Chapter 5
Vivian's POV
Once Jason stepped in, the targeted comments were scrubbed clean within hours. Every harassing call and message was logged and forwarded to the police.
The results came back exactly as I had expected — all of it traced to a single troll farm, contracted by the same company. I didn't need to guess who had given the order.
But I had no time for that reckoning yet. The projects Jason had assigned me cut across several advanced interdisciplinary fields, and the pace in a new environment left no room for distraction. That relentlessness was, in its way, a gift.
That same evening, I had just come back from a meeting and was barely through the apartment door when my phone screen lit up.
Allen.
I stared at his name for a moment, then answered.
"Mom! Where are you? Come home right now and make me a grilled cheese. And the bear-shaped cookies — Barbara can't get them right and Hazel doesn't know how, so you have to come back and make them. Come back!"
He didn't miss me. He missed what I made for him.
I leaned against the cool wall, the Sunlight City sunset burning orange and gold through the window — beautiful, and entirely out of reach from where I stood.
"Allen, Mommy's working far away right now. If you want a grilled cheese, ask Barbara to keep practicing, or have Hazel pick something up for you."
"I don't want that! I only want yours!" His voice climbed sharply. "Come home now! Hazel says you're hiding from us on purpose. She says you don't love me!"
Hazel says.
I closed my eyes. When I opened them, something that had been struggling to hold on had finally let go.
"Allen, I need you to listen to me." My voice was quieter than it had ever been with him — and more distant. "Things are different now. I won't always be available when you call. If you need something, go to the people who are there with you. I have my own work. I have my own life."
There was a brief silence on the other end. Then it broke — into shrieking, into crying, into a stream of words that came fast and sharp and aimed precisely.
"Bad mommy! Bad mommy! I don't want you! Hazel is better than you at everything! You're nothing!"
Those words were designed to land, and they did.
I did not hang up immediately. I pressed Record.
I waited until Allen's voice had gone ragged, until the shouting faded into crying and the crying faded into murmuring — just the repeated, exhausted refrain of I want Hazel — and then I spoke.
"Are you finished? Alright then. Goodbye. Don't call unless something important has happened."
I ended the call.
The apartment was absolutely silent.
I sat down on the floor and stayed there for a long while without moving.
Then I opened WhatsApp, found Dylan's thread, and sent the recording. One line of text beneath it: Mr. Hudson, your son's education could use some attention. I've done everything I can. I'm stepping back.
Send.
Dylan's response came quickly — a voice message. I braced for the usual: accusations, demands, that signature tone of barely restrained contempt.
But his voice, when it played, was different. There was urgency in it. The kind that cuts through.
"Allen's been hurt. Get to the hospital. Now."
My chest seized. I called him back directly.
"Where are you?" Dylan's voice was tight with controlled fury. "Children's hospital. Allen fell down the stairs. He hit his head."
I couldn't breathe for a moment. "How did he fall? How bad is it?"
"What do you think?" The sarcasm was sharp. "He's got a laceration on his forehead. They're keeping him for observation. The doctor says a mild concussion can't be ruled out. And this is because of you."
"Because of me?" Something close to disbelief broke into my voice. "Dylan, I've been in Sunlight City for days. Your son fell down the stairs. How is that mine?"
"Hazel said after Allen got off the phone with you, he wouldn't stop crying. He kept saying his mother didn't want him anymore. She couldn't get him calm. He suddenly bolted for the stairs saying he was going to find you — she went after him but he was already falling."
His fury finally broke the surface. "Are you seriously willing to use your own child's safety as a weapon, Vivian? How far have you sunk?"
I held the phone very still.
"Dylan. Do you genuinely believe I'm capable of that?"
A short silence.
"I don't want to argue about it. Come to the hospital. You're his mother. Your place is here."
"I'm coming."
I hung up, pulled up the next available flight, and found one with two hours to departure. I grabbed my coat and my bag and ran.
After a long, sleepless night of travel, I arrived at Oceancrest Children's Hospital in the gray light of early morning.
The corridor was quiet, white, and still.
I pushed open the door to his room.
Allen was in the bed, pale, head wrapped in bandaging, already asleep — but even in sleep, his small forehead was faintly creased. Hazel sat at his bedside, one hand over his where it rested on top of the blanket, her eyes red and swollen.
When she saw me, she blinked, and then arranged her face into something soft. "Vivian. You came."
Dylan was standing at the window. He turned at the sound of the door. His expression did not warm. "You actually showed up."
I didn't respond to either of them. I walked directly to the bedside and let my gaze settle on Allen's face.
The pain arrived without warning — sudden and acute, cutting straight through the numbness. He was still my son. I reached out to touch his forehead, and stopped when I saw the bandaging. My hand stayed suspended in the air.
"What did the doctor say?" My voice had gone rough without my meaning it to.
Hazel answered before Dylan could. She lifted her reddened eyes, voice catching. "This is completely my fault. I wasn't watching him closely enough. After your call he was inconsolable — he kept saying his mommy thought he was bad and didn't want him anymore, and I couldn't reach him no matter what I tried. He suddenly ran, said he was going to find you — I went after him, but he was already at the bottom of the stairs—"
"Mild concussion. Observation for a few days. No impact to the head in the meantime." Dylan's eyes were steady and heavy on mine. "You heard what she said. Are you satisfied?"
I straightened slowly. I turned to Hazel.
"Hazel." My voice was quiet enough that her own crying stopped. "Did you tell Allen that I thought he was bad and didn't want him anymore?"
Her eyes flickered. Then the hurt resurfaced, more emphatic than before. "I would never say something like that. I was trying to reassure him. I told him you didn't mean it, that you were just busy—"
"I recorded the call between Allen and me. Mr. Hudson has already heard it." I moved my attention to Dylan. "Did I say a single unkind word to him?"
Dylan studied me for a moment. Something in his expression shifted — not much, but enough to be visible. He did not speak.
"We'll discuss it when Allen's awake," he said at last.
Allen came around close to midday.
He opened his eyes, took one look at me sitting at his bedside, and his face fell. "Go away. I don't want you here. I want Hazel!"
I didn't move. I turned my face toward Dylan.
"Allen." Dylan's voice came out measured and firm. "Is that any way to speak to your mother?"
Allen pulled back slightly, though his expression toward me remained unchanged.
"Allen." Dylan's tone shifted — serious now. "I want you to tell me exactly what happened. How did you get hurt?"
The question landed, and Allen's eyes went immediately and involuntarily to Hazel — standing just behind me.
Hazel stepped forward at once. "Mr. Hudson, he just woke up. Let's not frighten him with all this so soon." She turned to Allen with practiced softness. "Don't be scared, sweetheart. Daddy just wants to understand what happened. You can tell him anything."
Allen looked between Dylan and me. Then he shaped his face into something small and pitiable, and began to cry.
"I... I just wanted Mommy to notice me. She said not to call unless it was something important. But if I got hurt, she'd have to come. I'm sorry, Daddy, don't be angry with me..."
Hazel pulled him close and made soft, consoling sounds.
The cold moved through me all the way down.
A five-year-old child does not come up with something like that on his own. I knew, with a certainty that settled in my bones, exactly where those words had come from. Allen. Are you saying what Hazel told you to say?
"Vivian." Dylan's voice cut across my thoughts, anger barely leashed beneath it. "You used your own son's safety to try to manipulate the situation. Can you even hear yourself? What kind of mother does that?"
I raised my head and looked at him.
