“You’re scared,” she murmured. “Something hurts, doesn’t it?”

She laid him on the changing table. Under the bright light, she saw it clearly: red welts scattered across his back. Small. Inflamed.

Bite marks.

Her chest tightened. She turned to the crib and pressed her hand against the mattress.

It was damp.

That shouldn’t have been possible.

She checked the hallway. Silent.

With shaking hands, she yanked off the sheet.

At first, she thought the shadows were playing tricks on her. Then she saw movement.

The mattress was rotting. Alive.

Larvae crawled through blackened fabric, burrowing in and out of decayed padding. Mold, dead insects—things no newborn should ever touch.

Naomi staggered back, clapping a hand over her mouth. She snapped photos—of the mattress, the infestation, Oliver’s back.

Then she pressed the baby against her chest, skin to skin.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “This ends now.”

She turned—and froze.

Eleanor stood in the doorway, pale, rigid.

But it wasn’t shock in her eyes.

It was recognition.

“Put my son down,” Eleanor said flatly.

Naomi held him tighter. “That mattress is infested. He’s been bitten—every night.”

“I said put him down!”

“He’s in pain,” Naomi cried. “How could you ignore this?”

“That mattress cost $1,400,” Eleanor snapped. “Organic. Hypoallergenic.”

“Look at it!” Naomi gestured. For a moment, Eleanor’s composure cracked—then snapped back.

“We bought it new.”

“When?” Naomi asked.

Silence.

“You bought it secondhand,” Naomi said quietly. “To save money.”

“It was a deal,” Eleanor whispered. “We were overwhelmed. Everything was expensive.”

“You live in a ten-million-dollar house,” Naomi said. “And your baby slept on rot?”

Eleanor’s face hardened. “Watch your place. You’re staff.”

“No,” Naomi replied calmly. “I’m the only one protecting him.”

She walked past her.

“Stop!” Eleanor shrieked. “You can’t take him!”

Naomi turned. “If you try, these photos go to CPS and the media tonight.”

Eleanor went white.

Naomi took Oliver to her small staff room—plain, clean, safe. She built a nest of towels on her bed and laid him down.

For the first time, he slept.

At dawn, the door flew open.

Thomas Caldwell stood there, furious.

“You’re fired.”

“After I call CPS,” Naomi said.

“You think they’ll believe you?”

She raised her phone. “I have evidence.”

Thomas looked at Oliver, sleeping peacefully.

“He’s… calm,” Eleanor whispered behind him.

Something broke.

“What do we do?” she asked.