Victor stepped out from the shadows. He didn’t raise his voice, but a single look was enough to make Margaret retreat, her dignity wounded. Her heels clicked sharply down the hall like a metronome of suppressed fury.
In his office, Victor made Clara wait in silence, as if measuring her nerve. She didn’t look down.
“Fifteen specialists,” he said finally. “All paid. None helped. If you’re here to waste my time—”
“Threatening me won’t ease your son’s pain,” Clara cut in. “I didn’t come for your money. I came for Ethan. Let me work, or I leave now.”
For the first time in hours, something shifted in Victor’s expression—surprise.
The door burst open. Isabella rushed in, eyes swollen.
“Please,” she said, her voice breaking. “Help him.”
Clara gently held her by the shoulders.
“I’ll do everything I can. But I need one hour alone with him. No cameras. No one outside the door. No interruptions.”
Victor hesitated… then nodded.
“One hour.”
Ethan’s room looked like a curated sanctuary—designer furniture, imported toys, embroidered blankets, soft scents drifting from a hidden diffuser.
And in the center of it all, the baby—red, sweating, his cry no longer just sound, but something raw and torn open.