Mrs. Harper’s knuckles turned white as she clutched the edge of the linen basket. The towels she had dropped lay scattered across the polished marble like fallen snow, but she didn’t bend down to pick them up.

Mrs. Harper’s knuckles turned white as she clutched the edge of the linen basket. The towels she had dropped lay scattered across the polished marble like fallen snow, but she didn’t bend down to pick them up. Her gaze remained locked on the decorative ventilation grate between Lucas and Leo’s rooms, her pupils dilated with a sudden, shivering terror.

"Mrs. Harper?" Vincent’s voice cut through the heavy silence of the corridor, dropping an octave into authority. "Is something wrong with the ventilation system?"

The housekeeper swallowed hard, her throat visibly tightening. "N-no, Mr. Moretti. Everything is... everything is maintained by the automated staff. I just—the towels startled me."

She dropped her eyes, finally moving to scoop up the linens with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. But I didn't buy the performance. People don't turn the color of skim milk over a dropped stack of towels. They react that way when a ghost they thought they buried suddenly claws its way back to the surface.

"Mrs. Harper," I said, stepping closer, my voice low and steady. "That sweet, artificial smell coming from the vent. Have you noticed it before?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered, her back to us as she crammed the towels into the basket.

"Claire," Vincent interrupted, his hand gently touching my shoulder. "Let's check on the boys. Dr. Blake insists they need absolute quiet, but they should be awake by now."

I nodded, though my mind was racing. As Vincent turned to open Lucas's door, I shot one final glance at Mrs. Harper. She was staring at me from the corner of her eye, and the look she gave me wasn't just fear. It was a warning.

Inside Lucas’s bedroom, the sunlight filtered through heavy, custom-made blackout curtains, casting long shadows across a room that looked more like a clinical ward than a child's sanctuary. Seven-year-old Lucas sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, his skin translucent, dark blue bruises stark beneath his large, exhausted eyes. Next to him, his twin Leo looked equally drained, staring blankly at a tablet screen.

"Hey, guys," Vincent said, his voice instantly softening as he walked over to the bed. The billionaire, who commanded boardrooms and dictated multi-million-dollar real estate deals with a single sentence, melted into a gentle, heartbroken father the second he looked at his sons. "Look who's here. This is Claire. She's going to be staying with us."

Lucas looked up, offering a weak, trembling smile. "Are you another doctor?"

"No," I smiled back, walking over and sitting at the edge of the mattress. "I'm not a doctor. I'm just here to make sure you guys actually get to play, eat good food, and stop letting adults poke you with needles."

Leo blinked slowly, his small voice barely audible. "Dr. Blake poked me three times yesterday. My arm hurts."

My blood ran cold. I looked up at Vincent, whose jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. Eleven months of specialists, three million dollars burned, and these children were being treated like lab rats in their own home.

As Vincent stepped out for a moment to take a hushed phone call regarding his business portfolio, I leaned down close to Lucas.

"Tell me, Lucas," I whispered, keeping my voice light. "Do you guys ever feel funny when you stay in this room? Like... dizzy, or sleepy, or like your throat is dry?"

Lucas nodded slowly. "Always. Especially at night when the AC clicks on. It smells like mommy's perfume, but... bad. Like plastic."