After finishing up for the day, I opted not to return to the hotel arranged by the company. Instead, I instructed my agent, Everett, to reschedule all my commitments for the upcoming week. I then drove for four hours, crossing from one city to another, to get back home. The recent business trips had been exhausting, and I had been on the road for two consecutive months.

We've been married for seven years, and our daughter, Sarah, is already six. Thankfully, with Jameson at home looking after her full-time, I could focus on work without any worries.

It was 1 a.m. when I finally arrived home. As I entered, I heard noises from the kitchen and thought we might have an intruder. Grabbing a baseball bat, I cautiously approached the source of the sound, only to find Sarah there. Her hair was a mess, and she was sitting by the fridge, nibbling on a raw carrot stick.

I rushed to her, cradling her little face in my hands, feeling a pang of heartache. "Sarah, didn't you have enough to eat tonight? Why didn't you ask Daddy to fix you a snack?"

Just then, Jameson appeared behind me, his voice filled with surprise. "Chelsea, what are you doing home? I thought you had work tomorrow." He scooped Sarah up into his arms, gently stroking her hair. "The doctor mentioned her digestion's been a bit off lately. We were told to keep her evening meals light."

He planted a kiss on her cheek. "Right, sweetheart? We don't want Mommy worrying." Sarah looked a bit uneasy, her fingers twisting together. "Yes, I can't eat too much; it makes my tummy hurt," she murmured before quickly looking down, avoiding my eyes.

"See how she is," Jameson remarked, "after two months, she’s too shy to talk to you now. You settle her down for the night, and I’ll whip up a bowl of ravioli."

Taking Sarah into my arms, I noticed she felt much lighter, which made me sad. She had lost so much weight. I resolved to personally oversee her meals to ensure she regained her health.

When I laid her on the bed, she suddenly winced, sucking in a sharp breath, her brows furrowing in pain. I quickly lifted her nightdress and saw a patch of bruises on her back, my anger flaring instantly. "Jameson!" I called out, furious.

He hurried in, holding a ladle, concern etched on his face. "What happened?" he asked anxiously.

Pointing at Sarah's back, I demanded, "What are these bruises? I entrusted her to you, and this is what happens?"

My raised voice startled Sarah, and she began to cry, clutching my arm and stammering through her sobs. "Mommy, it's okay. Please don't be mad. It's my fault..."

I quickly embraced her, patting her back gently to comfort her. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Mommy didn’t mean to scare you. Don’t cry, Sarah..."

I then told Jameson to leave the room.

It took over half an hour to calm Sarah down and get her to sleep. I gently wiped away the tears from the corners of her eyes once she was settled.

Heading to the living room, ready to confront Jameson, I was surprised to find him kneeling on a wooden board, looking sheepish. He explained that the bruises were from dance practice and that he'd already taken her to the doctor for ointment, applying it as instructed.

"I didn't want to worry you and disrupt your work, so I didn't mention her injuries," he said. "From now on, I’ll ask the dance teacher to give her easier routines."

His sincerity tempered my anger.

At eight the next morning, the doorbell rang. As I got up to answer it, I glanced at Jameson, still deeply asleep from exhaustion, beside me.

To my surprise, the visitor was Gwen Spencer, Sarah's dance teacher. Her makeup was perfect, and her outfit was stylish and feminine, her neckline even caught my attention. Upon seeing me, she blurted out in surprise, "Chelsea, what are you doing here?"

Look at the way she talks; as if it's not quite normal for me, the lady of the house, to be here. I crossed my arms, feeling slightly taken aback. "Gwen, what brings you here so early in the morning?"

Perhaps sensing the tension in my voice, she replied with a sheepish grin, "Oh, I'm just here to pick up Sarah for her ballet practice. It's on my way to the studio."

My eyes caught a glimpse of her bag, which revealed a pink Hello Kitty bottle that looked exactly like the one I had brought back for Sarah from London.

"For an adult, you've got quite the playful spirit, Gwen."

She shifted her bag uneasily and glanced towards the door. "Chelsea, could you have Sarah come out? I've got more students to pick up today."

Thinking my daughter was probably still asleep, I gestured for Gwen to come in and wait. Just then, a loud alarm went off from the children’s room, and Sarah dashed out, fully dressed with her hair neatly done.

I stood in shock, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was only 8:10. She usually didn't get up until around 8:30. Since when did she become an early bird?

"Morning, Mom, morning, Miss Spencer."

