You’ll regret this!” Celeste grabbed the flower VASE— and struck Elena while she was still protecting 12-month-old Oliver. Seconds earlier, Celeste had snatched the baby’s toy and made him burst into tears.

The silence in the foyer was heavier than thunder.

Damian stood at the threshold of the living room, his leather briefcase slipping from his fingers and landing with a dull thud against the hardwood. His suit jacket was damp from the autumn drizzle outside, but the ice settling in his chest had nothing to do with the weather.

In front of him lay a scene of absolute ruin.

The heavy crystal vase—a wedding gift Damian’s late mother had passed down to him—lay shattered in dozens of sharp, jagged shards across the Persian rug. Stagnant water and crushed white lilies soaked into the fabric, turning dark and muddy.

Beside the ruined sofa, Elena was on her knees, shielding twelve-month-old Oliver with her entire body. A thin, terrifying trickle of crimson blood was winding its way down her forehead, dripping off her jawline, and staining the collar of her beige sweater. Yet, her arms were locked around the crying baby like iron bands, her back turned to the threat, refusing to let a single piece of flying glass touch his skin.

And standing three feet away, panting, her eyes wild with an unstable mix of rage and sudden panic, was Celeste.

Celeste’s hand was still half-raised in the air, her knuckles red from the force of the strike. The heavy gold bracelet on her wrist glinted under the chandelier light.

“Damian!” Celeste gasped, her voice instantly shifting from an aggressive snarl into a high-pitched, breathless sob. She took two frantic steps toward him, clutching her cheek where a faint red handprint was beginning to bloom. “Oh thank God you’re home! She... she’s crazy, Damian! She attacked me!”

Damian didn't look at Celeste. He didn't answer her.

His eyes were fixed entirely on the red stain spreading down Elena’s neck and the frantic, terrified screams of his baby boy.

In three long strides, Damian crossed the room. He dropped to his knees beside Elena, his hands hovering over her trembling shoulders, afraid that touching her might cause more pain.

“Elena,” Damian breathed, his voice raw, shaking with a terror he hadn't felt since the day his wife passed away in the hospital emergency room. “Elena, look at me. Are you alright? Where are you hurt?”

Elena lifted her head slowly. Her face was pale, her breath coming in shallow, painful gasps, but her hands never loosened their protective grip on Oliver. She pressed the sleeve of her sweater against the gash on her forehead, wincing as the wool hit the open wound.

“He’s... he’s okay,” Elena whispered, her voice barely audible over Oliver’s cries. She turned Oliver toward Damian, checking his arms, his legs, his tiny face. “I covered his head. The glass didn't touch him, Damian. He’s safe.”

Hearing his father’s voice, little Oliver reached his chubby, tear-stained arms out, sobbing hysterically. Damian scooped his son into his left arm, pulling him tight against his chest, while using his right hand to gently cup the back of Elena’s neck, supporting her as she swayed.

“You’re bleeding,” Damian said, his thumb wiping a drop of crimson from her cheek. “Dammit, Elena, you’re bleeding heavily.”

“It’s just a cut,” Elena lied faintly, trying to stand up, but her knees buckled under her.

Behind them, Celeste let out a theatrical, indignant gasp. She stomped her designer heel against the floor, tears streaming down her carefully painted face.

“Are you seriously comforting her?!” Celeste shrieked, pointing a shaking, manicured finger at Elena. “Damian, look at my face! She slapped me! She threw herself into the table to make it look like I hurt her! I came over here just to drop off Oliver’s new clothes, and she flew into a jealous rage! She snatched Oliver’s toy, made him cry, and when I tried to comfort him, she hit me!”

Damian slowly stood up, carrying Oliver on his hip while helping Elena steady herself against the arm of the sofa.

He turned toward Celeste.

The warmth that Damian usually possessed—the gentle, patient demeanor of a loving father and a successful businessman—had vanished completely. His dark gray eyes were hollow, cold, and utterly terrifying.

