Clara didn’t touch the thick medical file.
She watched him.
She picked him up carefully. He kept crying—but softer, as if the world hurt just a little less in her arms.
She placed him back in the crib.
The scream returned instantly. Sharp. Violent.
She lifted him again. Relief.
Lowered him. Pain.
Again.
And again.
Three times.
Then she understood.
The problem wasn’t the baby.
The problem was the crib.
Clara secured Ethan safely on a wide armchair, cushioned with pillows, and began inspecting everything—wood, seams, blankets, pajamas, even the detergent scent.
Everything seemed normal… until she noticed it.
Tucked near the crib’s side lining was a small ivory cushion. Too subtle for such a lavish room. Too out of place.
Embroidered on it in delicate lettering:
Luarte Home.
The moment she brought it closer to Ethan—
He unleashed the most horrifying scream yet.
She pulled it away.
The crying eased.
A cold weight settled in Clara’s stomach.
Isabella stepped in, holding her breath.
“Is… is he crying less?”
Clara raised the cushion slightly.
“Where did this come from?”
Isabella frowned, confused.