Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO CALLED IT THERAPY"My sister was here?"
Matteo asked the question so softly that it frightened me more than if he had shouted.
Celeste looked toward the door.
"I don't think we should jump to conclusions based on an isolated recording."
Matteo stepped between her and the hallway.
"My daughter was locked in a room while someone played recordings of my voice. My sister was involved. And you're standing here telling me not to jump to conclusions?"
Celeste lifted her chin.
"You hired me to manage a child whose behavior had become impossible."
"She's three."
"And extremely disturbed."
"She's three," he repeated, louder this time.
Celeste went silent.
Gabriel closed the laptop.
"Sir, I recommend preserving the entire device and contacting the police."
Matteo nodded.
"Do it."
Celeste laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
Because she had finally realized the situation was moving beyond her control.
"Matteo, you cannot seriously believe this woman you've known for ten minutes over a qualified professional."
I met her gaze.
"I'm not asking him to believe me."
"Then what exactly are you doing?"
"Listening to his daughter."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You have no idea how dangerous that child can be."
Something inside me hardened.
I thought of the wooden train.
The kick to my knee.
The tiny fist trembling inches from my face.
And the little girl who had pressed herself against me when she saw a blue door.
"Maybe she learned to defend herself because nobody defended her."
Celeste's face flushed.
Matteo looked at Gabriel.
"Escort Dr. Voss out. She is not to have access to Leah or this apartment again."
"You can't dismiss me without considering the consequences."
"I just did."
"You signed an agreement."
"My lawyers will review it."
Her expression changed again.
For a moment, she looked almost frightened.
Then she straightened her blouse.
"Your sister will hear about this."
Matteo stepped aside.
"She'll hear it from me."
Gabriel escorted her toward the elevator.
I stood in the empty hallway, suddenly aware of how much my shoulder hurt.
The wooden train had struck harder than I'd realized.
Matteo noticed me pressing my hand against it.
"Are you injured?"
"It's just a bruise."
"She threw something at you."
"Yes."
"And you stayed."
I looked toward the kitchen.
"She was frightened."
He stared at me.
"Everyone else left."
"Maybe they were frightened too."
His expression shifted.
For the first time, I saw the man underneath the expensive suit.
A father who had been given endless explanations and had believed the wrong ones.
"Miss Torres," he said, "I owe you an apology."
"You don't owe me anything yet."
He looked surprised.
I continued.
"But Leah needs more than apologies."
He lowered his eyes.
"I know."
I wasn't certain that he did.
Not yet.
We returned to the kitchen.
Leah sat on a stool beside Marisol, holding half a banana.
When she saw Matteo, she slid down immediately.
I felt his body tense.
He probably expected her to scream.
Instead, she ran toward me.
"Maya!"
I crouched.
"Hey, sweetheart."
She held up the banana.
"Half."
"That looks delicious."
She considered me seriously.
Then she broke off a small piece and offered it.
I accepted.
"Thank you."
Matteo watched us without speaking.
Leah glanced at him.
Her smile vanished.
"Daddy mad?"
He knelt several feet away.
"No, sweetheart."
She didn't move.
"I'm not mad at you."
Her eyes searched his face.
"Train bad."
He looked at the bruise forming beneath my sleeve.
"Throwing the train hurt Maya," he said gently. "But you're not bad, Leah."
The child looked confused.
He swallowed.
"I'm sorry I didn't understand what you were trying to tell me."
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she whispered, "Blue room gone?"
"The door is going to stay open until we can remove the lock safely. You won't be sent there again."
Her lips trembled.
"Promise?"
Matteo's voice broke.
"I promise."
She didn't run into his arms.
She didn't suddenly forgive him.
She simply nodded and returned to her banana.
I saw how much that hurt him.
And how hard he worked not to show it.
That afternoon, a pediatrician named Dr. Hannah Price came to the penthouse at Matteo's request.
She spoke first with Leah in the kitchen, with Marisol nearby and me sitting quietly at the other end of the table.
