The champagne glasses were still rattling when the two-year-old bolted across the marble floor—straight at me. In front of fifty rich strangers, he wrapped his arms around my legs and sobbed, “Mommy!” The room detonated

“Here is exactly where,” she shot back. “So I can hear you lie.”

Elliot started crying again, frantic. I knelt without thinking. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He grabbed my collar and whispered, “You sang the moon song.”

My vision blurred. A child doesn’t say that unless he’s heard it—again and again—until it becomes comfort.

Celeste’s eyes sharpened. “Moon song?”

“He’s tired,” I said quickly. “Kids get attached.”

But Julian wasn’t confused. He was remembering.

A guest muttered, “This is going to cost him.”

Julian snapped, “Leave. All of you.” Not a request.

Security cleared the room. Phones vanished too late. One clip was enough.

Celeste turned back to me, voice icy. “Who paid you to come here?”

“No one,” I said, anger finally pushing past fear. “I didn’t even want this shift.”

Julian whispered, “Mara, please.”

Celeste froze. “So that’s her name,” she said softly. “Why isn’t it on her badge?”

Elliot held up the bracelet again. Julian stared at it like a weapon.

“That bracelet—” Celeste began.

“It’s from St. Anne’s,” Julian cut in hoarsely.

My heart slammed. “How do you know that hospital?”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wet. “Because that night… I was there.”