I caught my recovering wife’s own mother secretly sabotaging her health inside my mansion while disabling the nursery camera every morning to hide what she was doing. Everyone saw Evelyn as a devoted mother and grandmother—but the second camera I installed captured something so calculated that I finally understood why Isabella was getting weaker instead of stronger.

Dr. Marcus Vance, a discreet physician who had patched up Moretti associates for decades without asking questions, lowered his latex-gloved hands after finishing the preliminary chemical field-test on the leftover residue inside the ceramic cup Vincent’s security team had retrieved from Isabella’s room.

“Well, Vincent?” Vincent asked, his tone flat, hiding the boiling rage beneath.

Dr. Vance swallowed hard, wiping his glasses with a silk handkerchief. “It’s not an ordinary herbal tonic, Mr. Moretti. It’s a concentrated extract of Digitalis purpurea—foxglove alkaloids combined with a heavy dose of rauwolfia root.”

Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“Foxglove in these micro-doses won’t kill her outright,” Vance explained, his voice hushed. “Instead, it mimics severe chronic cardiovascular fatigue, drops blood pressure erratically, induces muscle weakness, hand tremors, and neurological fog. Combined with her postpartum recovery, it keeps the patient bedridden, confused, and utterly compliant. It completely neutralizes her nervous system while leaving no obvious trace in standard emergency blood panels unless specifically tested for plant-based cardiac glycosides.”

The silence in the library grew suffocating.

Evelyn wasn't just trying to make Isabella sick. She was keeping her prisoner in her own body, dependent on her mother's care, eroding her sanity day by day.

“How long?” Vincent asked quietly.

“At this dosage? Another two weeks of administration, and her heart would have given out completely under the guise of postpartum heart failure,” Vance said grimly.

Vincent stood up slowly. He walked over to the towering floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the snow-covered courtyard where Evelyn’s car sat parked near the carriage house.

“She wanted control,” Vincent murmured, more to himself than the doctor. “She wanted to control Isabella, control the baby, and control this house.”

“What are your orders, Mr. Moretti?” Vance asked, packing his instruments into his leather case. “Shall we call the authorities? Present the video and the toxicology report to the police?”

A cold, razor-sharp smile touched the corners of Vincent’s mouth.

“Involving the police right now turns this into a public circus, and the press will hound Isabella during her recovery,” Vincent said, turning back around. “And simply throwing Evelyn out onto the street is far too merciful for what she’s put my wife through. No... Evelyn loves playing the devoted mother. Let’s see how she handles playing the patient in a game where she doesn't know the rules.”