Seraphine straightened, satisfied with the fear she thought she’d planted. “Good,” she said, brushing imaginary dust from her coat. “Next time, I won’t be so patient.”
That night, I made the call.
Two nights later, the plan unfolded quietly. The hospital issued a false report: Elias Calder, deceased. Kidney failure.
But Elias wasn’t gone. He slept in my arms, small and safe, wrapped in a blanket, unaware of the chaos we’d left behind. My mother had arranged everything—forged documents, private jet, new identity.
Because if they thought they could be happy with me gone, they were wrong. I would take my son with me.
As the plane ascended, city lights fading below, my heart ached—not from betrayal this time, but from the bittersweet relief of freedom.
Outside the window, the sky stretched wide, endless. A new beginning painted in gold and gray.
Meanwhile, back in the city, Adrian stormed into the hospital room where Elias’s bed should have been. His face drained of color, voice trembling.
“Where’s my son?” he demanded.
The nurse’s voice shook. “I’m sorry, Mr. Calder… he… he didn’t make it.”