous. Call your manager. Now. I want this comped and an apology that actually sounds sincere.”

The manager came rushing over, all apologies and free desserts. But I wasn’t done. I raised my voice, gesturing wildly. “Your staff clearly doesn’t know how to handle important guests. I should post about this right now.” Phones around the restaurant started pointing in my direction. I didn’t care. Let them record. It would only boost my visibility.

I stormed out twenty minutes later without tipping, head high, new bags from an impromptu shopping stop already in the car. Back home, I posted a filtered photo of my “brunch gone wrong” with a vague caption about demanding excellence. Likes flooded in. Perfect.

Then the storm hit.

My phone started exploding. Not with love, but with tags, shares, and angry comments. A video from the restaurant had gone viral. Someone had captured the whole thing: me snapping at the server, rolling my eyes, calling her incompetent, making her visibly upset while I posed for my own camera. The clip was everywhere. Millions of views in hours.

#RileyHartExposed was trending. Clips remixed with dramatic music. Screenshots of my past hauls next to the video. Comments everywhere:

This is why influencers are the worst. Spoiled brat throwing a tantrum over toast.

Imagine being that rude to someone just trying to do their job. Her parents must be embarrassed.

Cancel Riley Hart. She’s never worked a day and acts like the world owes her.

I refreshed obsessively, heart pounding. “They’re just haters,” I told myself, pacing my massive living room in my heels. “Jealous of the life I live. I’ll post an apology video, cute filter, soft lighting. Everyone forgives a pretty girl who says sorry with a smile.”

But the numbers kept climbing. My DMs are filled with hate. Brands that usually tagged me started going silent. Even some of my so-called friends liked supportive posts from the other side. I threw my phone onto the couch and grabbed a new dress from the rack, trying it on in front of the mirror. The fabric felt like armor. I was still Riley Hart. Still on top.

I filmed a quick story from my balcony, wind tousling my hair just right. “Haters gonna hate, but I’m still living my truth. Stay unbothered, queens .” I added a heart emoji and posted it, watching the likes trickle in slower than usual.

Deep down, though, a tiny flicker of unease settled in my chest. This one felt different. Bigger. The comments weren’t dying down, they were multiplying. My carefully curated world of designer everything and effortless glamour was cracking, and for the first time, I wondered how far it would spread.

I poured myself a glass of champagne from the fridge, the bubbles catching the light. Whatever. I’d survived scandals before. This was just another Tuesday.

But as I checked the views again, now over five million, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, the fallout was only beginning.

I woke up the next morning convinced everything would be fine.

Dad had a temper. Everyone in the family knew that. He’d explode, say something dramatic, then calm down by morning. That was how it had always been. He had called me last night. Screaming and shouting that he was tired of my lifestyle and it was negatively affecting his business sticks. He had said he would cut me off.

I didn’t think he really meant it. I was his darling daughter. Last night’s phone call had been intense, sure. But after a good night’s sleep? He would definitely have cooled off.

I stretched lazily across the silk sheets and reached for my phone. Thirty-two missed calls. Hundreds of unread messages. Thousands of notifications. I ignored them all. Problems could wait until after breakfast.

I slipped into a cream-colored silk dress that skimmed my curves perfectly, paired it with my favorite designer heels, and spent nearly an hour perfecting my hair and makeup. If I was going to ap