Chapter 1: The Wrong Cry
The Baby Cried In The Nursery—But The Stepmother Saw Him As The Child Who Stole Her Life.
Not the soft, hungry cry Leo made when he needed his bottle. Not the sleepy little whimper that drifted through the wall after midnight.
This was different.
This was pure, unmasked terror.
I stopped halfway down the upstairs corridor. Beneath my feet, the mansion hummed with the party below. Crystal glasses chimed in the dining room. Laughter rose from the grand staircase. The orchestra played something light and lovely out in the garden, as if nothing terrible could ever happen inside these walls.
But above all of it, my son screamed.
“Leo?”
No answer. Only more crying. Sharp. Frantic.
Ice flooded my veins. I strode toward the nursery first. The door stood wide open. The crib was empty. His blue blanket lay twisted across the mattress. His silver rattle rested abandoned on the floor.
Then I saw it.
A thin, shining line of water, sliding slowly out from beneath the bathroom door at the far end of the hall. It moved across the marble, catching the chandelier light in broken, glimmering pieces.
Leo screamed again.
I ran. My dress shoes skidded on the wet marble, but I caught myself against the wall and kept going. My heart hammered so hard I could hear it over the rushing water.
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“Leo!”
I shoved the door open and froze.
