“The kind who won’t let her children sleep on the street,” she said. “I was evicted this morning. If I didn’t work, there’d be no milk. If I didn’t bring them, they’d be alone. What was I supposed to do?”
Storm clouds gathered overhead. Michael felt a sharp discomfort he refused to name.
“One hour,” he said coldly. “Then you’re gone.”
Rain came fast and violent. Michael stood by the window, untouched whiskey in hand. With fifteen minutes left, he saw Emma struggling down the road, suitcase dragging, babies wrapped in plastic.
Then one baby began coughing—not crying. Emma stopped, tore away the covering, and fell to her knees.
The baby’s lips were blue.
Something inside Michael shattered.
He ran into the storm, shoes ruined, shirt soaked. He knelt beside her in the mud.
“He’s not breathing,” Emma sobbed, handing him the child.
Michael felt the fever, saw the chest collapsing inward.
“Come on,” he murmured.
He turned the baby over his arm and struck between the shoulders. Once. Twice. A third time. The baby expelled mucus and cried weakly.
Inside the house, marble floors flooded with mud. Michael didn’t care. He lit the fireplace, summoned Dr. Alvarez, and stood guard.
“He’s lucky,” the doctor said. “Acute bronchiolitis. Another hour outside, and he wouldn’t have survived.”
That night, Emma stayed with the twins—Caleb and Noah—in the living room. Michael sat awake, watching every breath.
Then the keypad beeped.
“Michael!” came a sharp voice.
Victoria Lane.
Panic struck. He rushed Emma and the babies through a hidden corridor as Victoria swept in, suspicion sharp behind her eyes. She noticed a baby bottle.
Michael lied smoothly. Victoria let it go—but watched.
Days passed in secrecy until Victoria followed them and found the truth.
“I knew it,” she sneered. “Playing family with the maid and her bastards.”
Michael stepped in front of Emma.
“Don’t speak like that.”
Victoria delivered her ultimatum. Emma chose to leave rather than ruin him.
That night, Michael found a cracked photo frame under the bed.
A woman in uniform smiled. On her lap sat a little girl—Emma. Beside her was a seven-year-old boy with a scarred knee.
“Rosa…” he whispered.
Emma was Rosa’s daughter—the woman who raised him, the only one who ever loved him unconditionally.
Michael threw Victoria out, then chased a bus bound for San Gabriel. He stopped it on the road and walked to the back.
Emma looked up, terrified.