That night, at the Ferraz mansion, Clarisse’s cry echoed through the bedroom—thin and distressed, cutting straight through the heart of anyone who heard it. Arthur sat in his wheelchair, holding his daughter in his arms and rocking her gently from side to side. She was nauseated, suffering from cramps, and refused every attempt at comfort. She didn’t want the nanny’s arms, nor his—she wanted only Zoe.

He kept his voice low, trying to convey reassurance even as anxiety tightened his chest.

“Don’