“Evelyn, I can’t do this,” he said to the head housekeeper, the woman who had practically raised him. “I’m failing them. They’re hurting, and I can’t fix it.”
I froze on the service stairs.
He dialed again—the number of Dr. Vivian Cross, the celebrity pediatrician who charged obscene fees just to answer the phone.
“Doctor, please,” Nicholas begged. “The fevers are back. They’re burning up. You have to change something.”
I couldn’t hear the reply, but I saw Nicholas punch the wall, cracking the plaster.
“Wait it out?” he shouted. “They’re suffering!”
He slid down, burying his face in his hands.
I should have stayed silent. I was just staff. But grief makes you brave—or reckless.
Suddenly Nicholas stood and rushed into the nursery.
“I’m taking them to the ER. I don’t care what she says.”
He left with the twins. The door slammed, leaving behind a thick, suffocating stillness.
I entered the nursery to clean. It smelled of expensive lotion and antiseptic. The designer cribs were beautiful—and strangely cold. I picked up a tiny pink onesie and pressed it to my face.
“My sweet boy,” I whispered, tears falling.
Half an hour later, Nicholas returned—defeated.