She picked him up carefully. He kept crying—but softer, as if the world hurt just a little less in her arms.
She placed him back in the crib.
The scream returned instantly. Sharp. Violent.
She lifted him again. Relief.
Lowered him. Pain.
Again.
And again.
Three times.
Then she understood.
The problem wasn’t the baby.
The problem was the crib.
Clara secured Ethan safely on a wide armchair, cushioned with pillows, and began inspecting everything—wood, seams, blankets, pajamas, even the detergent scent.
Everything seemed normal… until she noticed it.
Tucked near the crib’s side lining was a small ivory cushion. Too subtle for such a lavish room. Too out of place.
Embroidered on it in delicate lettering:
Luarte Home.
The moment she brought it closer to Ethan—
He unleashed the most horrifying scream yet.
She pulled it away.
The crying eased.
A cold weight settled in Clara’s stomach.
Isabella stepped in, holding her breath.
“Is… is he crying less?”
Clara raised the cushion slightly.
“Where did this come from?”
Isabella frowned, confused.
“I don’t know. It showed up about two months ago. I thought it was a gift. Things arrive here all the time without cards. Maybe from one of Victor’s contacts… or his mother.”
Two months.
Exactly when the nightmare began.
Clara slipped the cushion into a clinical evidence bag without another word. As she stepped into the hallway, a sharp voice stopped her.
“What do you think you’re doing with that?”
Margaret stood there again.
But this time, she didn’t look offended.
She looked afraid.
“I’m examining everything that touches the child’s skin,” Clara replied calmly.
“That cushion is very expensive. You have no right to damage it.”
Margaret reached for it. Clara held firm.
For a brief, tense moment, they struggled—absurdly out of place in that luxurious corridor.
Then suddenly, Margaret let go.
She took a step back.
And stared at Clara—not like she feared a poor nurse…
…but like she feared what had just been uncovered.
At the end of the hallway, Victor had seen everything.
And for the first time—
his mother’s eyes held no arrogance.
Only fear.