Chapter Seven

An hour bled into two. The sterile white lights of the hospital lobby felt like a slow torture. I sat on a hard plastic chair, my arms still wrapped tightly around Lenon.

She had finally cried herself to sleep, her small body resting heavily against my chest. Luka stood a few feet away, leaning against the wall. True to his orders, his eyes never left me, but his expression was soft with pity.

Every time the double doors swung open, my heart stopped.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the main surgeon walked out of the operating room. He was pulling down his blue mask, his face lined with exhaustion but relaxed.

Mr. De La Fontaine stood up instantly from the corner of the waiting room, his tall frame tense as he moved toward the medical man.

"How is she?" his voice rasped, the raw panic from earlier still vibrating beneath his words.

The doctor gave a reassuring nod. "She is stable, Mr. De La Fontaine. She is doing okay. The head injury looked worse than it was—the bleeding was heavy, but the scan shows no internal swelling or brain damage. She did sprain her right hand pretty badly during the fall, but we have already bandaged it up. She is a very lucky little girl."

A visible tremor ran through Mr. De La Fontaine’s shoulders. The invisible wall of tension holding him together seemed to crack just a fraction, a heavy breath escaping his lips.

"Can I see her?" he demanded immediately, his feet already shifting toward the corridor.

"Sure, you can go in," the doctor replied, but then his expression shifted, a look of deep hesitation crossing his features. He lowered his voice, glancing briefly toward the chart in his hands. "But sir... there is a problem. She is awake, but she is highly agitated. She keeps requesting for her mommy. And everyone knows—"

"Enough," Mr. De La Fontaine snapped.

The word was sharp, slicing through the doctor's sentence like a blade. The cold, dangerous mask was right back on his face. He didn't let the man finish talking about his dead wife. He didn't want to hear the word mommy spoken by anyone else in this building.

"I know what my daughter needs," he said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet whisper.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and marched down the corridor, disappearing through the heavy doors that led to the recovery rooms.

I sat frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs as I looked down at Lenon. The silence in the waiting room returned, heavy and suffocating. Luka didn't move from his spot, but the tension in his shoulders told me he was just as terrified of what would happen next as I was.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

Suddenly, the corridor doors swung open with a violent force.

Mr. De La Fontaine strode back into the lobby, his face flushed with a mixture of desperate defeat and uncontrolled fury. He looked like a man who had just fought a war and lost. From down the hall, I could faintly hear the muffled sounds of high-pitched crying and items being thrown.

Noa was throwing a massive tantrum, refusing to let anyone touch her.

He didn't say a single word. He crossed the lobby in three long, predatory strides, stopping right in front of my chair.

Before I could even process his movement, his large hand wrapped around my wrist. His grip was tight, commanding, and unyielding as he hauled me upward.

"Hey! Gentle, please," I gasped, stumbling as I tried to carefully transfer the sleeping Lenon into Luka’s arms. Luka quickly stepped forward, taking the sleeping girl before she could wake up.

Mr. De La Fontaine didn't care about my protests. He didn't care about the dirty looks from the hospital staff. He just dragged me by the hand, forcing me to keep up with his angry, rapid pace as he pulled me down the sterile hallway. His knuckles were white, and his skin was hot against my cold wrist.

He yanked open the door to Room 214 and practically shoved me inside.

The room was a mess. A plastic cup lay on the floor, spilled water pooling on the linoleum, and a nurse was cowering in the corner, holding a tray of bandages.

On the hospital bed, tiny Noa was thrashing, her left hand clawing at the sheets while her right arm hung stiffly in a thick, white bandage.

Tears and sweat had matted her blonde waves to her face, and her chest heaved with ragged, hysterical sobs. She didn't want to see the nurse. She didn't want to see her father.

But the moment the door clicked shut and her tear-filled eyes landed on me, the screaming stopped.

The silence that followed was instant. Noa blinked, her lips trembling as a breathtaking, radiant smile broke through her tear-stained face. All the anger completely vanished from her little body.

"Mommy!" she shouted, her small voice cracking with pure, innocent joy. "Mommy, you're here! You didn't leave!"

My heart shattered into a million pieces for the second time that day. I looked at her, so small and broken in that giant hospital bed, and the last shred of my hesitation died.

I didn't care about the billionaire watching us with a dark, brooding glare from the door. I didn't care that this was a lie. Right now, this little girl needed a mother, and I knew exactly what it felt like to drown in the dark without one.

I rushed to the side of the bed, climbing onto the mattress, and gently pulled her into my arms.

"I'm here, sweetie," I whispered, wrapping my arms around her small, fragile frame. "I'm right here. Shh, it's okay."

Noa buried her face into the crook of my neck, her small, uninjured hand instantly gripping the lapel of my stained coat. She breathed me in, hitching a sleepy, comforted sigh against my skin. "I knew you would come," she whimpered, her tiny body finally relaxing against mine. "Don't go away again, Mommy."

"I'm not going anywhere," I murmured, gently stroking her messy blonde waves as I officially stepped into the shoes of a ghost.