Her young voice rang out, and I didn’t have time to ponder it. I quickly grabbed her little backpack and slipped it onto her shoulders. Then I rushed to the kitchen to grab some milk and a croissant, stuffing them into her bag as she headed out the door.

"Gwen, didn't you bring juice for me today?"

Sarah asked, looking up at Gwen with expectant eyes. Gwen, looking flustered, tugged her towards the elevator. "Uh... I was in such a rush this morning, I completely forgot. I'll bring it next time."

Her guilty expression didn't escape my notice. I quickly changed into something more presentable and discreetly followed Gwen to the dance studio in an old BMW I barely used.

Sarah was at the far end, preparing to change into her ballet outfit and shoes. I immediately spotted a problem!

Last month, for her birthday, I had given her a limited-edition silk dance outfit, which was quite an investment. But now, she had on something rough-textured and dull—a cheap imitation! As for her dance shoes, she winced as she held the stiff, uncomfortable pair, obviously hesitant to wear them.

When she removed her socks, I saw her toes were covered in blisters—red and inflamed!

Throughout practice, Gwen was relentless, treating my daughter harshly with verbal and even physical abuse. She kept swatting her on the back and even kicked her on the backside and thighs.

Barely containing my rage, I recorded five minutes of Gwen's mistreatment on my phone. Then I burst through the studio door, marched up to Gwen, and slapped her hard across the face, leaving her cheek instantly swollen with five distinct marks.

"Who are you? Why are you hitting my mom?" A young girl shouted, rushing over to shield Gwen.

And she was wearing the very dance outfit I had bought for Sarah!

I picked up my daughter, who was miserably curled up behind me, and glared at Gwen. "If you ever mess with my daughter again, you'll regret it!"

I stormed home with my daughter, fuming with anger, and found my husband, Jameson, on the phone. Seeing my furious expression, he quickly hung up and came over to take my handbag.

"What's gotten you so worked up this morning?" he asked, trying to sound soothing.

I burst out, "Take a look at the dance teacher you got for Sarah! She's been mistreating her!"

I thrust my phone into his hand, showing him the video I recorded, then grabbed the first aid kit to tend to my daughter’s back.

Jameson's eyes shifted, clearly trying to defend Gwen Spencer, the dance teacher. "It seems a bit intense, but sometimes strict discipline is necessary. She probably just wants Sarah to improve..."

I picked up the TV remote and hurled it at him, hitting him right on the forehead. "Jameson, are you heartless? She's been hitting our daughter!"

"I paid a lot for Sarah to learn, not to suffer!" The more I looked at him, the angrier I got. While I was out working hard for the family, this was the one responsibility I trusted him with, and he couldn't even handle it.

"Go find a new teacher for Sarah right now. Don’t come back until you do!" Seeing the fire in my eyes, he awkwardly smiled and headed out the door.

"Ouch," my daughter whimpered softly, her body trembling. Quickly, I said, "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I’ll be more gentle..."

Her back was mostly treated now, but still red and sore.

I gently comforted Sarah, asking how Gwen treated her. Her eyes were filled with fear as she shook her head, unwilling to speak.

I took her small hand in mine. "Daddy's not here now, you don’t have to be afraid. Speak up, and Mommy will have your back!"

Only then did she, with a quivering lip, bury herself in my arms and begin to cry. She said Gwen constantly hit her, called her stupid, and took her clothes and shoes to give to her daughter, Aliya, threatening her to keep quiet.

Even the exclusive ballet shoes I customized for her were swapped with knock-offs by Gwen, leaving her toes in so much pain she couldn’t perform on stage.

Recalling Gwen's odd behavior this morning, I immediately opened my laptop and pulled up the home surveillance footage. I had secretly installed hidden cameras when I was concerned about issues with the nanny; no one knew about them besides me.

Since Jameson had volunteered to quit his job to care for Sarah, I hadn't checked the footage since.

Watching the past week's recordings filled me with rage toward Jameson. Gwen had been spiking the orange juice, and after Sarah drank it, she would pass out. Gwen and Jameson then shamelessly indulged themselves on the sofa, the floor, the bed—everywhere—leaving me disgusted.

Worse yet, my daughter would have tremors while unconscious, and those two monsters ignored it! There were times when she fell off chairs, getting injured, which pained me deeply as a mother.

After their disgraceful acts, Jameson would mock me for being all about the money with no flair. Meanwhile, Gwen would stuff my valuable items into her bag and leave.

No wonder some of my handbags and jewelry seemed to have vanished from the closet recently.

I immediately picked up my phone and called a media friend. "Marianna, I need your help with something."