The truth finally revealed itself at 8:00 PM.
Elena had slipped into the kitchen shadows, watching Brooke—the young, brunette “specialized nurse”—prepare Caleb’s evening meal. Brooke didn’t reach for the prescribed formula. Instead, she stirred a crushed white powder into a silver bowl. Then, she did something entirely chilling: she pulled on a pair of thick, bright yellow rubber cleaning gloves.
You don’t wear heavy-duty chemical gloves to feed a baby. Not unless the food burns bare skin.
Elena didn’t scream. She sprinted to the study, grabbing Harrison by the arm and dragging him away from his spreadsheets. “Don’t speak,” she ordered. “Just look.”
Harrison stepped into the shadows of the luxury dining room. Beneath the glow of the crystal chandelier, at the edge of the long wooden table, Brooke sat with the blanket-wrapped infant.
“Good boy,” Brooke cooed softly, completely unbothered, using the spoon to wipe Caleb’s cheek. The baby let out a soft, fragile *“Ah… Uh.”*
Harrison froze. His eyes locked onto those glaring yellow rubber gloves. The horrific realization of what his fiancée had brought into his home hit him like a freight train. He clamped a hand violently over his mouth, his face going pale as pure shock paralyzed his body.
“Wait,” Harrison choked out, his voice trembling with panic. *”What exactly is she giving him?”*
Brooke, completely oblivious, ignored his voice and kept smiling at the child.
But Elena stepped forward, her voice like ice. “She thinks she’s giving him the slow-acting corrosive Vanessa bought to guarantee she inherits your estate.”
Harrison spun around. “What?!”
“Don’t panic, Mr. Whitmore,” Elena whispered, pulling a small, toxic-laced vial from her apron. “I swapped the bowls twenty minutes ago. Caleb is just eating pureed pears.” Elena’s dark eyes shifted slowly toward the grand staircase. “But Vanessa always demands her special evening tea at eight…”
Right on cue, a blood-curdling scream echoed from the master bedroom upstairs.