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On Christmas Eve, my daughter, Anna Kingston, was in the emergency room, her body covered in hives and gasping for air. I kept calling my husband, Brian Kingston, over and over. "Claire, can you stop bothering me?" Brian snapped. On the other end, the music was deafening, mixed with a woman's flirtatious laughter. It was Emily Lane, the rising starlet. "I'm with a client. It's important," Brian said. "Brian, Anna's in the ER. You need to come home now," I said, my voice trembling. "Here we go again. How serious could it be?" Brian scoffed. He let out an impatient laugh, his tone icy and indifferent. "Emily's allergic to mangoes. She didn't eat any tonight. I need to stay with her." He slammed the call shut, leaving me with nothing but silence. I stood rooted to the spot, feeling my blood slowly turn to ice. The doctor walked out with the test results, looking serious. "She's having a severe allergic reaction. It's that stuffed bear she brought with her. It's covered in a really strong perfume," the doctor explained. That was the same bear Emily had handed Anna earlier that afternoon. She said it was a Christmas present for Anna.