THE PHOTOGRAPHS WEREN’T JUST A LIE—THEY WERE A TRAP, AND I WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO COULD PROVE IT.

I stopped breathing.

Vanessa stepped into the light of the hallway sconce. The diamonds at her throat caught the glare, but her eyes were completely dead. The cheerful, radiant fiancée from the dinner table was gone.

“You’re leaving early, Sophie.” Her voice was smooth, like glass before it shatters.

“Dr. Harris said I should rest,” I managed to say, keeping my hand over my apron pocket.

She tilted her head. The heavy fabric scissors in her right hand gleamed. She wasn’t pointing them at me, just holding them loosely, but the threat was suffocating.

“I was just in the sewing room,” she lied easily. “Adjusting a hem. Did Luca pay you for your silence, or do I need to?”

“Mr. Moretti just wanted to make sure I was okay, Miss Bellini.”

She took a slow step closer. I could smell her expensive perfume—roses and gin.

“You’re a terrible liar, Sophie. Just like your mother.”

My blood ran cold.

I had never mentioned my mother to anyone in this house. My mother had died three years ago, disgraced and broken, after being fired from a wealthy Chicago family she refused to name. I took this job because I was desperate, not because I knew the Morettis.

“How do you know my mother?” my voice shook.

Vanessa smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “I know a lot of things. I know she left you a silver necklace. A little locket with a dent in the back.”

I instinctively touched my collar. The locket was tucked beneath my shirt. I never took it off.

“If you go into my room tomorrow,” Vanessa whispered, leaning in so close I could feel her breath, “I won’t just take your job. I’ll make sure you end up exactly like her.”

She turned and walked back toward the stairs.

I ran out the back door, sprinting through the rain to my small apartment. I locked the deadbolt, shaking uncontrollably.

How did she know about my mother?

The next day at noon, my hands were sweating as I stood outside Vanessa’s private suite. Luca had ensured the house was clear. Vanessa was at her fitting.

I slipped inside.

The room smelled faintly of her perfume. I went straight for the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. My hands trembled as I inserted Luca’s iron key. It turned with a heavy click.

I lifted the lid.

There was no blue coat inside.

Instead, the chest was filled with men’s clothing. Expensive suits. Silk ties.

I frowned, digging deeper. Beneath the suits, my fingers brushed against something stiff. I pulled it out.

It was a piece of construction paper. A child’s drawing in green crayon.

It showed a little boy standing next to a woman with brown hair. At the top, in clumsy, childish letters, it read: To Auntie V.

Auntie V. Vanessa.

But it was the back of the drawing that made my stomach bottom out.

Taped to the cardboard backing was a printed schedule. A medication log.

Leo. 6 years old. Sedative: 10mg nightly. Do not let him speak to the staff.

I gasped. She wasn’t just hiding a child. She was drugging one.

Before I could take a picture with my phone, the bedroom door clicked shut behind me.