Chapter 2

I sat on the bench in the surgical prep area. My legs had gone completely numb, but I didn't dare stand up. I could only dial his number, over and over, like a machine.

Every single call was ruthlessly rejected.

Through the glass doors, Noah was strapped to the hospital bed, his eyes covered in gauze while the nurse administered pre-op treatments.

His tiny hands grabbed at the bedsheets, tossing around as if he were trying to find me in the dark.

The electronic screen on the wall flashed its digits coldly.

Time remaining for optimal surgery window: 2 hours 31 minutes.

Finally, the call went through.

This time, Damian answered it himself.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" His voice flared with anger right out of the gate. "A dozen missed calls. Are you trying to force my hand, or are you trying to throw the port into chaos?"

I forced myself to compress my words to the bare minimum: "Noah has acute retinopathy. The doctor says if he doesn't get surgery within three hours, he could go permanently blind. We need you here to sign."

A cold sneer came through the receiver. "Just because you're jealous of Viola, you're dragging the kid into this act?"

My fingertips stiffened. "This is a doctor's diagnosis."

"You've always been an expert at exaggerating, haven't you?" he snapped impatiently. "'Acute', 'permanently blind in three hours'—it sounds exactly like the kind of garbage you'd make up to scare me. Elena, rein in your damn jealousy!"

"This is from the doctor," I gritted my teeth. "Do you want me to drag the attending physician out here to repeat it to your face?"

"I don't have time to entertain this drama of yours," Damian cut me off coldly. "Viola was just attacked. The port is currently the negotiation site for two major families. I have to guarantee her safety and the safety of everyone here, rather than being dragged away by your phone calls."

I tried to say something else, but he had already handed down his final verdict:

"Don't call again. I am not abandoning the port or Viola for your made-up scripts. Effective immediately, you are blacklisted from the Rossi network. No one is allowed to take your calls. Let the legal team handle any legal procedures you need."

He hung up, clean and decisive.

I dialed again—and a prompt immediately popped up: [The other party has added you to their blacklist]

I tried Alec, the Family's lawyer, anyone connected to the Rossi family. I got the exact same prompt every time.

The entire world went instantly quiet.

The only thing left was the electronic screen, continuing its cold countdown.

Time remaining for optimal surgery window: 2 hours 18 minutes.

The doctor walked up to me for the third time. "Ma'am, we really cannot let you sign in his stead. You have no legal status in America, and a high-risk surgery must be confirmed by a legal guardian or an authorized lawyer."

"How long would a lawyer take?" I asked.

"Two to three hours, at the fastest," he said. "But the child's surgical window..."

He didn't finish his sentence.

My hands slowly dropped to my sides. "Then... just do whatever conservative treatments you can."

The doctor nodded heavily. "We will do our absolute best. But in this situation, without a top-tier ophthalmologist, conservative treatment is almost incapable of reversing optic nerve damage."

I didn't have a top-tier specialist, and I didn't have legal status.

All I had was a phone.

The light above the operating room flicked on, displaying "In Surgery."

I backed away to the end of the hallway, pressing my spine against the freezing wall. Helplessly, I scrolled through my contacts—the Family doctor, private clinics, ophthalmic consultants I had once seen at the estate... every name slipped under my thumb.

Not a single one of them could save Noah in this given moment.

Just then, a notification popped up on my screen.

[@Elena]

It was Instagram.

My heart constricted almost reflexively—very few people knew about this private account of mine.

I tapped the notification. It was from Viola's account.

She had just posted an update and specifically tagged me.

I stared at that line of text, hesitated for a second, and clicked it open.

When the image loaded, my breath hitched.

In the picture, Viola looked radiant. Sitting beside her was Damian and her son.

The three of them were in an upscale restaurant with soft, warm lighting, the table laden with an extravagant meal.

Her boy was holding a glass of juice, smiling as he brought it to Damian's lips. Damian lowered his head, cooperatively taking a sip, before patiently cutting a steak for him.

The caption read:

[Thank you, sister-in-law, for being so generous and temporarily lending Damian to our family.]

Boom.

It felt as if my brain had been struck by lightning.

Lending him to your family?

