Maya’s POV
Thirty-six weeks.
The house is quiet in a way it rarely is. Xander took the twins to the park—their promised afternoon adventure complete with ice cream and playground equipment Nina has been begging to try.
Margaret and the other staff have the day off. Even Archie is out handling security updates at the corporate offices.
It's just me and Daphne. Alone in a house that feels too big and too silent.
I'm supposed to be packing. I told Daphne three days ago that I'd be leaving soon.
That my job here is essentially done with Eleanor gone and Hope's delivery approaching.
That the family won't need a full-time assistant once the baby comes and life settles into new routines.
She protested. Said they'd absolutely need help, that having a newborn with medical complications would require all hands on deck.
But I could see the understanding in her eyes. The acceptance that I've been here for a specific period and that period is ending.
I've been delaying it anyway. Finding reasons to stay one more day. One more week.
Postponing the inevitable departure because leaving means admitting I've made my choice.
That I'm abandoning the mission. That six years of planning ends not with justice but with me running away because I fell in love and couldn't follow through.
I find Daphne in the nursery. She's folding tiny clothes with the methodical focus of someone trying to control the uncontrollable.
Hope's entire wardrobe is organized by size, by color, by optimism disguised as preparation.
She looks up when I enter. Smiles tiredly. "Hey. I thought you were packing."
"I am. Just taking a break." I lean against the doorframe. "Need help?"
"Sure." She gestures to the pile of onesies on the changing table. "These need to go in the dresser. Top drawer."
We work in comfortable silence for several minutes. The kind of quiet that's become familiar between us over months of working together. Of building trust I've systematically betrayed.
"I wanted to thank you again," Daphne says suddenly. "For everything. Not just the Eleanor situation. For being steady through all the pregnancy complications. For caring about Nina and Lisa. For being exactly what we needed when we needed it."
The words land like knives. Each one precise. Each one hitting the guilt I've been carrying like a second skeleton.
"You don't have to thank me." My voice comes out rough.
"I do. I don't know how I would have survived these months without your support. You've been more than a babysitter, Maya. You've been a friend. Family."
Family. The word echoes in my head. Mocking. Accusing.
We're having tea—Daphne insisted despite my protests that she should be resting—when she suddenly gasps.
Her hand flies to her belly. The teacup in her other hand wobbles, nearly spills.
"Daphne?"
Her face has gone pale. "Something's—"
Then her water breaks.
The sound is subtle. Just liquid hitting hardwood. But the visual is unmistakable—clear fluid spreading across the nursery floor, soaking through Daphne's clothes, pooling around her feet.
Her eyes go wide. Fear replacing the calm she's maintained for weeks. "No. No, it's too early. We were supposed to induce next week. Planned. This isn't—"
Another contraction cuts off whatever she was about to say. She doubles over, gripping the dresser for support. The sound that comes from her throat is pain and terror mixed together.
I stand frozen. Staring. Mind racing through calculations I shouldn't be making.
This is it. The moment I didn't plan for but somehow manifests anyway. Daphne in crisis. Alone with me. Everyone else gone. Help at least twenty minutes away even if I call immediately.
I could walk away right now. Could claim I panicked. That I wasn't equipped to handle medical emergencies.
That I froze and by the time I thought to call for help, precious minutes had ticked past.
Could let Daphne struggle alone while Hope comes too soon, too fast, without medical supervision.
Could ensure that by the time ambulances arrive, it's too late. For Hope. Maybe for Daphne too if complications develop during unattended labor at thirty-six weeks with a baby whose heart is already compromised.
Xander would lose everything. His wife. His daughter. Both of them gone because I stood there and did nothing.
Would feel the kind of devastating, permanent loss I've carried for six years.
Would understand what it means to have everything ripped away by circumstances you couldn't control and people who could have helped but chose not to.
Justice. Finally. After all this waiting.
Not the justice I planned—not public exposure and destroyed reputation and systematic dismantling of everything he's built. But justice nonetheless.
The kind that can't be appealed or defended against. The kind that changes you permanently. The kind that makes you understand grief as a physical presence you carry for the rest of your life.
Lora's voice whispers clear and cold in my mind. Not accusatory this time. Satisfied. Triumphant.
‘This is what you came for. This is justice. Let it happen. Walk away. By the time you "realize" what's happening and call for help, it will be too late. And you'll be blameless. Just a panicked assistant who froze during a medical emergency. No one will ever know you chose this.’
Daphne makes another sound. Pain and terror. Her hand pressed to her belly where Hope is coming whether anyone's ready or not.
Where our daughter fights to be born with a broken heart and odds that were always too low and timing that's all wrong.
"Maya." Daphne's voice breaks on my name. "Please. Help me. I can't—"
She's looking at me. Trusting me. Believing I'll do what needs to be done. That I'll call for help and support her through this crisis and be the person she's trusted for months.
I have to choose. Right now. In this breath. Between action and inaction. Between the person I've been for six years and the person I've accidentally become.
Revenge or redemption. Lora's ghost or my own conscience.
The mission I've devoted six years of my life to—the promise made holding cold hands in a hospital room—or the woman standing in front of me, terrified and vulnerable and trusting me completely.
Six years of planning. Six years of infiltration and evidence gathering and systematic betrayal. Six years of becoming someone capable of destruction.
All of it comes down to this moment.
This choice.
This breath.
Daphne's eyes meet mine. Pleading. Terrified. Trusting.
Lora's voice whispers: ‘Let her die. Make him understand. Keep your promise.’