Naomi held him tighter. “That mattress is infested. He’s been bitten—every night.”
“I said put him down!”
“He’s in pain,” Naomi cried. “How could you ignore this?”
“That mattress cost $1,400,” Eleanor snapped. “Organic. Hypoallergenic.”
“Look at it!” Naomi gestured. For a moment, Eleanor’s composure cracked—then snapped back.
“We bought it new.”
“When?” Naomi asked.
Silence.
“You bought it secondhand,” Naomi said quietly. “To save money.”
“It was a deal,” Eleanor whispered. “We were overwhelmed. Everything was expensive.”
“You live in a ten-million-dollar house,” Naomi said. “And your baby slept on rot?”
Eleanor’s face hardened. “Watch your place. You’re staff.”
“No,” Naomi replied calmly. “I’m the only one protecting him.”
She walked past her.
“Stop!” Eleanor shrieked. “You can’t take him!”
Naomi turned. “If you try, these photos go to CPS and the media tonight.”
Eleanor went white.
Naomi took Oliver to her small staff room—plain, clean, safe. She built a nest of towels on her bed and laid him down.
For the first time, he slept.
At dawn, the door flew open.
Thomas Caldwell stood there, furious.
“You’re fired.”
“After I call CPS,” Naomi said.
“You think they’ll believe you?”