Chapter 8

Ivy POV

I looked up.

Cal had pushed the bowl of egg whites to the edge of the table, and then it shattered on the floor.

"Cal—" Martha began.

The vegetable puree was second, that indistinguishable green mass splattered across the floor.

"Enough." Martha leaned over the boy's head, somewhat irritably. "Everything on the tray must be eaten, or else—"

Cal picked up the plate of chicken.

Martha's voice turned cold. "Cal Stone. Stop right now, or I will discipline you!"

He looked straight at her.

He threw it.

Missed—but the message was clear enough.

"This is completely unacceptable—" Martha roared.

She forcefully pinned Cal down.

Cal began to struggle, but he was just a thin child after all.

He had already started kicking, thrashing, fighting desperately, completely disregarding the possibility of injury.

Martha cursed.

"I told you you're a freak! Damn it! You must be put in time-out today! You're not allowed out without my permission!"

She raised her hand high, preparing to aim at some part of the child's body.

And Cal showed no intention of dodging at all; instead, he took the opportunity to grab the oatmeal!

Luna let out a cry: "Don't!"

Martha instinctively stepped back, as if worried Cal would splash the oatmeal on her.

I moved.

I couldn't explain what drove me to do it, but my legs rushed forward before I gave the command.

I lunged to his side, pulling him away from Martha's grasp while snatching away the bowl of oatmeal.

"Careful." I grabbed his small hand. "Did you get burned?"

He was breathing rapidly, and there was a red spot on his finger.

Sure enough, he had been burned, though fortunately not seriously. He didn't cry, just stared angrily with wide eyes and kicked his legs.

"Don't move," I simply pulled him completely into my arms, carrying him away from that spot.

"There are ceramic shards."

Luna hurried over, scolding Cal: "Glass, ceramic, and fire! Didn't your mother teach you to stay away from these things?"

Cal's body stiffened.

"Hey," I said softly, telling her to stop.

Luna sighed like a little adult: "Fine, well now you know."

She carefully examined both mine and Cal's hands for injuries.

Cal looked at me.

Still maintaining his position in my arms.

He no longer looked as agitated as before, his eyes just very bright.

For some inexplicable reason, I was reluctant to put him down.

This child was too light; if every meal was as painful for him as this one, I couldn't bear to imagine how miserable he must be.

From above, Martha's voice rang out again. "Ms. Vane, your current behavior is actively undermining—"

"I'm not."

"You are interfering with an established behavioral framework—"

"Martha." I placed one hand on Cal's back. "He's four. He's in an empty house, eating plain boiled chicken by himself."

"He is receiving appropriate—"

"He's in pain." I didn't have time to soften that word before it came out. "No matter how well-designed your system is—I'm sure extensive research went into it, I'm sure the intentions were good—it's not working. A child who feels safe and loved doesn't throw food across the room as a way to make that noise stop."

Silence.

"He's not a problem that needs optimizing," I said. "He's a child who had a terrible afternoon, and you're the one causing him pain!"

Martha stared at me, her eyes like a venomous snake preparing to strike.

"I will report this to Mr. Stone."

"Fine," I said, "but until Mr. Stone asks me to leave this house, I'll be here, continuing my work."

We locked eyes, neither backing down first.

However, Cal became agitated again. He broke free from me, returned to the food cart and grabbed another plate, raising it with a desperate, self-destructive fury as if ready to shatter himself along with it—

"No, put it down, sweetheart." I immediately held him tight again. "Let me handle this, trust me."

His small body's chest heaved violently.

But he stopped.

I looked at Martha.

"Please leave for a moment."

I didn't know where I found the courage, as a small designer who had come seeking work, to say those words to a nanny highly trusted in this mansion.

But I said it: "He's emotionally unstable right now. Please leave."

Martha was incredulous. "You're ordering me? You..."

Cal struggled in my arms.

It took me only a second to make up my mind.

I had told him to "trust me," and I had to live up to that trust.

I stood up and said to Martha: "Let's talk outside."

