“When your father isn’t here, you answer to me. Cry again and I’ll make sure Mara is gone by Friday.”
Then June’s little voice.
“Please don’t.”
No one moved.
Even the house felt still. The diffuser in the corner kept pushing vanilla into the air, and it made my stomach turn.
Vanessa recovered first. She folded her arms and looked at the girls, not me.
“So this is what we’re doing now? Secret recordings? In my fiancé’s house?”
“In my house,” I said.
Her eyes snapped to mine.
Mara stayed between Vanessa and the girls. One hand rested on Lily’s shoulder. The other kept June tucked against her hip. I noticed then that her wrist was shaking.
“Take the girls to the breakfast room,” I said.
Lily shook her head so fast her ponytail slapped her cheek.
“No. She lies when we leave.”
That landed harder than the recording.
I looked at Cal. “Lock the front and side doors. No one comes in, and she doesn’t leave until we’re done.”
Vanessa gave a short laugh. “You’re joking.”
Cal didn’t answer. He just lifted his radio and started issuing orders.
Vanessa’s face changed again. The polished version of her dropped away, and the colder one came back.
“I was disciplining them,” she said. “That’s called structure. You let these girls do whatever they want, and your staff encourages it.”
June pressed her face into Mara’s apron. Lily kept staring at me, waiting to see which story I would choose.
I asked the only question that mattered.
“How long?”
Vanessa opened her mouth first, but Mara answered.
“Since your Napa trip,” she said quietly. “Maybe before that. It got worse when she realized the girls were scared to tell you.”
Napa had been eight weeks earlier.
Eight weeks of dinners, ring fittings, wedding menus, and goodnight kisses. Eight weeks of my daughters learning how to shrink themselves inside a house I paid for.
I felt heat climb up my neck. Not rage first. Shame.
Vanessa stepped toward me. “You are seriously taking her word over mine?”
Lily pointed at the phone. “There’s more.”
She said it flat, like she’d run out of energy for begging.
I scrolled through the file names. Twelve recordings. Different dates. Different lengths. All made in the same room, around the same time of day.
I hit the next one.
“Sit up straight.”
A chair scraped.
“If your dad marries me, this house is going to have rules. And the maid isn’t going to save you.”
