The moment his head touched the pillow, Leo’s body arched as if shocked by electricity. A scream ripped from his throat—not a tantrum, not defiance, but pure pain. His hands clawed upward, trying to lift his head as tears streamed down his already red face.
“No, Dad! Please! It hurts! It hurts!” he sobbed.
James, blinded by exhaustion and outside influence, saw only misbehavior.
“Stop exaggerating,” he muttered. “Always the same drama.”
He locked the door from the outside and walked away, convinced he was enforcing discipline—never noticing the quiet figure who had witnessed everything.
Standing in the shadows was Clara.
Clara was the new nanny, though everyone called her Mrs. Clara. Gray hair pulled into a simple bun, hands worn by years of work, and eyes that missed nothing. She had no degrees, no office—but she knew children’s cries better than most professionals. And what she had just heard was not the cry of a spoiled child. It was the cry of someone being hurt.