“He said ‘the promise was broken.’ He’s soaked, barefoot. I can remove him—”
“Don’t,” Charles snapped. “Bring him in.”
Minutes later, the mansion’s grand doors opened.
Standing on polished marble was a boy of about eleven, drenched, shirt torn, no shoes. He trembled from the cold—but his eyes were steady and fierce.
“Let him go,” Charles ordered when Delgado gripped the boy’s arm too tightly.
The guard hesitated. “Sir, he’ll ruin the rugs—”
“I don’t care.”
The boy stepped forward.
“Are you Olivia’s dad?” he asked.
“I am. Who are you?”
“My name’s Mason. She’s not sick. She’s waiting.”
Dr. Leonard Pierce, the chief physician, descended the stairs with visible irritation.
“This is absurd,” he scoffed. “Mr. Whitmore, this child is looking for money.”
Mason ignored him. “She needs me. Just five minutes.”
“Arthur—” the doctor began.
“It’s Charles,” Whitmore corrected coldly. “And he’s going upstairs.”
Against protests, Mason ran toward Olivia’s room, leaving muddy footprints behind.
Olivia’s bedroom looked like a private ICU. Machines hummed. Tubes surrounded her fragile frame.
Mason froze at the doorway. Olivia lay pale and still, like porcelain.
“There she is,” Charles whispered.