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."