So I faked a trip and watched from the security room.
For fifteen minutes, everything was peaceful. Then Chloe walked in, and the elegant woman I knew vanished into something cold. She called my daughters “brats.” She ripped six-year-old Sofia’s stuffed rabbit — her late mother’s last gift — from her hands. She told them, “When your father isn’t here, what I say goes.”
And my daughters didn’t look surprised. They looked conditioned.
Marisol stepped between them and Chloe. “Do not touch her.”
I stood straight up out of my chair.
Because I’d spent three months suspecting the wrong woman. The danger in my house wasn’t the housekeeper.
It was the woman I was about to marry.
PART 2
