Dust floated through the air like gray snow. She made a small bed for them in a guest bathroom—the only room with cleaner air.
“Carmen wants me to fail,” she whispered to herself. “But I won’t give her that.”
She worked nonstop.
Vacuuming. Sweeping. Mopping.
Every twenty minutes she ran back to check the boys’ fever, pressing cool towels to their heads.
During her five-minute breaks, she didn’t check social media.
She opened her notebook.
“Moving averages show trends… cash flow… opportunity cost…” she whispered softly.
No one in that mansion knew the cleaning woman was secretly studying finance at night. She dreamed of finishing college. Of giving her sons a life that didn’t depend on anyone’s mercy.
But fever doesn’t care about dreams.
At 1:30 p.m., Ethan vomited.
Lucas began crying so loudly the sound echoed through the empty wing.
Carmen appeared almost instantly.
“I told you to keep them quiet.”
“They need a hospital,” Mariana pleaded.
Carmen leaned closer, her expensive perfume thick in the air.
“What you need is discipline.”
Then she did something that froze Mariana’s blood.
She slammed the bathroom door shut.
Click.
The lock turned.