Ch.8: The Wrong Bottle

The kitchen was an autopsy of domesticity—stainless steel counters, white marble floors, and not a single crumb or coffee stain to prove humans actually lived here.

I moved quickly. Daisy was due for her midnight feeding, and Mrs. Higgins had left a strict schedule taped to the refrigerator.

*12:00 AM: 4oz Formula. Additive A. WARM to 98.6°.*

I pulled the canister of formula from the pantry. Standard organic brand. Expensive, but normal.

Then I reached for the "Additive."

It sat on a silver tray next to the bottle warmer. A small, amber glass vial with a rubber stopper. No pharmaceutical branding. No FDA warnings. Just a white label with a handwritten code: *CH-44.*

I held it up to the light. The liquid inside was viscous and clear, like glycerin.

My nursing instincts screamed. You never administer a drug without knowing what it is. It's the first rule of medicine.

I glanced at the ceiling corner. Another black camera dome stared back.

I couldn't analyze it here. I needed a sample.

I uncapped the bottle I had brought down—my own water bottle—and poured a small amount of the water into the sink. Then, shielding the motion with my body, I tipped the vial. A few drops of the mystery liquid fell into my water. I capped it and shoved it deep into my cardigan pocket.

"Just vitamins," I whispered to the empty room, playing the role for the camera. "Make you strong."

I mixed the rest of the dose into Daisy's bottle, swirled it until dissolved, and placed it in the warmer.

Ten minutes later, I was back in the nursery.

Daisy was awake now, fussing. Her little hands grasped at the air. I lifted her out, settling her into the crook of my arm. The weight of her was the only real thing in this house.

"Hungry?" I cooed.

I offered the bottle. She latched instantly, drinking greedily.

I watched her face, looking for that spark of recognition, that bond that everyone said mothers and daughters shared.

Suddenly, she stopped.

Her eyes went wide. Her little body went rigid in my arms.

The nipple slipped from her mouth.

"Daisy?"

She made a sound—a wet, rattling gasp.

Then she arched her back, her face turning a terrifying shade of crimson. She wasn't swallowing. She was choking.

"No, no, no," I hissed. I sat her up, patting her back firmly. "Breathe, baby. Breathe."

She didn't breathe. Her lips were turning blue.

This wasn't just choking. Her throat was closing. It was anaphylaxis. A severe allergic reaction to whatever was in that vial.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through me. I needed an EpiPen. I needed oxygen. I needed a crash cart.

I looked at the monitor. Her heart rate was spiking—200, 210.

I looked at the door. I could scream for help. Higgins would come. Thorne would come.

But if Thorne saw me perform a flawless infant airway clearance... if he saw me assess an allergic reaction with the precision of a NICU specialist... he would know. He would know 'Mara Kovic' was a lie. He would know I was Elena Vance.

And he would kill me.

But if I played the dumb nanny... if I just patted her back and waited for help...

Daisy's eyes rolled back. Her struggles weakened.

If I save her using medical techniques, I blow my cover. If I don't, she dies.