The crying echoed through the marble corridors of the house like a storm trapped indoors, rising and falling with no mercy, no pause, no sign of surrender. Talia Reed stood near the service hallway with her daughter pressed against her chest, her arms aching, her shoulders tight, and her breath uneven as exhaustion and fear tangled together inside her. She had only worked in this house for three days, and already she felt as though every mistake she made was being carved into stone.
“Ava, please,” she whispered, her voice shaking as she rocked gently from side to side. “Please calm down, sweetheart. Just for a moment.”
The baby did not listen.
Ava’s tiny body trembled with each cry, her face red and wet with tears, her fists clenched as though the world itself had wronged her. The sound carried through the estate in Palm Coast, Florida, bouncing off polished floors and tall ceilings that made everything feel larger, colder, and far less forgiving. Talia had begged the head supervisor to let her bring the baby.
The neighbor who usually watched Ava had been rushed to the hospital that morning, and there had been no one else. Missing her shift would have meant losing the job, and losing the job would have meant losing the apartment, the groceries, and the fragile balance she had fought to maintain since becoming a mother. She tried everything she knew.
She offered a bottle. She hummed softly. She bounced and swayed and whispered promises she prayed she could keep.
Nothing helped. The crying only grew louder. Other staff members exchanged glances that were anything but kind.
A woman folding linens nearby leaned toward another and muttered something under her breath while staring directly at Talia, as if she were an inconvenience that should never have been allowed inside. The air felt tight. Every second stretched.
Talia’s chest burned with panic. Then footsteps sounded from the main staircase. They were slow and heavy, deliberate enough to command attention without effort.
Conversation stopped. Movement froze. Even the whispers died away, though Ava’s cries continued to cut through the silence.
Matthew King appeared at the top of the stairs. He was the owner of the house, a man whose name carried weight far beyond the walls of his estate, known in business circles for calm authority and ruthless precision. Today he wore no jacket, only a dark shirt with sleeves rolled back, yet the presence he carried made the entire space feel smaller.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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