Carissa rushed to the bed. She touched Isadore's pale cheek. His skin was terrifyingly cold under her fingers.

Isadore coughed, a weak, rattling sound from his small chest. He pointed a tiny finger at a bowl of pumpkin soup on the nightstand. "Hungry."

Carissa touched the bowl. Ice cold. She immediately hit the call button.

A young maid entered a minute later, carrying a fresh, steaming bowl of soup. She had a round face and a permanent sneer. She rolled her eyes, slammed the bowl on the table, and left without a word.

Carissa ignored the disrespect. She picked up the heavy silver spoon, scooped up the hot liquid, and blew on it carefully.

She brought it to Isadore's lips. Her eyes were wide with desperate hope. Eat. Get strong.

Isadore swallowed obediently. But his stomach, ravaged by months of chemotherapy, immediately cramped. He winced.

Carissa was too blinded by her anxiety to notice. She quickly scooped another spoonful. And another. "Eat, baby. You have to eat to beat the sickness."

She fed him too fast. Isadore, wanting to please his mother, forced the heavy liquid down. His face turned a sickly gray.

On the fifth spoonful, Isadore gagged. He pushed her hand away and let out a violent retch.

Thick yellow vomit erupted from his mouth. It splashed all over Carissa's shirt and soaked into the pristine white blankets.

The sour, acidic stench filled the room. Isadore curled into a tight ball, his face bright red, sobbing as his stomach convulsed.

Carissa froze in sheer panic. She dropped the bowl. It clattered on the hardwood floor. She grabbed her sleeve to wipe his mouth. "Oh god, Izzy, I'm sorry—"

The nursery door slammed open. Guilford and Dr. Adler rushed in.

Guilford took one look at the vomit-covered bed and his agonizing son. A storm of pure fury exploded in his eyes.

He lunged forward, grabbed Carissa by the arm, and yanked her away from the bed. The sudden force made her stumble backward. Her shoulder slammed into the solid mahogany wardrobe. A sharp cry of pain escaped her lips. The silver spoon clattered across the floor.

Guilford didn't even look at her. He rolled Isadore onto his side to prevent choking, his large hands moving with desperate precision.

Dr. Adler checked the boy's vitals, his stethoscope pressed to Isadore's small chest. After a tense minute, the doctor exhaled. "He's stable. Just severe gastric distress." He shot Carissa a look of deep reprimand over his wire-rimmed glasses.

Guilford spun around. He stalked toward Carissa, stopping inches from her face.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Guilford roared. His voice vibrated the glass in the windows. "Are you trying to kill him?"

Carissa trembled violently, her back throbbing with pain. A hot flash of defensive anger surged in her chest at his accusation, but the moment her eyes darted to Isadore's tear-streaked face, the fire died. The crushing weight of her own mistake suffocated her pride. "I... I just wanted him to eat. I didn't know his stomach couldn't handle it."

Guilford let out a cruel, mocking laugh. "You didn't know? Because you haven't been a mother to him for three years! You come in here, playing the devoted mom, and you almost choke him to death."

Every word twisted in her gut.

"You're as selfish and incompetent now as you were when you sold him," Guilford spat.

Tears spilled down Carissa's cheeks. Her love for her son had just been weaponized against her.

Imogene appeared in the doorway, taking in Carissa's vomit-stained clothes and Guilford's rage. A satisfied smirk played on her pink lips.

Guilford pointed at the door. "Get out. You're not to come within ten feet of him without the doctor present. Get out of my sight."

Carissa looked at Isadore, wanting to apologize, but Guilford's lethal glare pinned her in place.

She lowered her head and walked out of the room under the mocking stares of the gathered staff.

Carissa dragged herself back to the first-floor guest room. She locked the door, slid down the wood paneling, and buried her face in her knees.

She didn't make a sound, but her shoulders shook violently. The image of Isadore vomiting in pain played on a loop in her mind. The guilt was suffocating.

She sat there until the vomit on her shirt dried and crusted. Moving like a zombie, she went into the bathroom and stood under the freezing shower, letting the ice-cold water punish her skin.

She changed into a pair of oversized cotton pajamas. She sat on the edge of the bed as the sun went down.

Dinner time came and went. No one knocked. The entire estate had collectively decided to starve her out.

By ten PM, Alistair stopped outside her door. He delivered two sharp, perfectly spaced knocks. When she didn't answer, his voice drifted through the wood, crisp and professional. "Mr. Gates has other arrangements this evening. You are advised to rest early." The polite dismissal was a masterclass in silent contempt, a reminder of her utter insignificance in this household. Carissa bit her lip until she tasted blood, staring at the wall.

At two AM, the silence of the house was absolute. Carissa's stomach cramped so painfully she doubled over. She had to eat.

She crept out of her room barefoot. The marble floors were freezing under her feet. She navigated the dark, cavernous hallways, relying on her memory to find the central kitchen.

A single dim sconce illuminated the massive room. Carissa opened the heavy stainless-steel door of the Sub-Zero refrigerator. It was packed with Wagyu beef and truffles and fresh produce.

She didn't dare touch the expensive food. She found a squished piece of whole-wheat bread in the back and a bottle of cold water.

She shut the fridge.

"Plotting your next murder attempt?" a dark voice sneered from the shadows.

Carissa gasped. The water bottle dropped from her hand, hitting the rug with a dull thud. She spun around.

Guilford leaned against the marble island. He wore black silk pajama pants and an unbuttoned shirt that exposed his muscled chest. He held a crystal glass of amber whiskey. His dark eyes were bloodshot, radiating a dangerous, exhausted energy.

Carissa stepped back. Her spine pressed against the cold metal of the fridge. She clutched the pathetic piece of bread to her chest.

Guilford's eyes dragged down her body, taking in her bare feet and defensive posture.

"I'm sorry about today," Carissa whispered. Her voice was thick. "I was stupid. I just wanted him to be okay."

Guilford scoffed. He downed the rest of his whiskey and slammed the heavy glass onto the marble counter. The sharp crack made her jump.

He closed the distance between them in three long strides. He planted his hands on the fridge on either side of her head, caging her in. He smelled of alcohol and raw heat.

He grabbed her chin, his fingers rough, forcing her to look up at him. "Drop the victim act, Carissa. It doesn't work on me anymore."

Carissa stared into his dark, furious eyes. Her own eyes were red, but she refused to cry. "What do I have to do to make you believe me?"

Guilford's gaze dropped to her trembling, slightly parted lips. The air between them thickened. His breathing hitched.

For a split second, Carissa thought he was going to kiss her. Or strangle her.

Guilford suddenly jerked his hand back as if she had burned him. He took two steps away, his chest heaving.

"Eat your garbage and go back to your room," he ordered, his voice harsh and ragged.

He turned and stalked out of the kitchen, his retreat looking almost like a panicked escape.

Carissa slid down the fridge, gasping for air. She looked at the crushed bread in her hand, took a bite, and let the tears finally fall in the dark.