“Celeste,” Damian said softly. His tone was so flat, so utterly devoid of emotion, that it made the hairs on the back of Celeste’s neck stand up. “Shut up.”

Celeste blinked, stunned. “W-what?”

“I said shut your mouth,” Damian repeated, taking a step toward her. “I can hear my son screaming. I can see Elena’s blood on my floor. And I can see your hand trembling.”

“I’m trembling because I was assaulted!” Celeste cried desperately, reaching out to touch Damian’s arm. “Damian, we’ve known each other for five years! I was your late wife’s best friend! Why would I ever hurt Oliver? You know how much I love that baby! I want to be his mother!”

Elena leaned heavily against the sofa, pressing a clean linen napkin to her forehead. She looked at Celeste with a cold, unwavering clarity.

“You took his stuffed bear, Celeste,” Elena said, her voice steady despite her injury. “He was playing on the rug. You snatched it out of his hands and shoved him down because he wouldn't look at you. When he started crying, you laughed and told him he was a weak brat just like his mother.”

“That’s a lie!” Celeste screamed, her cheeks burning bright crimson. “She’s trying to replace me! She’s just a hired nanny, Damian! She’s trying to poison your mind against me so she can take your money and your house!”

Damian looked down at the floor. He saw the shattered crystal. He saw the white lily petals crushed beneath Celeste’s designer shoe. He saw the tiny stuffed bear lying upside down near the edge of the dining room table—far from where Oliver had been playing.

“Marcus,” Damian called out, his voice raised just enough to echo down the hallway.

A heavy set man in a dark suit—Damian’s personal driver and head of private security—stepped into the living room from the foyer. He took in the blood, the glass, and Celeste’s manic expression in a single second.

“Sir?” Marcus asked calmly.

“Take Elena and Oliver to my car,” Damian commanded, handing his son gently to Marcus. “Drive them directly to Dr. Aris at the city clinic. Have Elena’s head stitched, and have a pediatrician perform a full, comprehensive physical evaluation on Oliver. Every inch of him.”

“No!” Elena protested, taking a step forward. “Damian, I’m not leaving you here with her—”

“Go, Elena,” Damian said, looking into her eyes with a quiet, fierce intensity. “Please. Take care of my son. I will handle this.”

Elena hesitated, seeing the absolute authority in Damian’s eyes. She nodded slowly, wrapping her coat around her shoulders, and followed Marcus out the front door, holding Oliver close to her chest.

The heavy front door clicked shut.

Now, only Damian and Celeste remained in the ruined living room.

Celeste took a deep breath, smoothing her designer coat, trying to regain her composure now that the "hired help" was gone. She walked up to Damian, putting her hands on her hips, her voice softening into a purr.

“Finally,” Celeste sighed, shaking her head. “Damian, I’m sorry you had to see that drama. Nannies these days have no boundaries. She clearly provoked me because she knew you were coming home. But it’s fine now. We can clean this up, call a carpet service, and—”

Damian didn't answer.

Instead, he walked past her, stepping over the shattered glass, and walked directly toward the antique oak cabinet sitting in the corner of the room.

Celeste watched him, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Damian? What are you doing?”

Damian reached behind a stack of hardcover books on the top shelf of the cabinet. His fingers brushed against a small, sleek black cylinder—a 4K wide-angle indoor security lens that had been installed three months ago, tucked behind the carved wood, completely invisible to anyone who didn't know it was there.

Damian pulled out his phone, unlocked the secure cloud application, and tapped the local storage drive.

Celeste’s heart plummeted directly into her stomach. Her breath caught in her throat, her face draining of every single drop of color.

“Damian...” Celeste whispered, her voice suddenly thin, hollow, and terrified. “What... what is that?”

Damian turned to face her, the screen of his phone glowing brightly in the dim light of the room.

“My late wife was paranoid about home safety after Oliver was born,” Damian said softly, his thumbs swiping across the touch screen. “So I had hidden, high-definition cameras installed in every single room of this house. Including this one.”

Celeste’s eyes widened in pure, unadulterated horror. She took an involuntary step backward, her heels catching on the rug.