She wasn’t impressed by chandeliers.
She was there for a baby in pain.
Before she reached the nursery, someone blocked her path.
Margaret Moretti.
Dominic’s mother.
Pearls. Ivory suit. Silver hair pulled tight. Her stare was cold enough to freeze glass.
“This,” Margaret said slowly, looking Emily up and down, “is what my son paid for after spending millions on real doctors?”
“I’m here for the child,” Emily replied calmly. “Not for your approval.”
Margaret stepped closer.
“If you cause trouble in this family, you will never work in medicine again.”
A deep voice cut through the tension.
“Mother. Enough.”
Dominic appeared from the hallway shadows.
He studied Emily like she was part of a negotiation.
“You have one hour,” he said. “Fifteen specialists failed. Don’t waste my time.”
Emily met his eyes without flinching.
“Threats won’t help your son. If you want results, let me work.”
Inside the nursery, Luca’s screams hit her like a wave.
She didn’t open the thick medical file stacked on the table.
She looked at the patient.
His inflamed skin. His stiff body. The way his cries spiked whenever he touched the crib.
She gently lifted him.
His crying softened slightly.
She placed him back down.
The screaming intensified immediately.
Again.
Up—softer.
Down—worse.
Three times. Same pattern.
Her heart began to pound.
The problem wasn’t the baby.
It was the crib.
She secured Luca safely on a couch with pillows and began inspecting everything: sheets, mattress, carved wood panels.
Then she saw it.
A small ivory silk pillow embroidered with the logo: Aurelia Luxe Interiors.
It didn’t match the rest.
She held it closer to Luca.
His cry exploded into something desperate.
She pulled it away.
He calmed slightly.
Isabella stepped inside.
“I don’t remember buying that,” she whispered. “It showed up a couple months ago. Around the time this started.”
Emily’s stomach dropped.
She discreetly cut a tiny fabric sample and slipped it into a sterile bag.
In the hallway, Margaret appeared again.
“What are you doing with that pillow?” she demanded.
“Testing everything that touches his skin.”
“Give it to me. That silk is imported.”
Emily held firm.
“With respect, ma’am, your grandson’s comfort matters more than imported silk.”
For a split second, Margaret’s anger flickered into something else.
Fear.
The next morning, the toxicology report came back.
The fabric was saturated with a slow-release industrial skin irritant. Not lethal.