Chapter 6: Serves You Right for Having No Mother

Helen's POV

It was already three hours later when I finally saw Agatha's missed calls.

The night before, I had shut myself inside my private research lab, working through a new set of underlying models for physiological prediction.

I adjusted parameters again and again, swapped out algorithms, and wrestled with the data through the entire night.

By the time I emerged, it was already noon the following day.

I was exhausted and hungry, and my phone had died somewhere along the way.

I settled onto the couch to rest, plugged the phone in to charge, and only after it powered back on did I discover Agatha's missed calls.

Twelve of them.

I could almost picture her cursing under her breath, pacing and fuming, and finally hurling her phone across the room.

After all, that dinner party had been her finest opportunity to remind everyone exactly where she stood.

Salford and Kael had never cared for the kind of formal family banquet she envisioned.

The whole household had refused to play along.

In the past, I had bent over backward trying to please her, pouring every bit of effort I had into organizing those dinners, doing my best to satisfy her and Kael and old Mr. Nightingale all at once.

But none of it had ever been enough. No matter how smoothly the evening ran, she had always found a reason to look down on me.

Yesterday, she must have humiliated herself thoroughly.

But that had nothing to do with me anymore.

I wasn't about to let a woman like her ruin my mood.

I hadn't eaten anything since the previous morning, and there was nothing left in the house, so I decided to make a run to the supermarket.

My mind was still turning over last night's data models as I pulled out of the driveway, distracted enough that I was driving slower than usual—which was the only reason I had any chance at all of stopping in time when a small boy came sprinting around the corner without warning.

I slammed the brake on pure instinct.

The boy's legs buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.

I jumped out of the car and rushed to him.

He was already unconscious.

He looked to be around five or six years old, with a face that was striking even now—fine features, almost delicate—but his skin had gone the color of ash, his lips tinged an alarming blue-gray, and his entire body was burning with a fever that I could feel the moment I pressed my palm to his forehead.

I leaned in close and heard it: a faint, reedy wheeze threading through his chest with each labored breath.

But as I held still and listened, even that thin sound began to fade.

This was severe asthma on the verge of suffocation, compounded by a fever this high. A child this small, if I tried to rush him to the hospital now, might not make it in time.

I moved quickly to the trunk, retrieved my medical kit, fitted the oxygen mask over his face, and began a slow, rhythmic pressure against his abdomen with the flat of my hand.

His breathing gradually steadied.

Only then did I take a proper look at him. Beyond the striking face, his clothes and accessories were unmistakably high-end—this was a child from a wealthy family.

What I couldn't understand was why he had been running alone.

And as I studied his features more carefully, a vague sense of familiarity crept in that I couldn't quite place—a face I felt certain I had seen somewhere before, though I couldn't say where.

Once his breathing had settled into a reliable rhythm, I gathered him into my arms, got back behind the wheel, and drove as fast as I dared toward the nearest hospital.

……

After explaining the boy's condition to the attending physician, I turned to leave.

He was already being transferred to a gurney, wheeled toward the resuscitation ward, when the doll he had been clutching slipped from his arms and hit the floor.

I bent down automatically and picked it up.

The moment my fingers sank into the soft white plush, something tightened in my chest. I parted the seam along the outer layer and felt it—smooth, matte metal beneath my fingertips.

Of course.

This was the medical robot I had designed two years ago.

But how had it ended up in this child's hands? There had only ever been ten units produced. One had gone to Roxi; the rest I had given to close friends.

Did that mean this boy belonged to someone I knew?

I wasn't sure, so I decided to wait.

But the boy never came out of the ward. His parents never arrived. What came instead was a call from Thelma, and the moment I saw her name on the screen, a cold unease settled in my stomach. I answered immediately: "Thelma, what's wrong—is it Roxi?"

"Yes, ma'am. The young miss has had a peanut allergic reaction. Please come to the hospital right away."

Thelma's voice was tight with urgency.

My pulse spiked on instinct. Roxi's peanut allergy was severe—even a trace amount would send her into respiratory distress, her skin breaking out in angry red welts within minutes.

At least she was already here, in this very hospital.

I crossed the corridors in long strides and found her room.

The doctors had already administered treatment, but Roxi's condition had been serious, and she was still unconscious when I arrived.

I sat beside her bed and waited for two hours, until she finally stirred and opened her eyes.

The moment she saw me, she said nothing at all—just turned her face away from me with a sharp, deliberate motion.

I recognized the gesture. She was angry. I simply didn't know why—though I could make an educated guess: she hadn't wanted me here. The person she wanted sitting at her bedside was Ivy.

The anxiety that had been coiled tight in my chest since Thelma's call loosened quietly, leaving something flat and calm in its place.

I stood, and said to Thelma, "Take good care of her."

She didn't want me there. I saw no reason to stay.

But Roxi's anger only sharpened. She glared at my back and snapped: "Bad mommy, why did you even come? I don't want to see you ever again."

Then her gaze dropped to the doll I was still holding, and before I could react, she snatched it from my hand and hurled it hard against the floor.

I didn't have time to stop her. I watched the robot shatter on impact, components scattering across the tile in every direction.

For a moment, my mind went completely blank.

Two years ago, I had given Roxi that same robot. She hadn't kept it long before she smashed it—right in front of me, exactly like this, pieces flying apart.

And now she had done it again.

Her voice was still coming at me, sharp and triumphant: "Don't think bringing that stupid toy means I'll forgive you. I hate it. I've always hated it."

I wanted to say something, but I forced my mouth open and found nothing there.

I didn't even know what I would have said.

I crouched down and began collecting the pieces from the floor—and that was when a small figure appeared in the doorway. It was the boy I had pulled back from the edge of suffocation not two hours before.

He didn't say a word. He simply knelt beside me on the tile and started gathering the scattered components with quiet, careful hands, his head bowed.

But I still saw the tears. They fell onto the broken pieces, onto the floor between us.

I reached out to touch the top of his head, and found my hand trembling.

He had been clinging to that doll even while he was unconscious—he must have loved it dearly.

When the last piece had been collected, he lifted his face toward me. His eyes were red and swollen.

But he still forced out a small smile with visible effort. "I heard the lady saved me. I came to say thank you."

He paused, dropping his gaze to the pile of pieces cradled in his small hands. His fingers moved gently over them.

"I'm sorry," I said.

He shook his head slowly, then looked up at me again with that same effortful smile. "I know it wasn't your fault. I don't blame you."

Then he turned toward Roxi, and his voice was quiet and serious in the way that only a child's voice can be. "Having a mother is such a lucky thing. You shouldn't make yours sad."

Roxi had been indulged her entire life and had never once learned to hold her tongue. She shot back immediately: "Mind your own business. Who even are you? Where did you come from?"

Then something seemed to occur to her, and a mean little smile spread across her face. "I know—you must be some poor kid with no mom. That's why you're so annoying. Serves you right for having no mother."