Without waiting for her response, I gave Luna a look and went straight to pull Martha toward the door.

"Let go! How dare you? You..."

She struggled, but she wasn't as strong as me.

Thank God, the experience of raising a child alone in Paris had given me the strength to pull her away.

The power she relied on, the power to lord over a four-year-old, meant nothing in front of me.

I dragged her out the door without explanation, closed it behind me with my other hand, then blocked it with my body.

"Let the child calm down for a bit, it's better for all of us. Don't worry about safety, Luna will watch her."

Martha's voice crashed into the hallway like a fire alarm.

"Open the door immediately. You have no authority here. None whatsoever. When Mr. Stone hears about this—"

"He can hear about it." I leaned against the door, not moving. "I'll tell him myself."

"You'll be driven out of this city—"

"Maybe." I kept my voice steady. "But not in the next ten minutes."

She took a sharp breath and made a phone call.

A minute later, heavier footsteps approached rapidly.

"What's going on?" Wesley's voice was cautious and restrained. "Ms. Vane?"

Martha pointed at the door. "She left Cal in there!"

Wesley's expression was extremely shocked. "He's alone in there? Move! Now!"

"It's not locked," I said. "You can go in and check. My daughter is inside too."

He glanced at me, put his hand on the doorknob, pushed it open a crack, and looked inside. Then he closed the door again and turned to me.

His expression was still cautious, but his shoulders dropped slightly.

"I know you've been in this house for a long time. I know you care about Cal."

"Then you should know I wouldn't allow a stranger to block this door."

He said without room for argument: "Ms. Vane, it seems you're not suitable for this job. Please leave."

Martha's voice emerged from behind him, sharp and certain, with the tone only someone who has walked this path for twenty-two years without ever being questioned could have.

"Exactly, Wesley. She even assaulted me just now."

"I asked you to leave the room—"

"You physically pushed me! I'm a certified behavioral intervention specialist, ABA licensed, with twenty-two years of experience. I've cared for more children than you've ever met, and you—" there was something in her voice almost like looking down from a height at something, "you're just a fashion designer. You came here to take his measurements. This isn't your field, this isn't your child, what gives you the right—"

"Cal almost burned his hand."

"That was before you barged in and disrupted order—"

"That bowl was hot when it was in his hands," I said. "He was already emotionally agitated, no one was thinking about why, you just wanted to use your adult strength to make him shut up and eat, and you wanted to hit him!"

"You're bullying a child!"

Wesley stopped.

"As long as she's in that room, he won't be able to calm down. In his current state, he can't even cry—how do you expect him to speak?"

A beat of silence.

I heard Martha take a deep breath, as if recalibrating herself.

"Ms. Vane," her voice became very flat, that kind of calm more difficult to deal with than anger, "I understand you may have had good intentions today. But good intentions don't equal professionalism. Cal's behavioral patterns require a systematically assessed intervention framework backed by experts, not—"

She paused, and that pause itself was a judgment, "someone who brings their own child to work, rushing in on feeling alone."

That fire in my chest burned.

I didn't move.

"Wesley," Martha turned to him, her tone carrying a hint of summoning, as if reminding him which side to stand on, "this is the Stone house. Behind this door is the Stone family's child. If this person causes any harm to Cal—"

Wesley looked at her, then at me. "I'm contacting Mr. Stone now."

"If he asks me to have you leave—"

"Then I'll go." I was serious. "But right now, I'm only asking for ten minutes. That's all."

Stone began dialing.

No one answered for a long time.

I didn't know how many minutes passed, only that it felt very long.

Long enough that I started organizing in my head what to say to Mr. Stone. Long enough that I started accepting that this commission was probably finished before it even began, started wondering whether Elena would show that carefully cautious disappointment when I told her, or would she just sigh and find someone else—

I needed this job.

But I couldn't ignore that child's pain even more...

Martha spoke again, her voice already carrying the certainty of an ending: "Wesley, Mr. Stone is busy right now. If you don't ask her to leave, I'll contact security, and also—"

Behind me, the door opened.