“But you told me everything was sorted. You said, ‘Don’t worry about it, Jane. We’ve got it all covered.’”
Mrs. Smith’s expression hardened. Mr. Smith gazed at me with cold calculation.
“That was before the Johnsons refused to sign a business deal with Craig. That was the entire purpose of the holiday,” he said.
My stomach dropped.
“Mr. Smith and I needed to woo them. So, there’s no need to seem generous now, Jane. You have exactly one week to return the money, or it will be taken from your pay.”
The room tilted. “But… I can’t afford that, Mrs. Smith,” I whispered. “Most of my salary goes to rent and my mother’s medication. I can’t take that away from her. And you didn’t mention anything about paying you back!”
“That’s not our problem, Jane. One week,” Mr. Smith snapped, reaching for a croissant from the tea tray. With a dismissive wave, he ended the conversation.
That night, in my tiny rented room behind their mansion, I lay awake, seething. How could they do this? I needed a plan—fast. Then it struck me: the Smiths’ world revolved around appearances. Reputation was their currency. And I could use that.
The next day, after dropping the kids at school, I created a discreet email account. Carefully, I typed a polite but detailed message about my “experience” working for a wealthy family. I didn’t name names, but there were enough hints—the luxury cars, the children’s schedules, Mrs. Smith’s infamous gold facials—that anyone in their social circle could guess. I sent it to the right people, the very people the Smiths wanted desperately to impress.
By evening, whispers had begun. “Eva asked me if it was true,” I overheard Mrs. Smith hissing into her phone. Within days, the gossip had spread like wildfire.
Still, I wasn’t done.
At the school gates, the other nannies gossiped freely. “Did you hear? Mrs. Smith borrowed an entire Gucci handbag and never gave it back,” one said. I nearly choked. So Mrs. Smith wasn’t just cruel—she was a thief in designer heels.
When she hosted one of her polished luncheons, I knew it was my chance. As I mingled, I dropped subtle comments. “Oh, Mrs. Smith has such a collection. I think she lent out one just like yours recently…” I said to Eva, raising my brows.
Her glass froze midair. “Did she now?”
The whispers turned into accusations, and within days, Mrs. Smith was bombarded with demands to return borrowed items. Her carefully curated façade began to crack.
But reputation wasn’t the only thing collapsing.
One evening, Mr. Smith summoned me to dinner. “It has come to our attention that an anonymous email has gone out,” he said evenly, slicing into his steak. “A disgusting email,” Mrs. Smith spat, clutching her wineglass. “Did you have anything to do with it?”
I shook my head silently, my heart pounding. He smirked. “You’re dismissed. Pack your things. You leave tomorrow.”
And so I did.
I thought it was over—until, a week later, I received a surprising call.
“Jane, dear, can you come over for tea?” Mrs. Johnson asked warmly.
I walked into her lavish sitting room, bracing myself. She looked at me with real concern.
“I heard about what the Smiths did to you. It’s disgraceful. We’ve cut ties with them—and we’d like to offer you a job. Better pay. Better conditions. We need someone like you for our children.”
Tears filled my eyes. “Of course! Thank you so much.”
She smiled. “The boys loved you during the holiday. And anyone who can get Jonathan to eat his peas deserves a medal.”
That day, I stepped into a new chapter of my life. The Smiths lost everything they cared about—their deal, their friends, and their reputation. And I walked away with dignity, justice, and a better future.
Sometimes, karma doesn’t need patience. It just needs the right push.
