A 40-year-old billionaire had spent more than three million dollars trying to understand why his twin sons kept getting weaker,

The air in the room grew instantly suffocating.

Julianna Vance did not carry herself like a grieving aunt visiting her sick nephews. She carried herself like the mistress of the house waiting for her coronation.

“Claire is the boys’ new nanny, Julianna,” Vincent said coldly, not moving an inch to welcome her. “And the lockdown is a private household matter.”

“A private matter?” Julianna took two steps toward the bed, reaching out a manicured, ruby-tipped hand to touch Leo’s cheek.

The boy flinched. He didn't pull away completely—he was too weak—but his shoulders tensed, and his eyes darted toward me. I noted the reaction immediately. Children don't lie with their bodies. Leo didn't feel safe around his aunt.

“Look at him, Vincent!” Julianna cried, turning back to him with a look of dramatic horror. “He’s burning up! Why haven't you called Harrison? Dr. Blake knows their protocol better than anyone. Moving them down to this drafty guest room is reckless! If Isabella were alive—”

“Isabella is dead,” Vincent cut her off, his voice cracking like a whip. “Do not invoke my wife’s name to lecture me on how to care for my sons.”

Julianna’s lips pressed into a thin, venomous line. She pulled back her hand, smoothing the front of her designer coat. “I am only trying to protect what’s left of my sister’s family. You’ve been running yourself ragged with the acquisition of the logistics firm in Chicago, Vincent. You’re stressed. You’re making erratic decisions. Hiring random women from agencies to replace qualified nurses?”

She shot me a glare dripping with disdain.

“Miss Morgan,” Julianna said, enunciating every syllable. “I suggest you pack your bags and leave before I have private security escort you off the property. The Moretti family does not require charity workers playing Florence Nightingale.”

I didn’t flinch. In my eight years of caring for high-profile children, I had dealt with socialite mothers, hostile step-parents, and entitled relatives who viewed nannies as invisible domestic furniture.

“Miss Vance,” I said evenly, meeting her gaze without blinking. “My contract is with Mr. Moretti, not you. Furthermore, as long as I am responsible for Lucas and Leo’s physical well-being, no one approaches this bed without washing their hands and sanitizing their outerwear. You just came in from a commercial flight, judging by the airline baggage tag still hanging from your handbag. Kindly step away from the children.”

Julianna gasped. “How dare you!”

“She’s right,” Vincent said, stepping directly between Julianna and the bed. “Step back, Julianna.”

Julianna looked at Vincent in utter disbelief. “You’re taking the word of a nanny over Isabella’s sister?”

“I am making decisions for my children,” Vincent replied, his tone final. “Now, why are you here? You weren’t scheduled to return from Paris until next month.”

Julianna smoothed her hair, regaining her composure with disturbing speed. “Dr. Blake called me. He was deeply concerned about your mental state after you brought in an unqualified outsider and threatened to dismiss his medical advice. He asked me to fly in and talk sense into you.”

My blood ran cold.

*Dr. Blake called her.*

The moment Blake left Vincent’s office an hour ago, his first call wasn’t to a lab, or to his clinic. It was to Julianna Vance.

“Harrison is overly communicative,” Vincent said flatly. “I’ll speak to him myself.”

“He’s already on his way,” Julianna smiled—a slow, triumphant curl of her lips. “He’s bringing a specialized pediatric transport team from Mount Sinai. He believes the boys need to be admitted to an inpatient isolation facility immediately. For their own survival, Vincent. He’s filing an emergency guardianship medical petition if you refuse.”

Vincent’s eyes flashed with white-hot fury. “He wouldn’t dare.”

“He would,” Julianna said softly, stepping closer to Vincent, her voice dropping into a purr that made my skin crawl. “Because he cares about these boys. And because he knows... you couldn’t survive losing them, Vincent. Let Harrison handle this. Let me handle the house. You can rest.”

While they spoke, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was an encrypted message from the head of the forensic team Vincent had contacted. Vincent had given them my number to coordinate sample collection.

I glanced down at the screen.

*Preliminary mass spectrometry on the canister contents completed. Compound identified: Solanidine-derived organophosphate mixed with synthetic floral aerosol base. Highly lipophilic neurotoxin. Causes progressive neuromuscular failure, mimics autoimmune juvenile ALS.*

*Note: Requires an oral activating agent to metabolize fully. The aerosol alone only weakens them. They are being fed an ingestible trigger.*

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.

The aerosol wasn't the entire poison. It was only half of it.