THE MILLIONAIRE’S TWINS CRIED EVERY NIGHT… UNTIL THE NEW MAID DID ONE UNTHINKABLE THING.

Marcos blinked. “And?”

“No one will send anyone,” she said quietly.

He stared at her like she’d spoken nonsense.

“What do you mean no one?”

“They said the ones who enter… leave traumatized.” Carmen swallowed, forcing the words out. “One agency said they’re putting us on a list of problem clients.”

For the first time in Marcos Silveira’s life, his money felt useless.

He dragged a hand through his hair, breathing hard like he’d run a marathon.

“So what do I do?” he whispered—more to himself than to Carmen.

Carmen hesitated, then spoke with careful caution.

“There’s a young woman at the gate.”

Marcos turned. “A nanny?”

“No, sir. She asked for a job as a housekeeper. But she says she has experience with babies.”

Marcos almost laughed.

A housekeeper?

He didn’t need polished floors. He didn’t need folded towels.

He needed silence.

He needed sleep.

He needed to survive.

“Let her in,” he said, voice flat. “But I’m not promising anything.”

Minutes later, the woman walked into the mansion like she belonged there.

That was the first strange thing about Helena Silva: she wasn’t impressed.

Twenty-eight years old. Blonde hair pulled into a simple ponytail. White blouse. Worn jeans. No jewelry. No fake smile. She didn’t stare at the chandelier or the paintings.

She tilted her head toward the sound upstairs like she was listening to a language.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Silveira,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Helena.”

Marcos didn’t bother shaking it.

“I’ll be direct,” he said. “I don’t need a housekeeper. I need someone who can make my sons stop crying.”

Helena didn’t flinch. Didn’t get offended. Didn’t defend herself.

“I heard them from outside,” she said softly. “That must be brutal.”

“Brutal?” Marcos’s voice snapped. “I haven’t slept properly in eight months. I’ve lost contracts. I walk into meetings like a corpse. Twelve nannies quit.”

Helena nodded slowly, like she was putting pieces together.

“And what did the doctors say?” she asked.

Marcos made a harsh sound. “They said they’re fine. Tests are perfect. And they still scream like they’re being tortured.”

Helena fell quiet for a second, listening to the distant cries.

“Can I see them?” she asked.

Marcos narrowed his eyes. “Why? You’re not a nanny.”

“No,” she admitted. “But I cared for a baby who cried like that.”

He studied her, searching for the scam, the desperate lie.

“And you think you can handle this?” he challenged.

Helena took a slow breath.

“Because I raised my little brother alone,” she said. “Our parents died when I was eighteen. He was two months old. And he cried like he was the loneliest thing on Earth.”

Marcos didn’t respond, but something in his chest shifted—like a door he’d kept locked just shook on its hinges.

Helena continued, voice calm.

“I learned something back then,” she said. “Sometimes the problem isn’t the body. Sometimes it’s what a baby feels.”

Marcos hated how much that sentence landed.

He hated that it sounded like an accusation even though she didn’t mean it that way.

He hated that part of him knew it might be true.

They went upstairs.

The nursery looked like perfection—until you focused on the twins.

Two exhausted babies, crying without pause, eyes fixated on the same wall.

Helena didn’t do what every nanny had done.

She didn’t shake toys.
She didn’t sing louder.
She didn’t bounce them aggressively.

She just watched.

She watched the way you watch a storm coming—quiet, serious, trying to understand the pattern.

After a full minute, she looked at Marcos.

“Can I ask you something?” she said gently.

Marcos’s shoulders tightened. “Go ahead.”

“How often do you hold them?” Helena asked.

The question struck like a slap.

Marcos’s face heated again, the anger rushing in to protect him.

“I don’t need lessons on being a father,” he said coldly.

“I’m not lecturing,” Helena replied, still calm. “I’m trying to figure out why they’re crying.”

Marcos pointed at the cribs, like the answer was obvious.

“The doctors—”

“I know,” Helena said. “But sometimes pain doesn’t show up in blood tests.”

Then her gaze drifted back to the wall.

Not the babies.

The wall.

And suddenly she turned to Carmen.

“What’s on the other side of that wall?” Helena asked.

Carmen’s expression changed—just a flicker.

Marcos saw it.

His entire body went rigid.

Carmen hesitated.

“It’s… the room,” she said carefully, “of Mrs. Isabela.”

The name hit the air like a blade.

Marcos’s throat tightened. His eyes flashed.