The silence in the bathroom was absolute.

Matteo held the small white pharmacy bag in one hand and the second prescription bottle in the other. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The quiet authority radiating from him was far more terrifying than a shout.

"Who is Eleanor Vale?" Matteo asked.

Alessandra’s face had drained of color. The elegant, confident woman who had mocked me at the dinner table was gone, replaced by someone rigid with panic.

"She’s nobody," Alessandra said, her voice trembling. "It’s a mistake, Matteo. The pharmacy must have mixed up the bags."

"The pharmacy didn’t print this label," I said quietly.

Alessandra spun toward me. "Shut your mouth, Claire. You’ve done enough."

"She’s answered my questions," Matteo said. His eyes never left his fiancée. "Now you’re going to answer mine. My mother just said a woman named Vale visited this house the night my father died. Two years ago."

Mrs. Romano wheeled herself closer to the doorway. Her silver hair caught the light from the hallway, but her eyes were dark with memory.

"She came to the service entrance," Mrs. Romano said softly. "It was raining. She was crying hysterically, asking for my husband. You intercepted her, Alessandra. You told me she was a charity case. Ten minutes later, my husband fell from the balcony."

I felt a cold chill run down my spine.

Matteo’s father’s death had been ruled a tragic accident. A slip on wet marble during a storm. I had only read about it in the papers long before I took this job.

"It was a charity case!" Alessandra insisted, stepping toward Matteo. She reached for his arm, but he subtly shifted his weight, denying her the touch. "Her name is Eleanor. She’s... she’s my younger sister."

The revelation hung in the air.

Matteo frowned. "You told me you were an only child."

"She’s sick, Matteo," Alessandra said, the tears finally spilling over. "She struggles with addiction. Severe mental health issues. My family cut ties with her years ago to protect ourselves. I didn’t tell you because I was ashamed."

It was a good lie. It sounded emotional, painful, and deeply personal.

But I had spent two years in nursing school studying addiction and psychiatric care.

"If she struggles with addiction," I said, my voice cutting through her tears, "why is her name on a prescription for a high-dose blood thinner?"

Alessandra froze.

Matteo looked at the bottle in his hand. He read the chemical name. It wasn't a sedative. It wasn't a psychiatric drug. It was a powerful anticoagulant.

The exact medication Mrs. Romano took for her heart condition. Just at double the dose.

If Mrs. Romano had taken it tonight, her blood would have thinned to a dangerous level. A simple bump, a minor fall, or even a nosebleed could have been fatal.

"Alessandra," Matteo said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Did you plan to switch my mother’s medication to make her sick?"

"No!" Alessandra sobbed, backing against the vanity. "Matteo, I swear to God. Eleanor is sick. She has a heart condition. I was just picking up her medication and it got mixed up in my bag. I swear it!"

Matteo didn't blink. He handed the bottle to his head of security, a broad-shouldered man named Luca.

"Find Eleanor Vale," Matteo ordered. "Check every hospital, every clinic, and every private facility in the state. I want to know where she is by midnight."

"Yes, sir," Luca said, stepping out of the room.

Alessandra let out a shaky breath, clearly thinking she had bought herself time. "Matteo, please. Let me explain everything in private."

Matteo ignored her. He looked at me. "Claire, pack a bag for my mother. She’s not staying in this house tonight."

"Of course, Mr. Romano."

"And Claire?"

I looked up.

"You’re coming with us."

Thirty minutes later, the dinner party had been abruptly dismissed. The mansion was eerily quiet as I carried Mrs. Romano’s leather overnight bag down the grand staircase.

Matteo was standing in the foyer, putting on a dark wool overcoat.

Alessandra was nowhere to be seen. I assumed Matteo had ordered her to stay in her wing of the house.

As I reached the bottom step, I noticed something resting on the polished mahogany console table near the front door. It was Alessandra’s designer clutch, left behind in her panic.

The clasp was slightly open.

I shouldn't have looked. It wasn't my place. But my heart was pounding, and the instinct that had saved Mrs. Romano tonight pushed me forward.

I nudged the clutch open a fraction of an inch.

Inside, tucked between a compact mirror and a tube of lipstick, was a folded piece of heavy parchment. It wasn't a pharmacy receipt.

I glanced at Matteo. His back was turned, speaking quietly to his security team.

I slipped the paper out and unfolded it.

It was a child’s drawing.

Rendered in bright, frantic crayons, it showed a large house with a balcony. A stick figure was falling from the balcony. Standing at the top, looking down, was another figure.

The figure on the balcony had a thick scribble of yellow crayon for hair.

Alessandra had blonde hair.

But it was the words written in clumsy, childlike block letters at the bottom that made my blood run cold.

MOMMY PUSHED HIM.

I gasped softly.

Suddenly, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.

"What did you find, Claire?" Matteo asked.