Beryl drove her old Toyota Camry out of the ridiculously expensive parking lot of the hotel and into the rain-soaked streets of Manhattan. Every red light and shrill horn is like a personal attack on her already tense nerves.
However, before she drove far, the mobile phone in her pocket shook.
The screen lit up with a name she never wanted to see again.
Aidan Beaumont.
Her thumb hovered over the red decline button. A part of her screamed to press it, to block his number, to sever this final tie.
But a colder, more practical voice reminded her of her mother. The Beaumonts paid for the basic facility fees, but the mounting "incidental" medical costs and her own secret savings for an escape meant she still had to work every spare hour.
For now, she was still trapped.
With a deep, shuddering breath, she answered. "What?"
There was no greeting. No preamble. Just his voice, cold and imperious, cutting through the line. "I need you to come to the apartment on 72nd Street. The nanny quit, and you're going to watch Chloe for a few hours."
The sheer audacity of it stole her breath. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat. "You cannot be serious. Let me help you take care of your mistress and her illegitimate daughter with another man？ Find someone else, Aidan. I am not her free nanny."
The silence on the other end was heavy, dangerous. When he spoke again, his voice was laced with steel. "The payment for your mother's facility is due tomorrow. It would be a shame if there was a... delay in the transfer."
The threat landed exactly where he intended. A hot, furious shame washed over Beryl. He had her, and he knew it. Her mother's well-being was the one chain she couldn't break.
Her hand tightened on her phone until the plastic creaked. She squeezed her eyes shut, picturing her mother's frail, smiling face.
"I'll be there," she bit out, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.
She can only start the car again, cross the bridge again, and return to the life she desperately wants to escape.
Aidan's apartment was in a sleek, modern high-rise overlooking the East River, a world away from she and her mother ’s place in Queens.
She used the spare key the Beaumonts' lawyer had handed her after the wedding, the one she'd never had a reason to use until now.
The door opened to a scene of domestic drama. Katlin was weeping softly against Aidan's chest while he stroked her hair. On the plush white sofa sat a little girl with dark pigtails, clutching a plush unicorn to her chest. Chloe. She watched the scene before her with wide, deceptively innocent eyes, her small legs swinging idly against the edge of the couch.
When Beryl walked in, Chloe's gaze flicked toward her. For a fraction of a second, something hard and calculating flickered in those young eyes—a flash of territorial hostility. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a sweet, angelic smile.
"My therapist says I need to process this trauma," Katlin sniffled, casting a venomous glance at Beryl. "Seeing you... it brought everything back."
Aidan didn't even look at Beryl. His eyes were fixed on Katlin, his expression a mixture of concern and guilt. "Go to your appointment. Don't worry about a thing. Beryl will handle Chloe."
He knelt down in front of Chloe, his voice softening. "Be good for Miss Beryl, princess. Daddy will be back soon."
Chloe beamed at him. "Yes, Daddy. I'll be really, really good." She hugged her unicorn tighter, the picture of childish obedience.
He steered Katlin towards the door, pausing only to give Beryl a cold, warning look. "Don't mess this up."
The moment the door clicked shut, the little girl's demeanor changed entirely. The saccharine smile evaporated from her face as if it had never existed. The sweet, angelic Chloe vanished, replaced by a glowering miniature tyrant. She picked up the plush unicorn from the sofa and hurled it directly at Beryl's head.
"I don't like you," she announced, her small face twisted in a scowl. "Mommy says you're a bad lady who makes Daddy angry."
Beryl dodged the unicorn, her patience already worn to a nub. She picked it up and placed it back on the white leather couch. "That's fine. You don't have to like me."
This, apparently, was the wrong answer. Chloe let out a piercing shriek and began a campaign of terror. She scribbled on the walls with a purple crayon. She upended a pot of orchids, sending dirt and petals scattering across the polished hardwood floor. She poured a carton of orange juice onto a priceless antique rug.
Beryl cleaned up each mess in grim silence, her jaw clenched. She was a prisoner, and this child was her warden. Every spill, every tantrum, was a turn of the key in the lock. This is for Mom, she repeated to herself, a desperate mantra.
By noon, Chloe was hungry. She refused the grilled cheese Beryl made, shoving the plate onto the floor.
"I want a snack!" she wailed. "Mommy gives me snacks from the tall cupboard!"
Exasperated, Beryl opened the pantry. The shelves were filled with organic, healthy options. But on the very top shelf, almost out of reach, was a bright orange package. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. A peace offering.
"Are you allergic to anything?" Beryl asked, her nurse's instinct flickering through her exhaustion.
"No! Mommy lets me have those!" Chloe pointed insistently at the box.
Beryl glanced at the pantry—surely Katlin wouldn't keep deadly allergens within a child's reach.
She pulled the box down, tore open a cup, and handed it to the sulking child on the couch. "Here. Just be quiet for five minutes."
Chloe snatched it from her hand and began eating greedily, chocolate smearing around her mouth.
Relieved, Beryl turned and went to the kitchen to wash her sticky hands. She had just turned on the faucet when she heard a strange, strangled sound from the living room.
A cough. A harsh, wheezing gasp.
She spun around, her heart instantly seizing with dread.
Chloe was on her feet, the half-eaten chocolate cup on the floor. Her hands were clawing at her throat. Her face was turning a terrifying shade of red, her breaths coming in short, sharp whistles. Angry red welts were blooming across her arms and neck.
Anaphylactic shock.
The world narrowed to a roaring in Beryl's ears. "Chloe!"
She lunged across the room, scooping the gasping child into her arms. Chloe's body was rigid with panic. She couldn't speak, could only make those awful, high-pitched sounds.
Beryl's hands shook so violently she could barely operate her phone. She fumbled, dropped it, picked it up, and finally managed to dial 911.
"Anaphylaxis," she choked out to the operator, forcing herself to recite the address. "A three-year-old girl. She ate peanut butter."
"Is there an EpiPen?" the operator asked calmly.
An EpiPen. Of course. Beryl's mind raced. She'd seen Chloe come in with a small pink backpack. She laid the struggling child on the floor, as she'd learned in a first-aid course years ago, and ripped the backpack open.
It was filled with dolls, crayons, and glitter. No medicine. No life-saving injection. Nothing.
Why would a mother of a child with a deadly allergy not pack an EpiPen? Why would she keep peanut butter cups in the house at all?
The questions were drowned out by the rising shriek of a siren in the street below.
In a few moments，the apartment door burst open and two paramedics rushed in. They took one look at Chloe and moved with swift, practiced efficiency. One of them produced an EpiPen from their kit and plunged it into the child's thigh.
They loaded her onto a small gurney, fitting a tiny oxygen mask over her blotchy face.
"Are you the mother?" one of them asked Beryl.
"No, I'm... I'm the babysitter," she whispered, the words feeling like a confession of guilt.
She followed them numbly, down the elevator, through the lobby, and into the back of the waiting ambulance. The doors slammed shut, sealing her in with the wheezing child and the cacophony of the siren.
She stared at her own hands, clean from the sink but feeling irrevocably stained. She had just tried to buy five minutes of peace. Instead, she might have just killed Aidan Beaumont's daughter.
