Chapter 5

*Margaret's POV*

​"Looking for something, Margaret?"

​Alexander’s voice cut through the dark bedroom, low, smooth, and dangerously calm.

​My heart did a violent flip inside my chest. I quickly put my hand into my jacket pocket, making sure the small plastic bag with Jasmine’s hair strands was pushed all the way to the bottom. I slowly turned around, forcing my face into the most innocent expression I could muster.

​He was standing right in the doorway, blocking the dim hall light. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were sharp and unblinking in the shadow.

​"I... I heard coughing," I lied, my voice steady despite the adrenaline rushing through my blood. "I just wanted to make sure Jasmine didn't drop her blanket. She was tossing around earlier."

​Alexander didn't move. He stood there for a long, silent moment, looking from me to the sleeping girl in the bed, then back to my face. The silence stretched so long I could hear the faint ticking of the hallway clock.

​"Jasmine sleeps like a rock," he said quietly, taking one step into the room. "She hasn't coughed once all night."

​"Well, maybe I misheard," I replied, keeping my hands tucked loosely in my pockets as I took a small step toward the door. "I'm sorry for disturbing her. I'll head back to my room."

​As I tried to brush past him, Alexander shifted slightly, his broad shoulder catching mine. He didn't grab me, but his presence was a physical wall.

​"You're very attentive, Margaret," he murmured, his eyes searching my face in the dim light. "Almost too attentive for someone who just started yesterday. Don't make a habit of wandering through my home in the middle of the night."

​"Understood, Mr. Vance," I said, dropping my head slowly before walking past him into the safety of the dark hallway.

​The second I reached my small bedroom in the nanny quarters, I locked the door, collapsed against the frame, and let out a long, shaky breath. My hands were slick with sweat as I pulled the plastic bag from my pocket. That was too close.

*

*

​The next morning, during my two hour break while Jasmine was in her online tutoring class, I practically ran out of the estate gates.

​I took a bus to the downtown area, walking fast until I found a small, low key private diagnostic lab hidden between two commercial buildings.

The lobby smelled heavily of alcohol and disinfectant.

​"I need an urgent, private maternity test," I told the receptionist, bringing out the last of my savings—every single note I had left in my bank account—onto the glass counter. "And I need it rushed."

​The woman looked at the plastic bag containing the dark, wavy hair strands, then looked at me. "If you don't have the mother's direct buccal swab, hair root samples can be tricky, sweetie. But we can run the extraction. Give us forty eight hours."

​"Forty eight hours," I repeated, my knuckles white against the edge of the counter. "Please. It's everything I have."

*

*

​For the next two days, living in the Vance mansion felt like walking on a tightrope over a pit of fire.

​I played the perfect, patient nanny. When Jasmine intentionally spilled her morning cereal across the marble kitchen floor, I didn't yell; I handed her a sponge and made a game out of cleaning it up together. When she tried to ignore her homework, I sat beside her and drew silly cartoon characters in the margins until she cracked a tiny, reluctant smile.

​Sensing that I wasn't going to snap or run away like the others, Jasmine's fierce resistance began to slip. She still acted tough, but she stopped throwing things. She even let me brush her hair without fighting me.

​Every time I looked at her, my heart physically hurt. Just hold on, I kept telling myself. The results are coming.

​On the third afternoon, while Jasmine was upstairs and Alexander was away at a corporate meeting, my phone finally vibrated in my pocket.

​An email notification popped up on the screen.

*​Sender: Apex Diagnostic Lab — Confidential Result.*

​My breath caught.

I quickly went into a secluded hallway on the far end of the mansion, typing in my security PIN to open the attached P*F document. My fingers were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone twice.

​This is it, I thought, tears already pricking my eyes. This is where I get my baby back.

​The file loaded. I skipped past the formal medical codes and legal disclaimers, my eyes desperately hunting for the bottom line.

​I reached the final summary section, and my world instantly shattered.

​RESULT STATUS: INCONCLUSIVE / SAMPLE DEGRADED.

NOTE: Submitted hair follicles lacked sufficient intact cellular DNA for comparative mapping. Retest required with direct swab.

​"No..." I gasped out, the word escaping my lips like a punched breath. "No, no, no!"

​I stared at the screen, my vision blurring with hot, furious tears. Inconclusive. I had spent my very last dollar note on this. I had risked getting caught by Alexander in the middle of the night, and I was right back at square one. Nothing. I had absolutely nothing.

​A sudden, terrifying thought crept into my mind, freezing me in place.

​What if I was wrong? What if the grief was finally making me lose my mind? What if two random children really could just happen to have the exact same crescent birthmark? Was I just a crazy, broken girl projecting my dead baby onto a rich man's daughter?

​Desperate for any real answers, my feet moved on complete steps down the grand corridor. I stopped in front of the locked, private master suite—the late wife Victoria's untouched room that the staff was strictly forbidden to enter.

​The door was slightly ajar, likely left unlocked after the morning cleaning crew had passed through.

​Driven by an unstoppable impulse, I slipped inside the quiet, dusty room. The air was thick with the faint scent of old perfume and expensive furniture. I walked straight to the vanity table, where framed photos were lined up in neat silver borders.

​I picked up an old photograph of Victoria sitting in a hospital bed holding a newborn. Stamped on the bedside medical chart in the background was a distinct red official mark:

​St. Jude Community Hospital — Dr. Harrison.

​My blood ran cold. Dr. Harrison. The exact same doctor who told me my baby died on that metal table six years ago.

​Before I could even process the rush of horror, a sharp, angry voice echoed from the doorway behind me.

​"Why are you in my mommy's room?!"

​I turned around, my heart flying to my throat.

Jasmine stood in the entrance, her hands formed into tiny fists, her eyes flashing with pure fury as she glared right at me holding her mother's picture.