“My baby is gone, but my body still thinks she’s alive.” The words barely left my mouth as I pressed a cold washcloth against my chest inside a restroom at St.

My new room was larger than my entire apartment in Queens. It featured vaulted ceilings, a roaring marble fireplace, plush velvet furniture, and a door that connected directly to the nursery where twin wooden cribs stood beneath a hand-painted ceiling.

That night, after feeding Anthony and Lucia, I sat near the window, watching the rain beat against the heavy glass.

I held a small silver locket around my neck—the only thing I had left of my daughter Grace. Inside was her tiny footprint pressed onto white cardstock.

A quiet knock sounded at the connecting door.

Gabriel stepped inside, stripped of his suit jacket, wearing a charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He held a silver tray carrying a covered plate and a tall glass of ice water.

“You haven't eaten,” Gabriel said, setting the tray on the table near my chair. “My personal chef prepared this in front of me. The water is sealed bottle from my private office.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

Gabriel walked over to the cribs, leaning over to check on his sleeping children. The harshness in his face vanished when he looked at them. He reached down, gently stroking Lucia’s tiny cheek with his thumb.

“They look like their mother,” Gabriel said softly, his voice thick with a memory he rarely shared. “Isabella had the same dark hair.”

“They are strong,” I said, walking over to stand on the opposite side of the crib. “They fought to survive today.”

Gabriel looked up at me over the crib railing. “And you fought to save them. Why, Emma? You don't know me. You know what people say about my family.”

“I didn't do it for you, Mr. Moretti,” I said honestly, looking into his dark eyes. “I did it because when my baby died, I felt completely useless. Nursing your children... it’s the only thing making my heart beat right now.”

Gabriel stared at me for a long moment, something deep and unreadable shifting in his dark gaze.

Before he could answer, a floorboard creaked outside in the hallway.

Gabriel turned instantly, his hand dropping toward the small firearm concealed inside his waist holster. He glided to the door, pulled it open without a sound, and stepped into the dim corridor.

A woman stood near the linen closet, holding a armful of fresh towels. It was Martha, the senior housekeeper, who had served the Moretti family for thirty years.

“Mr. Moretti!” Martha gasped, clutching the towels to her chest. “You startled me. I was just bringing extra blankets for the new girl.”

Gabriel didn't move. “The nursery is fully stocked, Martha.”

“I... I wanted to ensure she had everything,” Martha stammered, her eyes darting nervously past Gabriel to me. “Julianna mentioned the girl might need extra care.”

“Miss Vance’s needs are taken care of by me,” Gabriel said coldly. “You will not enter this corridor after eight o'clock without my permission. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Of course,” Martha whimpered, bowing her head and hurrying away down the carpeted hall.

Gabriel closed the door and locked it. He turned back to me, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Martha has been with my family since I was ten years old,” Gabriel muttered, more to himself than to me. “She loved Isabella like a daughter.”

“Poisons are quiet,” I whispered, remembering the warning Vance gave me. “They don't require hatred. Just desperation.”

Gabriel looked at me, his eyes burning in the dim light of the nursery. “Tomorrow, the entire Moretti family arrives for Isabella’s memorial service. The person who poisoned my children will be sitting at my dinner table.”