For three months, I had been invisible. To Vivian, I was a shadow in a black uniform expected to absorb dirt, dust, and her explosive malice without leaving a footprint. But as the echo of her hand hitting my skin faded into the cavernous silence of the foyer, something shifted.

"Murdered?" I whispered, my eyes darting back to the medical file on the desk. "The official police report said Rebecca Calloway died in a tragic car accident on the interstate."

"The police report was written by a chief of police who currently owns a three-million-dollar vacation home in Palm Beach paid for by a shell company registered under Vivian’s maiden name," Grant replied, his voice chillingly calm. He stood up and walked over to the window, staring down at the iron gates of the estate where the snow was beginning to fall heavily.

"Vivian wants my empire, Nora. But more than that, she wants my children to be entirely dependent on her, molded into compliant little puppets who will sign away their trust funds the day they turn eighteen. And anyone who stands in her way—starting with Rebecca—meets with 'accidents'."

"Why haven't you exposed her?" I asked, frustration bubbling up. "You’re Grant Calloway! You own half of Chicago!"

"Because power isn't about shouting from the rooftops," Grant turned around, his eyes locking onto mine. "Power is about letting your enemy think they are winning until they make a mistake so catastrophic they can never recover. And Vivian is about to make her biggest mistake."

The next morning, the tension in the Calloway mansion was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Vivian didn't come down for breakfast. Word had spread through the domestic staff that she had spent the entire night screaming in her dressing room after Grant locked her out of the master bedroom.

I prepared breakfast for Lily and Noah in the bright, sunlit kitchen. For the first time in months, the children actually smiled. Lily wore a pink ribbon in her hair—one I had braided for her—and Noah was happily munching on pancakes drenched in maple syrup.

"Nora," Lily whispered, leaning across the table as I poured fresh orange juice into their crystal glasses. "Is Mrs. Vivian going away?"

"She's just staying in her room today, sweetheart," I said, offering a reassuring smile. "Eat your breakfast. Everything is going to be fine."

Just as I set the pitcher down, the kitchen door swung open.

Vivian walked in.

She looked terrifyingly composed. Her honey-blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, her silk robe tied tightly around her waist, and a cold, sinister smile played on her lips. She looked like a queen surveying prisoners about to face the firing squad.

"Well, look at this," Vivian purred, walking slowly toward the table. "The little domestic has turned herself into a nursemaid. How sweet. Playing house must be a nice change of pace for someone who grew up sleeping on a cot in a state-funded basement."

Lily instantly froze, her fork dropping to the plate with a sharp clatter. Noah shrank back into his chair.

I stepped in front of them, blocking Vivian’s path. "Good morning, Mrs. Calloway. The children are eating. If you have instructions for the staff, you can give them to me in the hallway."

Vivian’s eyes narrowed into slits. She didn't look at me; she looked past my shoulder at the glasses of orange juice.

"You think Grant protecting you means you're safe here?" Vivian laughed softly, a dry, grating sound. "Grant is a businessman. He collects things—trophies, companies, stray orphans. The moment he realizes you're a liability, he'll discard you just like he discarded Rebecca."

"Leave," I said, my voice dropping an octave.

"Or what?" Vivian sneered. She suddenly reached out with terrifying speed, grabbing the crystal pitcher of orange juice from the counter. Before I could stop her, she poured a splash of it into a separate, ornate silver chalice that sat on the counter—a chalice reserved exclusively for Grant’s morning tonic.

"Tell my husband," Vivian whispered, her face inches from mine, her eyes glittering with madness, "that his favorite tonic is ready. And tell him that people who poke their noses into things that don't belong to them usually end up choking on their own ambition."

She turned on her heel and glided out of the kitchen before I could process the threat.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I stared at the silver chalice on the counter.

Poison.

The word echoed in my mind with terrifying clarity.

Without thinking, I grabbed a testing kit from my pocket—a chemical strip Grant had given me the night before, part of the emergency security protocols he had installed for my protection. I dipped the strip into the silver chalice.

The color instantly shifted to a violent, toxic purple.