The baby’s screams echoed through the marble hallways of the Caldwell mansion at 3:00 a.m.—again.
Emily Carter pressed her palm against the nursery door. Her plain black-and-white maid’s uniform was still crisp despite the late hour, the white apron tied tightly at her waist. At 29 years old, she had worked in this house for six months, and she had never heard crying like this.
It wasn’t normal.
It was raw.
Desperate.
Almost animal.
“Emily.”
The voice cut through the hallway.
Margaret Caldwell, the millionaire’s wife, stood behind her in a silk robe, diamond earrings catching the chandelier’s light. Her face was drawn tight—not just with exhaustion, but irritation… and fear.
“Why is he still crying?” Margaret snapped. “You’re supposed to handle this.”
“I’ve tried everything, Mrs. Caldwell,” Emily said carefully.
Margaret’s lips pressed thin. “I don’t pay you to try. I pay you to succeed. My husband has an important meeting in four hours. Make it stop.”
Emily entered the nursery.
Little Oliver Caldwell, just three weeks old, lay in his gold-framed crib. His tiny body thrashed against pristine white sheets, his face purple with distress.
As Emily lifted him, her breath caught.