Chapter 3

Emily finally drifted off to sleep, her small hand clutching mine. I carefully slipped away, my heart a cold, hard knot in my chest.

Kevin still wasn't home. No call, no text. Just an empty space beside me in our king-sized bed that felt more like a chasm. His indifference to Emily's supposed cake disaster, his quick dismissal of my concerns – it all felt like a deliberate wall.

Downstairs, the house was quiet. Too quiet.

Maria was in her room, probably asleep, or so I hoped. I didn't want a confrontation. Not yet. Not until I had proof.

I went to my study, the one place Kevin rarely entered, and pulled up the feed from the internal security cameras on my encrypted laptop. The system recorded everything, storing it securely in the cloud.

My hands trembled as I navigated to yesterday's date – Emily's birthday. The day of the "ruined" robot cake.

The kitchen camera. Mid-morning. Maria was there, Emily sitting at the island.

There was no grand, three-tiered robot cake.

Instead, Maria plunked a single, sad-looking supermarket cupcake with a crooked candle in front of Emily.

My daughter's face fell. I saw the disappointment, clear as day.

Then Maria's voice, sharp and laced with a cruelty that made my stomach churn. She was speaking rapidly in Spanish, a language I'd picked up enough of during Innovatech's Latin American expansion to understand.

"Stop that whining, pequeña molestia," she hissed. "Little nuisance. This is what you get. The good cake, the robot cake your mother wasted money on, that's for Leo. He's the future. Not a spoiled brat like you."

Emily flinched, tears welling in her eyes.

Maria leaned in close. "And if you tell your precious mother anything, anything at all, I'll lock you in the dark pantry. You understand? No one will hear you scream."

My breath hitched. I felt sick. This was my home. My child.

The video jumped to later that afternoon. Maria, carefully, expertly, packing the magnificent robot cake – Emily's cake – into a large, insulated carrier. It was pristine. Untouched by any tantrum.

Then, the living room camera. Evening. Emily was listless on the sofa. Maria approached her with a small glass of juice.

"Here's your special night-night juice, sweet girl," Maria cooed, her voice sickeningly sweet now.

Emily hesitated, then drank it. Within minutes, her eyes grew heavy. She slumped against the cushions, deeply asleep.

My blood boiled. The "special sleepy juice."

The footage shifted. Maria, moving like a wraith through my house.

To my walk-in closet. My jaw tightened as I watched her. She wasn't just looking. She was selecting. A Chanel handbag. A diamond necklace I rarely wore. Several of Emily's expensive, unworn designer outfits – including the Parisian bomber jacket. She even took a limited-edition collector's doll I'd bought for Emily's future.

She packed them into a nondescript duffel bag. Methodical. Practiced.

Then, the most disturbing part. The kitchen camera again, late at night.

Kevin finally home. Not tired, not heading to bed as he'd told me.

He was with Maria.

They weren't just talking. He leaned against the counter, she stood close. Too close. His hand was on her arm, then it slid down to her waist. She laughed, a low, intimate sound. He whispered something in her ear. She tilted her head back.

The camera angle wasn't perfect, but the intimacy was undeniable. The betrayal was a physical blow.

Then, they moved out of frame, but the audio picked up their footsteps heading towards Kevin's home office. The door closed. Silence for a long time.

Rage, cold and sharp, pulsed through me.

I fast-forwarded through hours of footage. Theft. Neglect. Emotional abuse. Drugging my child. And an affair with my husband. Under my roof.

It was all there. Irrefutable.

A soft knock on my study door made me jump.

Maria stood there, a glass of milk in her hand. "Ms. Miller? I saw your light. Can't sleep? I brought you some warm milk. My grandmother's recipe for a good night's rest."

Her smile was cloying. The "special sleepy juice" Emily had described.

My mind was a whirlwind of fury, but a chilling calm settled over me.

"Thank you, Maria," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "That's very thoughtful."

I took the glass. I wouldn't drink it. But I needed to know.

When she left, I dipped a finger in and tasted it.

Sweet, milky, with a faint, bitter aftertaste. Chemical.

Within minutes, a wave of dizziness washed over me. My head felt heavy, my thoughts sluggish. Even that tiny sip was potent.

I gripped the edge of my desk, fighting the encroaching drowsiness.

She was drugging me too. Or trying to.

The audacity. The sheer, calculated evil of it.