Chapter 1

Five years after the divorce, I lived off the buildings my parents left me, played the role of a landlady, raised my kid, Charlie, and lived a pretty comfortable life.

I honestly thought I'd never see Alex Grant again.

But then Charlie spiked a high fever in the middle of the night, and I rushed him into the ER.

The nurse at triage called out, "Dr. Grant, we've got a pediatric emergency with a high fever."

I looked up—and there he was in a white coat.

He was still the same—calm, aloof, like nothing in the world could faze him.

But the moment he saw Charlie in my arms, the pen in his hand slipped to the floor.

After that, he started finding all sorts of "reasonable" excuses to show up in my life.

"Charlie needs a follow-up.

"I was passing by, so I came to check on him.

"With his constitution, you need to watch his diet. I'll write you a list."

I watched him awkwardly peel apples for Charlie, answer every wild question with endless patience, and even stand in line—still wearing his white coat—just because Charlie said he wanted KFC.

The man who once acted too cold and lofty for the mortal world suddenly felt human.

And Charlie seemed to have discovered a huge secret because he started secretly calling that handsome uncle who showed up every day "Dad."

*****

"Mom, look—Superman, pew pew!" Charlie held up an Ultraman figure with one arm missing and fired away at my face.

I was jotting numbers in a little ledger and didn't even look up when I heard him. "Charlie, that's Ultraman, not Superman. And Mrs. Walker on the third floor went over her water and electricity bill again this month. If you keep 'pew-pewing' me, I'm taking away your cartoons for a whole week."

Charlie pouted at my words.

Charlie Foster was my son, five years old, and I had raised him on my own.

My name was Anna Foster, a perfectly ordinary landlady.

My parents had passed away early, leaving me two run-down apartment buildings in the city center. That was how Charlie and I made a living.

Collecting rent, keeping the books, fixing pipes, mediating neighbor disputes—I'd turned myself into a one-woman army. As for Charlie's father, I might as well have considered him dead.

I closed the ledger and reached out to touch Charlie's forehead. It felt a little warm. My heart skipped a beat. "Charlie, are you not feeling well?"

"Nope." He was still wrestling with his Ultraman, trying to stick the arm back on. "Mom, Ultraman lost his arm. Do you think Superman will come save him?"

Kids' thoughts always jumped all over the place.

I didn't think much of it and figured the heat was just turned up too high in the apartment.

That night, after his bath, I tucked him into bed. I'd barely gotten halfway through the story when he fell asleep. His breathing sounded heavy, his cheeks flushed red, like a ripe apple.

I kissed his forehead. It was hotter. I quickly dug out the thermometer and tucked it under his arm.

Five minutes later, I held it up to the light—and my mind went blank. It was 102.6°F.

In an instant, I snapped out of my laid-back landlady mode, adrenaline surging through me. Water bills, Mrs. Walker—none of it mattered anymore. All I could think was, "My son is burning up."

I threw on his thick clothes as fast as I could, grabbed a jacket for myself, scooped him into my arms, and rushed straight out the door.

Charlie whimpered in my arms, his little body limp. "Mom... I'm burning up..."

"It's okay, sweetheart. Don't be scared. We're going to the hospital right now. The doctor will give you a shot and chase that heat away." I ran down the stairs while trying to calm him, my voice shaking.

The streets were empty in the dead of night. The cold wind sliced across my face like a blade.

I flagged down a taxi and headed straight for Central City Hospital. "Sir, please hurry—my son has a high fever."

The driver glanced at us in the rearview mirror and didn't say a word, just floored the gas.

The night scenery outside the window blurred past, and my heart raced.

In five years, I had never been this scared. Even when I was pregnant, dealing with all the paperwork on my own, and going through labor alone, I never shed a single tear. But now, holding this burning little body in my arms, it felt like the sky was falling.

When we reached the hospital, I rushed straight into the ER with Charlie in my arms. The sharp smell of disinfectant hit me at once. There weren't many people in the emergency hall, but every face was etched with worry.

I dashed up to the triage desk, my voice coming out all wrong. "Pediatrics—please. My son's burning up—102.6°F."

The young nurse took one look at Charlie and immediately tensed. She grabbed her radio and pressed the button, her voice clear and urgent. "Dr. Grant, we've got a five-year-old in pediatrics with a high fever—102.6°F."

I held Charlie tight and followed her gaze anxiously.

At the end of the corridor, a figure in a white coat was striding toward us. He was tall and thin, his posture straight. The overhead lights cast shadows across his face as he walked.

In that instant, it felt as if an invisible hand had clenched my heart and brought it to a dead stop. It was him. Alex Grant. The man I had thought I would never see again. My son's father.