Chapter 4 - What the Darkness Saw
The screen flickered to life. The high-definition timestamp read 09:14 AM from that very morning, shortly after Jary had left for an emergency board meeting.
On the screen, Clare walked into the sunlit nursery. She wasn’t wearing her sweet, maternal smile. Her face was contorted into an ugly scowl. Noah was crying in his crib, hungry and wet. Instead of picking him up, Clare snatched a bottle from the warmer, shook it violently, and shoved the plastic nipple into the infant’s mouth so forcefully the baby gagged, coughing and thrashing.
“Shut up,” Clare’s voice came through the high-fidelity audio, sharp as broken glass. “Shut up, you little parasite. If you ruin my silk blouse, I swear to God I’ll leave you in that crib until tomorrow.”
Jary felt the air evacuate his lungs. His knuckles turned stark white as he gripped the edge of the desk.
The video fast-forwarded. At 11:30 AM, Clare grew irritated by Eli’s whimpering. She walked over to the changing table, pulled a small brown dropper bottle from her designer handbag, and squeezed three drops of clear liquid into both babies’ water cups.
Sedatives.
Jary’s stomach violently lurched. He watched in sickened horror as Clare wedged a heavy wooden doorstop beneath the outside of the nursery door, turned off the baby monitor on her vanity, and walked toward the terrace with a bottle of wine, leaving his sons in total darkness.
The video jumped again to 1:45 PM. The sedative had clearly worn off early. The twins were screaming, their cries escalating into breathless, ragged shrieks.
Then, the nursery door rattled.
The lock held, but someone outside pushed hard against the frame. After several heavy thuds, the wooden wedge gave way. The door swung open, revealing Olivia.
Jary leaned in closer, tears of fury and heartbreak blurring his vision.
On the screen, Olivia didn’t look around suspiciously or hesitate. She dropped her mop bucket and rushed to the cribs. When she saw Eli’s pale, sweat-soaked face, she gasped. She immediately stripped their soiled clothes, cleaned them with warm wet cloths, and held both shaking infants against her chest, rocking them back and forth.
“Shh, sweet babies,” Olivia’s voice came through the speaker, singing an old, gentle hymn. “Mama’s gone to the angels, but nobody’s gonna hurt you while Olivia is here. You hear me? Nobody.”
She had sat on the floor between the two cribs for two solid hours, comforting them, before strapping them into the double carrier because she had to finish her cleaning duties or risk being fired.
May you like
Jary slammed his laptop shut. A terrifying, volcanic rage tore through his chest, followed immediately by a wave of crushing guilt that brought the billionaire CEO to his knees on the Persian rug.
He had trusted a viper in designer clothes. And he had reprimanded an angel dressed in an orange maid’s apron.
