The millionaire’s baby was poisoned; the maid made him vomit and saved his life.

The wind lashed against the rain-soaked windows of the Valdés mansion with a fury that seemed to foreshadow disaster, a deep and constant roar that mingled with the incessant patter of the rain on the vast garden of Polanco.

Valeria Romero, her hands red from the water and soap, paused her work for a moment to watch the storm from the kitchen. At twenty-four, Valeria had learned that life, like the weather, could change from clear skies to a devastating storm in seconds.

She did not belong to that world of imported marble, Bohemian crystal chandeliers and Egyptian silk sheets; her world was the smell of damp earth from her Oaxacan village, homemade tortillas and the constant anxiety of having to get medicine for her mother’s heart.

However, every morning, upon crossing the threshold of that imposing house, she left her identity behind to become simply “the girl,” a silent shadow in charge of maintaining the pristine sanctuary of Sebastián Valdés, a man who possessed all the money in the world, but whose eyes reflected such a deep loneliness that Valeria sometimes found it difficult to meet his gaze.

Sebastián had been a widower for just over a year, since his wife died giving birth to little Diego. Since then, the house, despite its ostentatious luxury, had taken on the air of a mausoleum, a place where time seemed to have stopped during the mourning.

The only ray of light in this perpetual darkness was Diego, an eleven-month-old baby with brown curls and an infectious laugh that, curiously, only seemed to truly blossom when Valeria held him in her arms. Although her job consisted of cleaning and cooking, Valeria had forged an unbreakable bond with the child.

Perhaps because she had raised her younger siblings herself, or perhaps because she felt that the little boy’s orphanhood was a personal wound.

In fact, when the regular nanny took a break or got distracted by the phone, Valeria would take the opportunity to sing lullabies to her in Zapotec, whispering promises of protection that even she didn’t know if she could keep.

That Tuesday morning, the atmosphere in the house was unusually heavy, charged with a chilling electrical tension.

Sebastián had gone on a business trip to Monterrey, leaving the house in the care of Carmen, the housekeeper, and with the unexpected arrival of his cousin, Fernanda Castellanos. Fernanda was a woman of icy beauty, always dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, but with a gaze that assessed the value of things and people even before greeting them.

Upon her arrival, Valeria noticed Fernanda pacing around the house not like a guest, but like an impatient owner, touching the furniture and criticizing the decor with a chilling air of superiority.

Rumors circulated among the staff, whispers in the hallways, that Fernanda was on the verge of bankruptcy and that she saw in the loneliness of her cousin Sebastian and the fragility of little Diego not a family tragedy, but an unexpected gain.

Valeria tried to ignore the gossip, but her instinct, that sixth sense inherited from the women of her country, screamed at her to be careful, to keep a close eye on that woman.

Around noon, Carmen had to rush to the market because Fernanda, on a whim, had asked for a specific menu for dinner, with ingredients they didn’t have.

Diego’s nanny, a somewhat absent-minded young woman, had locked herself in her room, feigning a headache, leaving little Diego in his playpen in the main room, supposedly under the supervision of his aunt Fernanda.

Valeria was upstairs, polishing the wooden shelves, when a sudden, absolute silence took over the ground floor.

It wasn’t the silence of a siesta, but a terrifying absence of sound. Diego’s incessant chatter, which usually filled the house, had suddenly stopped. A chill ran down Valeria’s spine, a sharp pain in her chest, so intense it took her breath away; she dropped the cloth on the desk and ran downstairs, driven by an irrational terror that told her something terrible was about to happen, something that would change their lives forever.

Upon entering the room, the scene that greeted her seemed straight out of a nightmare. Fernanda stood beside the crib, her hands clasped tightly, her face pale, her gaze lost in the void, a mixture of morbid fascination and horror. Without asking permission or considering her role as an employee, Valeria moved Fernanda aside and peered into the crib.

Diego was there, but he was no longer the smiling boy of the morning. His small body was rigid, arched in an abnormal position, his eyes were empty, and white foam with a pale green tinge was beginning to ooze from his mouth. He wasn’t breathing. Or perhaps he was breathing with unbearable difficulty, emitting a hoarse, deathly hiss.

“What did he do to her!” Valeria shouted, not to question, but to accuse, as she picked up the baby. The child’s body was burning hot and trembling violently.

“I… I don’t know, I gave her her milk and suddenly…” Fernanda stammered, taking a step back, but Valeria noticed a subtle aroma in the air, sweet and bitter at the same time. It smelled of almond, but also of flowers, an aroma she knew very well because her grandmother, a mountain healer, had taught her to fear it: oleander.

Valeria glanced toward the coffee table. There, next to the half-empty baby bottle, was a vase with beautiful oleander flowers, but some leaves and stems were missing.

The truth hit her hard. It wasn’t an accident. Fernanda had prepared a deadly infusion, a potent homemade poison, to stop the heart of the only heir who stood between her and the Valdés fortune.

“Call an ambulance, immediately!” Valeria ordered in an authoritarian tone she had never used before, placing Diego face down on her forearm, his head tilted towards the ground.

Fernanda didn’t move. She remained there, paralyzed, perhaps waiting for fate to finish the work it had begun. Valeria understood she was alone. If she waited for help, Diego would die. The oleander’s poison acts quickly, causing cardiac arrest. They had to get him out of there.

She had to make him vomit, even though it broke her heart to make that child suffer. With tears in her eyes, but steady hands, Valeria inserted her fingers into the little boy’s throat, trying to trigger his gag reflex.