Alejandro woke to an unfamiliar sound: silence, followed by soft, contented coos from the nursery.
He rushed in, panic flaring, only to stop short at the sight of Tomás drinking calmly in Juana’s arms.
“What did you do?” Alejandro whispered, disbelief and hope colliding painfully in his chest.
Juana met his gaze steadily, no fear left to hide behind. “I fed him,” she said simply. “Real milk. No needles.”
Alejandro froze. The word echoed, refusing to make sense. “Needles?” he repeated, voice hollow.
Juana pulled the wrapped bottle from her apron and set it on the table between them, unwrapping it slowly.
Alejandro stared, mind unraveling, as steel points glinted back at him from inside his son’s bottle.
The world tilted violently, memories rearranging themselves into something monstrous and undeniable.
Silvia’s voice echoed in his mind, every accusation now transformed into confession.
When Silvia entered the nursery, she found Alejandro standing rigid, the bottle in his shaking hands, Juana beside him like a shield.
For a moment, her mask cracked, just enough, revealing fury beneath the practiced calm.
“You went through my things,” Silvia said coldly, eyes locking on Juana. “That was a mistake.”
“No,” Alejandro said quietly, voice trembling but resolute. “The mistake was trusting you with my son.”
Silvia laughed softly, a sound devoid of warmth. “You would have never believed it without proof. I needed you broken.”
“Broken men are easier to keep,” she continued, eyes glittering. “And children are excellent tools.”
Alejandro felt something inside him finally shatter, not his sanity, but the hold Silvia had cultivated so carefully.
Security arrived minutes later, summoned by Alejandro’s shaking call, while Silvia screamed about betrayal and insanity.
Juana stood silently, holding Tomás close, feeling his steady heartbeat against her chest like a promise fulfilled.
Police reports followed, sterile words struggling to capture the cruelty that hid behind silk dresses and polite smiles.
Silvia was taken away, still protesting innocence, still convinced her manipulation would outlive evidence.
The mansion fell quiet in the days that followed, emptiness replacing tension, as if walls themselves exhaled.
Alejandro sold the house within months, unable to breathe in rooms soaked with deception.
Juana stayed, not as a servant, but as family, because Tomás reached for her first, always.
Years later, Tomás would drink milk without fear, laugh without pain, unaware of how close terror came to defining his life.
But Juana never forgot the weight of that bottle, or the truth hidden inside something meant to nourish.
And every time a baby cried, she listened closely, knowing hunger and horror sound nothing alike.
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