“Margaret, I can’t do this,” he told the head housekeeper, the woman who’d practically raised him. “I’m failing them. They’re hurting, and I can’t stop it.”
I froze on the service stairs.
He dialed again—the number of Dr. Cassandra Hale, the celebrity pediatrician who charged obscene amounts just to answer the phone.
“Doctor, please,” Jonathan begged. “Their fevers are back. They’re burning up. You have to adjust something.”
I couldn’t hear the reply, but I saw Jonathan punch the wall, cracking plaster.
‘Wait it out?’ They’re suffering!”
He slid to the floor, face buried in his hands.
I should have stayed silent. I was just staff. But grief makes you brave—or reckless.
Suddenly Jonathan 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 quiet.
I entered the nursery to clean. It smelled of expensive lotion and antiseptic. The designer cribs looked beautiful—and strangely cold. I picked up a tiny pink onesie and pressed it to my face.
“My little angel,” I whispered, tears falling.
Half an hour later, Jonathan returned—defeated.
