Michael froze at the doorway, his pulse hammering in his ears. Something about the scene before him didn’t sit right. Gloria, the maid, was seated beside Emily with a glass jar in her hands—something Michael didn’t recognize. Every fiber of his being screamed that he needed to stay calm, but his instincts were already on high alert.
He pushed the door open, his voice controlled but firm. “Gloria.”
Startled, Gloria nearly dropped the jar. “Mr. Whitmore! I—I didn’t expect you back today.”
Michael’s gaze locked onto the container. “What is this?” he asked, pointing to it, his voice laced with restrained anger.
Gloria swallowed hard. “It’s just some homemade applesauce,” she said quickly. “Emily liked it the last time, so I thought I’d make her more.”
Michael frowned, the weight of his concern deepening. “You should have informed me—or the nutritionist. Everything Emily eats is monitored for a reason.”
Gloria lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to overstep. I just wanted her to have something comforting… something that reminded her of home.”
Michael’s jaw tightened, but he could hear the sincerity in her tone. Still, protocol existed for a reason—one that involved Emily’s fragile health.
