The butler, Mr. Harris, led her inside without ceremony. Clara walked through the grand foyer without glancing at the priceless paintings or the crystal chandelier. She had heard too many cries in overcrowded wards to be impressed by expensive silence.
Halfway down the corridor, she was stopped.
A woman dressed in ivory stood in her path—pearls flawless, disdain older than the house itself. Margaret Ashford, Victor’s mother, carried the scent of expensive perfume and rotting authority.
“This,” Margaret said coldly, “is what you found after spending a fortune? A public hospital nurse?”
Clara met her gaze without blinking.
“I came for the baby, not your opinion.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed, clearly unaccustomed to being answered like that by someone in worn shoes.
“You have no idea where you’re standing.”
“I know there’s a child in pain. That’s enough.”
Margaret stepped closer.
“If you cause trouble, one phone call and you’ll never work in a hospital again.”
Before Clara could respond, a deep voice cut through the hallway.
“Mother. That’s enough.”