Chapter 3

The next morning, Sydney woke naturally, her internal clock working as usual. She pulled open the curtains and found the world outside buried in white.

The forecast hadn't said a word about snow. Yet this wasn't some light dusting—it was a full-on storm. Even through the glass, she could feel the cold.

She changed into a knit dress and had just started washing up when loud noises echoed through the hallway. They were jarring. If she didn't know better, she might've thought a demolition crew had shown up.

"Nancy, what's going on—" Sydney twisted her hair into a loose knot and opened the door, stopping short mid-sentence.

It wasn't a crew. It looked like an invading army had torn through the place. The pristine house was in ruins. Throw pillows that belonged on the downstairs sofa sat by her door, stained with dark brown gunk. A porcelain vase had rolled across the floor and shattered.

The one-million-dollar oil painting in the hallway was ruined.

It was chaos.

Nancy trailed after Timothy, practically pleading, "Timmy, please, don't touch that. That's Ms. Wilson's favorite tea set."

She was too late. He smashed the tea set into pieces.

Timothy stuck out his tongue and huffed like a tiny tyrant. "Blehhh! I wanna play with it! Uncle Caleb said this is my home now. You're just a servant. Who are you to boss me around?"

Then he looked up and locked eyes with Sydney, who stood watching him in silence. His shoulders sank. That scary woman had frightened him so badly the day before that he'd had nightmares of Santa Claus and monsters chasing him.

He hated her and had to get rid of her. His mother once said that once this woman was gone, Caleb would belong only to them.

Sydney's expression stayed calm. "Go ahead. Play. Take your time."

Timothy blinked. "Really?"

He'd just broken her favorite things, and she wasn't angry?

Sydney leaned against the railing with a faint smile and glanced toward the first floor, where Penelope stood pretending not to hear a thing. "Sure. Just don't touch the ink painting in the guest lounge. That's my favorite."

She didn't know whether Penelope had coached him or if Timothy had come up with this mess on his own. Either way, it didn't matter. She wasn't exactly a saint herself. Someone had once taught her that if you're bullied, you hit back ten times harder.

Timothy's eyes lit up.

"Okay!" he shouted and ran off.

Nancy sighed. "Ms. Wilson, you and Mr. Hampton spoil that child too much."

"It's fine," Sydney said calmly. "Don't stop him. He's the Hampton family's only grandson. As long as he's happy, that's all that matters. And Penelope hasn't said a word, has she? We should respect her parenting. If anything goes wrong, neither of us can afford to take the blame."

Nancy nodded reluctantly. "You're too kind for your own good. That's why people think they can walk all over you."

Sydney kept smiling faintly but didn't comment on that. Instead, she asked, "Do we have any spare gift boxes?"

"What kind?"

"Doesn't matter. Just needs to fit something A4-sized."

"There should be some in the storage room," Nancy said. "I'll go check."

Once she had the box, Sydney returned to her room and locked the door. She placed the signed divorce agreement inside and tied the lid with a ribbon, adding a bow for flair.

A loud crash came from downstairs.

Sydney didn't flinch.

She tightened the bow and nodded slightly. 'Beautiful. Perfectly done.'

Moments later, someone pounded on the door.

Nancy's frantic voice called out, "Ms. Wilson, come down quickly! Timmy just ruined Mr. Benjamin's final painting!"

Sydney shot up, her expression dark. "The one in the guest lounge?"

Nancy nodded. "Yes."

She bolted for the stairs and twisted her ankle on the way down.

Timothy saw her and raised his chin smugly. His whole face said, "What are you gonna do about it?"

Sydney turned to Nancy. "Did you call the Hampton residence?"

"Not yet."

"Call them."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Timothy charged at her. "No! Bad lady, don't tattle!"

Sydney didn't see it coming. He hit her with more force than she expected, knocking her straight to the floor. Pain shot through her tailbone.

Penelope rushed over. "Syd, are you okay?"

Sighing, she said in a chiding tone, "Timothy's spoiled, I know. He doesn't know how to be gentle. But he's just a kid. Please don't be mad at him."

Sydney gripped her side and stared at the ink painting—now torn through the center. She let out a low, cold peal of laughter. "So letting a child destroy someone else's property is part of your parenting philosophy too?"

Tears welled in Penelope's eyes. "I just looked away for one moment! Do you really have to blame me for everything?"

"One moment?" Sydney swept her gaze across the destruction. "Look at all this damage, and it's not even noon. So tell me, exactly when were you watching him?"

Penelope's tone changed the second they were alone. "Sydney! Why do you have to be so unforgiving? You're seriously going to call the old house over a stupid painting? You think Grandma's going to take your side over mine?"

"Correction," Sydney said coolly. "That 'stupid painting' was Grandpa’s final work before he died."

As the words settled in the air, a black sedan pulled into the courtyard.

The Hampton family had arrived—fast.