Rather than press the child for details, she focused on whether Leah was physically safe, whether she needed immediate medical attention, and whether an experienced child-trauma team should be involved.
Matteo arranged an urgent hospital evaluation.
Leah refused to let him carry her to the elevator.
But she allowed him to walk beside us.
At the hospital, the medical team assessed her physical condition, documented the concerns, and arranged appropriate safeguarding and child-protection referrals.
I didn't know what the next days would bring.
I only knew that the adults around Leah could no longer pretend her behavior was merely an inconvenience.
By evening, we returned to the penthouse.
Leah fell asleep on the living room couch, wrapped in a yellow blanket.
Marisol stayed nearby.
Matteo asked me to meet him in his study.
I followed him into a room lined with books and enormous windows overlooking Manhattan.
He stood behind his desk.
"My sister recommended Celeste," he said.
I remained silent.
"After my wife died, Leah stopped sleeping. She screamed when anyone touched her mother's things. She stopped letting strangers hold her."
He stared toward the city.
"I was running the company and trying to keep everything from falling apart."
"How long ago did your wife die?"
"Eighteen months."
"I'm sorry."
He nodded without looking at me.
"Her name was Elise."
There was something almost unbearable in the way he said it.
As though even her name hurt.
"She loved Leah more than anything."
I glanced at a framed photograph on his desk.
A beautiful woman with warm brown eyes held a laughing baby against her chest.
"Leah looks like her."
Matteo smiled sadly.
"She has Elise's eyes."
He picked up the photograph.
"Marianne told me Leah needed structure. Specialists. Consistency. She said I was making everything worse by giving in whenever Leah cried."
He lowered the frame.
"So I stepped back."
I studied him.
"Did you want to?"
"No."
"Then why did you?"
His jaw tightened.
"Because every expert they brought into this house told me I was failing her."
I thought about what I'd seen in the blue room.
"Maybe someone wanted you to believe that."
He looked up.
I continued carefully.
"Mr. Duca, I think you need to consider why your sister wanted Leah to seem uncontrollable."
He was silent for a long time.
Then he opened a desk drawer.
He removed a thick envelope.
"My attorney sent this yesterday."
He placed it in front of me.
The first page contained a formal notice.
I recognized only fragments of the legal language.
Petition.
Emergency guardianship.
Fitness of parent.
Matteo pointed toward a paragraph.
"Marianne has filed a petition seeking temporary guardianship of Leah."
My stomach dropped.
"On what grounds?"
He gave a bitter laugh.
"That I've failed to provide a safe and stable home."
"That's absurd."
"She's submitted statements from former nannies. Reports from Celeste. Videos of Leah's tantrums."
I stared at him.
"Videos?"
"Fourteen caregivers. Fourteen incidents. Every one documented."
I remembered the woman I'd passed at the service elevator.
The scratches across her cheek.
The terror in her eyes.
Suddenly those incidents felt less like coincidences.
"Mr. Duca," I whispered, "what happens if your sister gets guardianship?"
He turned toward the window.
"My daughter's trust controls a large block of voting shares in our family holding company. The court-appointed fiduciary and existing trustees would have to resolve who can exercise certain rights while she's a minor."
"And Marianne?"
"She's been trying to gain control of those decisions for years."
I felt sick.
"So if she convinces a court you're unfit..."
"She gets much closer to controlling Leah's future."
I stared at the documents.
The room seemed to grow colder.
Then Matteo turned another page.
"This was included in her evidence."
He slid a photograph across the desk.
It showed Leah standing in the blue room.
Her small face was wet with tears.
And behind her was a woman holding a clipboard.
I leaned forward.
At first, I thought it was Celeste.
Then I looked more closely.
My breath caught.
Because I recognized the woman.
Not from the penthouse.
Not from a photograph.
May you like
From the hospital where my mother had been receiving treatment.
And just that morning, she'd introduced herself to me as a hospital social worker.
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