Chapter 1
Vincent ended his son’s birthday gala before the cake was cut.
Guests were escorted out.
No speeches.
No explanations.
No attempt to salvage the evening.
Leo came first.
Vincent carried him upstairs while Emma followed several steps behind with an ice pack pressed against her cheek.
Celeste and Brandon remained downstairs with attorneys and security.
Neither was locked inside the house.
Neither was allowed near Leo.
Dr. Aaron Feldman arrived twenty-five minutes later.
Leo sat on Vincent’s lap through most of the examination.
The child had no serious injuries.
That sentence gave Vincent less relief than it should have.
There were several fading bruises on Leo’s upper arms and one on his thigh.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing that would have forced an obvious conclusion if seen separately.
Dr. Feldman examined them carefully.
“How did this happen?”
Leo looked toward Emma.
Vincent noticed.
Emma immediately shook her head.
“You don’t have to look at me, sweetheart.”
Leo pressed his face against Vincent’s jacket.
“She gets mad.”
“Who?”
Dr. Feldman asked gently.
Leo whispered:
“Celeste.”
Vincent’s hand tightened around the edge of the chair.
“When?”
“Night.”
“How many nights?”
Leo did not understand the question.
He held up four fingers.
Then two.
Then closed his hand.
Dr. Feldman stopped.
“That’s enough.”
Vincent wanted more.
The doctor could see it.
“He’s three.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t make him build your case.”
That sentence stayed with Vincent.
After the examination, a child psychologist was contacted for the morning.
Leo finally agreed to go to bed only if Emma stayed in the room.
Vincent sat beside him too.
For twenty minutes, Leo watched the door.
Every time footsteps passed in the hallway, his shoulders tightened.
Eventually he fell asleep clutching a stuffed dog against his chest.
Vincent and Emma stepped into the hall.
He looked at her swollen cheek.
“How long?”
Emma lowered the ice pack.
“Mr. Castellano—”
“How long has Celeste been hitting him?”
Emma’s eyes filled.
“I know about six weeks.”
Vincent went completely still.
“Six weeks.”
“I didn’t see the first time.”
“What did you see?”
“She would come upstairs after dinner when you were away.”
“Brandon?”
“Sometimes.”
“What happened?”
Emma looked toward Leo’s closed bedroom door.
“At first she said he needed discipline.”
“For what?”
“Not finishing dinner. Crying. Asking for you. Refusing to kiss her good night.”
Vincent stared at her.
“And then?”
“I started staying later.”
“You were already his evening housekeeper.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Emma looked directly at him.
“I tried.”
The answer hurt more than he expected.
“When?”
“Four times.”
Vincent searched his memory.
There had been messages.
Requests to speak privately.
One note from the household manager saying Emma had “concerns about family boundaries.”
Another time Brandon told him Emma was becoming emotionally attached to Leo and resented Celeste’s authority.
Vincent had believed the interpretation.
Not Emma.
She continued.
“Every time I tried to get directly to you, somebody already knew I was coming.”
“Who?”
“Usually Brandon.”
That explained why Brandon had reached for her so fast in the ballroom.
But not everything.
Vincent asked:
“What did you mean downstairs when you said you kept trying to stop them?”
Emma hesitated.
“Because hitting Leo wasn’t the only thing they were doing.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
May you like
Emma looked toward his office.
“They were making it look like I was the one hurting him.”
