Sophie Laurent sat at the small desk in the nursery, her fingers hovering over her phone. The text prompt from Lady Beatrice was blinking: *Report status. Is he neglecting the child?*
Sophie looked at Leo, sleeping soundly in his crib. William wasn’t neglecting him; he was simply a ghost haunting his own house. But Beatrice didn’t want the truth; she wanted ammunition.
Guilt, heavy and suffocating, clawed at Sophie’s throat. She wasn’t a spy by nature.
*Six months ago.*
The memory washed over her. The fluorescent lights of the hospital billing department were buzzing. Sophie held a stack of “Final Notice” letters. Her father’s cardiac surgery had been successful, but the cost was astronomical.
“We can’t offer another extension, Ms. Laurent,” the administrator had said coldly. “We will have to transfer this to collections.”
That afternoon, Lady Beatrice had appeared in the waiting room like a dark angel. She didn’t offer sympathy; she offered a transaction.
“I will pay the debt in full,” Beatrice had said, placing a check on the plastic chair. “And I will pay for your father’s rehabilitation. In exchange, you will apply for a position at the Croft penthouse. You will be my eyes and ears. I intend to save my great-grandson from his incompetent father, and you are going to help me.”
Sophie had looked at the check, then at her father sleeping in the ICU. She had taken the money.
Back in the penthouse, Sophie typed a reply to Beatrice: *He is working late. The child is asleep.* She hit send, hating herself for selling her integrity to save her father.