What was going on? Wasn't she just "attacked"? Wasn't she "in danger and in need of his protection"? Why was she in a high-end restaurant, having dinner with her son and Damian?

My hands shook like I had Parkinson's. Like a madwoman, I clicked into her profile.

In the past hour, she had posted three updates in a row.

The first was a photo outside a warehouse.

Behind an abandoned building, with the night sky pressing down, Damian was shielding her as they rushed out of the shadows. She was leaning against his chest, her hair slightly messy, but her smile was filled with utter contentment.

The caption:

[Just like when we were kids. As long as we stand side by side, there is no enemy we can't defeat.]

The second was the picture of the restaurant I just saw.

Viola was smiling brightly as she wiped a tiny stain off Damian's suit. Her son sat on Damian's lap, looking exactly like a happy family returning from an amusement park.

The caption:

[After the scare, the happiest thing of all is family enjoying a peaceful dinner together.]

The third was a video.

In the restaurant's lounge area, the three of them sat on a sofa playing a family trivia game. Viola's son laughed, tackling Damian into a hug, holding up a trivia card for him to guess. Damian wore a rare, genuine smile, letting the boy throw his arms around his neck while he whispered a hint for the answer.

The background music was a cheerful family tune.

And during all this time, my son was in the hospital, his eyes pressed beneath gauze, crying under the surgical lights because he couldn't see his mother clearly.

My heart cooled inch by inch, until it felt hollowed out.

So, the so-called "attack at the port" and "dangers at the safe house" were nothing but a beautiful play they acted out together, followed by a celebratory feast.

So, the "Family interests" he spouted were just him playing house with her and her child.

I suddenly wanted to laugh, but I couldn't. I could only stare at the screen, watching every frame of their happiness stab into my eyes like a handful of knives.

I locked my phone screen, unlocked it, locked it, and unlocked it again—as if repeating this meaningless action would somehow change the images, turn back time, and make Damian turn around and head to the hospital.

Nothing changed.

Only the lights in the hospital corridor glared back at me, so intensely bright I could barely keep my eyes open.

I don't know how long passed before the lights above the operating room finally went out.

The doctor walked out and pulled down his surgical mask, his eyes holding clear exhaustion and apology. "Ma'am, we did our best. We used conservative methods to try and clear the lesions, but the damage to his optic nerve has exceeded the reversible limit."

I grabbed his sleeve with a death grip. "What does that mean?"

"Medically, it's called irreversible damage," he lowered his voice. "In simple terms, it means permanent blindness."

My hand went slack, and I nearly hit the floor.

"Will he..." I could barely push the sound out of my throat, "...never be able to see anything again?"

"As it stands, yes," the doctor said. "We will continue to observe him to see if he can retain a very faint perception of light. But even if he does, it won't fundamentally alter how it affects his daily life."

I stood rooted to the spot for a long, long time.

Only when a nurse reminded me did I finally walk to the ward.

When Noah woke up, it was already night outside.

The lights in the ward were dimmed to their gentlest setting, the curtains half-drawn. Light from the hallway slipped in through the crack in the door, painting the entire room in a warm, pale yellow.

His eyelashes fluttered, and he slowly opened his eyes.

Those eyes had no focus.

Within his dark pupils, there was only a vast, dead silence. The light fell into them, triggering absolutely no reaction.

"Mommy?" he called out tentatively.

I quickly grabbed his hand and pressed it against my cheek. "I'm right here."

"Did I... have the surgery?" he asked softly.

"You did," I forced a small smile. "You were so brave."

He hummed an "Mm," and a few seconds later, his hand suddenly reached into the air. His fingertips traced the empty space, catching nothing.

"Mommy, did you turn off the lights?" he tilted his head, asking in confusion.

The lights in the corridor were blinding, and the lamp in the ward was clearly on.

I held onto his icy little hand, tears pooling in my eyes. "The lights aren't turned off."

"But I can't see anything," he gripped my hand tightly, a suppressed sob trembling in his voice. "Even with my eyes open... it's all black."

I finally broke down. My entire body collapsed, and I slumped over his pillow, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Noah... my poor baby. Mommy is so sorry..."