Chapter 5
Audrey‘s POV:
If it weren’t for Grandma Margaret’s insistence, I wouldn’t have spent another minute in this house.
The Bailey mansion might look like a palace from the outside, but to me, it had always felt like a beautifully decorated prison.
Once inside my room, I slammed the door and leaned against it.
My eyes burned with unshed tears as I fought to maintain my composure.
I had fooled myself into thinking I was healed, that I’d grown strong enough to mention my child’s death without falling apart.
I was wrong.
The loss of my baby remained an eternal wound in my heart, a pain so fundamental it had become part of my very being.
I closed my eyes, the memories of four years ago flooding back with merciless clarity.
Samuel West—the mysterious businessman whose face no one had seen—had specifically requested a marriage contract with the Bailey family’s biological daughter.
But Sienna, convinced that a man who wouldn’t show his face must be old and hideous, had adamantly refused.
With the Bailey financial empire teetering on the edge of collapse, Eleanor and George were desperate.
But not desperate enough to force their precious Sienna into a situation that made her uncomfortable.
They needed another solution. And there I was, having just given birth to my child.
I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
They never even offered me a choice. Not once did they sit me down and explain the situation, ask for my help.
If they had simply asked, I likely would have agreed to save the family.
Instead, they took my baby and used that innocent life as leverage, knowing I would do anything to keep my child safe.
“Do what we say, or you’ll never see your child again,” he’d threatened back then, his voice as casual as if discussing a business transaction rather than my flesh and blood.
And then, after I had walked into that contract marriage with a stranger, they delivered their final cruelty: telling me my baby had died.
I refused to accept it, but their response haunts me to this day.
“Dead is dead,” George had shrugged, while Eleanor examined her manicure. “It was just a bastard anyway. You should be thanking us for cleaning up your mess p>
A mess. That’s what they called my child.
As if my baby had been nothing more than an inconvenience to be disposed of.
I wiped a stray tear from my cheek. I would definitely uncover the truth of that year, and no one would escape then.
My emotional outburst had left me drained.
The loud growl from my stomach broke the silence of the room. I pressed my hand against my abdomen, realizing I hadn’t actually eaten anything substantial.
I’d been so focused on confronting George and the others that food had been the last thing on my mind.
Now, however, my body was demanding attention.
Grabbing my purse and jacket, I headed for the door.
The night air felt liberating as I walked away from the Bailey mansion.
In the heart of the city, I was drawn to a small restaurant with warm lighting and relatively few patrons.
“Table for one,” I told the hostess, who led me to a corner booth with a good view of both the entrance and the rest of the restaurant.
I ordered quickly and was just about to take my first bite when I felt it—that unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Glancing up, I spotted the source: a small boy, no more than four years old, tucked away in a corner booth.
He wasn’t looking at me, exactly, but at my plate of food, his eyes wide and hungry.
As if sensing my attention, he quickly averted his eyes, suddenly finding the wall beside him fascinatingly interesting.
I smiled at his poor attempt at nonchalance.
He was beautiful— large eyes framed by long lashes, his face clean and delicate.
Everything about him, from his perfectly combed hair to his clearly custom-tailored clothing, screamed wealth and careful attention.
This was certainly not an ordinary child.
Yet there he sat, eyeing my food like he hadn’t eaten in days.
I was about to continue with my meal when I heard it—the unmistakable sound of a small gulp as he swallowed.
The sound made me laugh helplessly.
The boy’s eyes darted to mine, caught between embarrassment and curiosity.
I smiled and waved him over. “Hey there,” I called softly. “Would you like to join me p>
He didn’t move, just stared at me with a mixture of longing and suspicion.
This cautious gaze inexplicably made me feel a twinge of pain.
I set down my fork and walked over, then crouched in front of him so we were eye to eye.
Up close, his features were even more striking.
“I’m Audrey,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “And I have way too much food for just one person. Would you like to share my dinner with me p>
I extended my hand, palm up, making an inviting gesture.
He took a small step back, studying me with an intensity.
His eyes darted between my face and my outstretched hand as if calculating some complex equation.
Then, seemingly having made up his mind, he reached out with a small, hesitant hand and placed it in mine.
His touch was light, ready to pull away at the slightest sign of danger.
I smiled reassuringly and gently guided him back to my table.
Despite the hunger evident in his gaze, he didn’t pounce on the food the moment it was before him.
Instead, he carefully unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap, his tiny fingers arranging it with practiced precision.
When he finally began to eat, it was with the same controlled elegance—back straight, small bites, chewing thoroughly before swallowing.
The sight made my heart constrict.
What kind of parents teach a child perfect etiquette but fail to make sure he’s properly fed?
Once we’d both eaten our fill, I found myself in an unexpected predicament.
The boy sat across from me, hands folded in his lap, watching me with those enormous eyes.
“What’s your name?” I asked gently.
No response. Just that steady gaze.
“Are you here with someone? Your parents? A nanny p>
He shook his head.
I was somewhat surprised to get a response and continued asking questions.
“Do you come alone p>
He nodded.
I stared at him, processing this information. He seemed to answer questions only by nodding or shaking his head, but at least he was communicating now.
The realization that this beautifully dressed, perfectly mannered four-year-old was wandering the city alone at night struck me as both shocking and concerning.
I glanced around the restaurant, searching for anyone who might be looking for a missing child, but saw only couples and business dinners.
No frantic adults searching for a wandering boy.
The waiter approached, eyebrow raised questioningly as he looked between me and my silent companion.
“Everything alright, ma’am p>
“Yes, fine,” I said automatically.
I couldn’t just leave him here, alone in a restaurant.
But I also couldn’t take a child I didn’t know… where, exactly? To the police?
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