Chapter 1 - The Diagnosis of the Blind
Dr. Andrews straightened his posture, wearing the smug, patronizing expression of a physician who had already decided the diagnosis before examining the patient.
He turned toward Rory, who stood silently by the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes burning with cold, unyielding tension.
"Mr. Starks, can I speak with you in the hallway for a moment?" Dr. Andrews asked, lowering his voice into a clinical whisper.
Rory stepped out into the hallway, closing the heavy nursery door halfway. "Make it quick."
"I’ve seen this presentation before," Dr. Andrews said smoothly, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. "Post-traumatic stress regression coupled with shared developmental hysteria. The loss of their mother three years ago, combined with a high-stress environment—surrounded by armed security and the heavy atmosphere of this estate—has manifested as a psychosomatic auditory hallucination. Both children are feeding into each other's anxiety."
Rory’s jaw tightened. "Are you telling me my daughters are just imagining it?"
"I’m telling you there is no physical monster, Mr. Starks," the doctor replied, offering a reassuring smile. "I can prescribe a heavy regimen of pediatric sedatives, combined with cognitive behavioral therapy at our inpatient facility in Manhattan. Within a month, the night terrors will cease."
Rory stared at the man for three long, terrifying seconds.
"Sedatives," Rory said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble that made the doctor’s smile falter. "You want to drug six-year-old children into a chemical coma because you're too incompetent to find out why they're screaming in pain every single night?"
"Mr. Starks, I am the director of pediatric neurology—"
"You're dismissed," Rory interrupted, his voice cutting like a razor. "Get out of my house before I have my men throw you down the front stairs."
Dr. Andrews flushed with anger, gathered his medical case, and stormed down the hallway followed by his assistants.
When the front door slammed downstairs, Rory stood alone in the hallway, staring at the closed nursery door. The air felt heavy. The house—his fortress, built with millions of dollars and protected by every modern security system known to mankind—felt like a prison holding his dying children.
Then, a soft sound drifted out from the nursery.
It wasn't a scream. It was a low, melodic hum.
Rory pushed the door open quietly.
Sitting on the floor beside the twins’ bed wasn't a high-priced medical specialist or an armed guard.
It was Maeve.
Maeve Brennan had been hired three days ago through a local agency as a temporary replacement for the kitchen maid who had fallen ill. She was twenty-four years old, with soft amber eyes, chestnut hair tied in a messy braid, and hands that smelled faintly of cinnamon and laundry soap. She wore a simple gray cotton dress and a white apron.
Right now, Maeve wasn't examining the children with diagnostic instruments. She was sitting cross-legged on the rug, holding an old, cracked wooden spoon, gently tapping a rhythm against the side of a tin bucket while humming a quiet, soothing Irish lullaby.
Lily and Rose were leaning toward her, their breathing slowing down as they listened.
Rory stepped into the room, his boots making no sound on the hardwood floor.
"What are you doing?" Rory asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.
Maeve didn't flinch. She finished the verse of her lullaby before turning her head to look up at the billionaire mafia boss whose name made grown men tremble.
"They aren't having night terrors, Mr. Starks," Maeve said softly, her amber eyes steady and unafraid. "And they aren't hallucinating."
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Rory’s breath caught in his throat. "How do you know?"
"Because," Maeve replied, pointing a finger toward the golden-brown teddy bear sitting innocently between the two sleeping girls, "that bear has been whispering to them every night at three o'clock."
