Semaya's lips twitched into something that barely qualified as a smile.
She didn't ask anything more.
She couldn't.
With Madam Beckett, questions were never just questions. They were invitations.
And the old woman had a way of accepting invitations with interest — pressing, peeling, smiling while she cornered you into answering things you never meant to confess.
Semaya had no desire to stand under that kind of light.
Because the truth was not clean.
She had not been hired solely to nurse little Young Master Ryder.
Yes, she was competent. Yes, she handled the baby with ease, memorized his cries, knew how to soothe him before he even started wailing. But that wasn't the only reason she was placed in this position.
Madam Beckett had chosen her carefully.
To watch, to listen, and most importantly— to report, if Ryley trusted her enough to speak freely around her.
And the blond did.
Semaya had proven herself during Ryley's pallor illness.
