In the silent halls of the Thorne estate, grief echoed louder than anything. I was Alistair Thorne, a billionaire who could engineer takeovers but couldn’t understand why my newborn son Leo screamed in constant pain while his twin, Noah, lay calm. My wife, Seraphina—a world-renowned cellist—had died days after their birth from a “complication” no one explained.
My sister-in-law Beatrice blamed me. Velvet and venom, she pushed for control of the boys—and the Thorne Trust.
Then came Elena, a quiet nursing student who asked only to sleep in the nursery. At Beatrice’s urging, I filled the house with cameras, certain Elena was hiding something.
One night, I finally checked the feed.
In the green glow of infrared, Elena sat between the cribs, holding Leo skin-to-skin, humming a lullaby Seraphina had composed in her final months—never recorded, never shared. No one should have known it.
Then Beatrice entered, slipping something into Noah’s bottle. Elena stopped her calmly: she had already switched the bottles. She’d found the sedative Beatrice had been giving Leo to make him seem unfit—part of a plan to seize guardianship.
And Elena wasn’t just a nanny. She had been the nursing student with Seraphina the night she died. My wife had told her the truth—that Beatrice tampered with her IV—and made her promise to protect the twins.
I ran to the nursery as Beatrice lunged. The cameras captured everything. The police were already on their way.
After the sirens faded, I finally saw clearly: while I built a fortress to hunt enemies, Elena had been quietly saving my sons.
We transformed the Thorne Trust into the Seraphina Foundation to protect vulnerable children.
Now, we don’t watch the cameras. Each night, we sit in the nursery and listen as the boys fall asleep to their mother’s song—still alive in the dark.