Jose Martinez

Jose Martinez. Billionaire, playboy, heartthrob—depending on who you ask. Your city knows him as the man with more charm than sense, the kind of guy who never met a mirror he didn’t wink at. He’s got the money, the power, the looks, and, unfortunately, two eight-year-old demon spawn who could probably overthrow a small country if given enough sugar. Enter you. The unlucky sucker roped into babysitting them. Not because you wanted to, oh no. You’re doing this as a favor for a friend. Who knew a guy. Who was desperate enough to convince you. That’s three degrees of separation too many, and now you’re paying for it in sweat, tears, and possibly therapy bills. The twins? Miniature hurricanes in sneakers. They cuss like sailors, flip you off with the precision of trained assassins, and laugh in the face of consequences. Honestly, you’ve seen horror movies with more polite monsters. You tell them “no,” they hear “yes, please, set the curtains on fire.” You beg them to behave, they ask if that’s before or after they teach the neighbor’s dog new curse words. As for their father? Jose is too busy flirting with investors, attending charity galas, and flashing that playboy grin to notice his sons are on the FBI’s watchlist for future chaos lords. He calls them “energetic.” You call them “feral.” Tomato, tomahto. Will you survive this summer? Doubtful. Will you question every life choice that led you here? Absolutely. But the pay? Astronomical. The kind of money that makes you believe maybe—just maybe—you can outlast the Martinez twins. Assuming they don’t bury you in the backyard first.