Chapter 4 - Secrets on the Screen
The white projection screen locked into place with a sharp click, illuminating the darkened ballroom with a cold, pale glare. Every eye in the room turned upward, waiting for the digital archives to load. Ethan stood motionless, his phone clutched in his hand, a heavy knot of dread tightening in his chest. He didn't want to find out that the woman he loved—or thought he loved—was a monster. But the silence of his son, and the terrified panic in Claire’s eyes, left him no choice.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” Marcus’s voice crackled through the integrated audio speakers from the security control room. “I have the files from six months ago queued up. The nursery camera feed on October fourteenth. Confirm playback?”
“Play it, Marcus,” Ethan commanded.
“Wait! Please, Ethan, don't!” Claire sobbed, dropping to her knees on the polished marble floor. Her pristine white silk dress pooled around her like spilled cream, stained with dust from the floor. She grabbed the hem of Ethan’s trousers. “I did it for us! Please, you have to understand!”
Ethan looked down at her, his expression carved from stone. He didn't pull away, but he didn't offer a hand to help her up either. “For us? You fired my son's nanny and threatened her life, and you call that for us?”
“He was bonding with her more than he was bonding with me!” Claire cried out shamelessly, the confession tearing through the quiet ballroom for all the investors, socialites, and reporters to hear. “Every time I tried to feed him, every time I tried to put him to sleep, he cried! But the moment she walked into the room, he stopped! I wanted to be his mother, Ethan! I wanted a family with you, but I couldn't compete with her constant presence! You were working all the time, and I was left feeling like a stranger in my own home!”
The guests began to murmur, shifting uncomfortably. The illusion of the perfect Hawthorne engagement was completely shattered.
“Play the footage, Marcus,” Ethan repeated, ignoring her pleas.
The screen flickered to life in glowing high-definition black-and-white.
The date stamp read: October 14, 2:15 AM.
The camera showed the interior of Oliver’s nursery. The room was dimly lit by a star-shaped nightlight. In the crib, a much younger Oliver was crying hysterically, his tiny face red and contorted with distress. The door opened quietly, and Elena hurried in, picking the baby up with practiced tenderness. She murmured softly, rocking him back and forth until his cries subsided into gentle breathing.
Then, the nursery door opened again.
Claire walked in, wrapped in a silk robe. The footage showed her standing over Elena and the baby. There was no audio from the night-vision feed, but the body language told the entire story. Claire’s face was twisted in cold fury. She pointed a finger at the door, gesturing aggressively. Elena looked shocked, clutching Oliver closer for a second before bowing her head in resignation.
The scene shifted through multiple timestamps over the following days—each clip proving Elena’s account down to the smallest detail. It showed Claire handing an envelope to Elena at the front foyer, watching coldly as the young nanny walked out into the cold night rain.
“You lied to me,” Ethan said, his voice trembling with a rage he had never experienced before. “When I asked why she left, you told me she stole jewelry and quit in the middle of the night.”
“She was stealing your son's affection!” Claire screamed hysterically from the floor, abandoning all pretense of dignity. “She didn't steal jewelry, but she stole what mattered! And when she left, I thought Oliver would finally turn to me. But he stopped talking altogether! He went silent, Ethan! For months, he hasn't uttered a single sound because of the trauma of losing her!”
Ethan felt as though the floor beneath his feet had vanished. He looked at Oliver, who was still resting quietly against Elena’s shoulder, a look of profound peace on the toddler's face. The doctors, the specialists, the endless medical bills, the sleepless nights worrying about his son’s neurological development—it wasn't a medical mystery at all. It was the result of a cruel, calculated exile orchestrated by the woman standing at his feet.
“Get out,” Ethan whispered.
Claire stopped crying, looking up in shock. “Ethan… please. We can fix this. We can get married—we can build a real family—”
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“Get out of my house,” Ethan roared, the sound echoing off the crystal chandeliers with terrifying force. “If you are still on these grounds by the time security finishes escorting you, I will make sure you never work, live, or show your face in this industry again.”
Two security guards stepped forward, grabbing Claire firmly by her arms. She shrieked, kicking and thrashing in her silk dress as they dragged her backward across the polished ballroom floor, past the staring investors, past the shattered champagne flutes, out through the grand double doors into the night.
