Chapter 7
The sound of the door lock turning was especially sharp, breaking through the lull between thunder and rain.
The cold light in the hallway cut through the shadows on the floor.
Monica stood at the doorway, a servant with a first aid kit right behind her.
She shot me a glance, seeing me slumped on the floor, her eyes pausing on my limp right arm.
"Close the door," Monica said, tilting her head slightly.
The servant came over and cut open my sleeve, which was soaked with cold sweat.
Hydrogen peroxide was poured over my wound, sending a sharp sting through me.
Monica stood over me, looking down from above.
"It's that hard-headedness of yours that keeps getting you into trouble," Monica said, her voice stern.
After a moment, the reproach in her eyes softened, and a trace of pity appeared.
I lifted my head.
My throat felt parched.
"I want to take Lucas with me," I said.
Monica's brows furrowed for a moment.
She took half a step forward, shielding me from the servant's view.
Her silk shawl draped down, covering my left hand.
A slim bundle of paper was slipped into my palm.
The edges of the paper scratched against my skin.
I looked down.
It was one blank divorce agreement.
"No child of the Grant family will ever be abandoned," Monica murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
With that, she turned and left with the servant.
The door was closed again, but not locked.
I gripped the divorce agreement tightly in my hand.
"Thank you," I said to the empty air.
Leaning against the wall in the corner, I pressed the agreement to my chest and closed my eyes.
The next night, the servants were whispering in the hallway.
"Mr. Lucas Grant is burning up. Shouldn't we call a doctor?"
"Ms. Lane said she needs her beauty sleep. Who'd risk upsetting her?"
"She said it's a regular fever. Keep him warm, and he'll be fine by morning."
The footsteps disappeared down the hall.
My eyes shot open.
I threw open the unlocked door and rushed out.
I burst into Lucas's room.
Lucas was curled up in the middle of the bed, his cheeks flushed with fever.
I lunged toward him, placing my left hand on his forehead.
The burning heat made me instinctively pull my hand back.
His breathing was rough and rapid, his brow tightly knit.
I had to bring his temperature down.
As I was about to head to the bathroom, Isabelle was blocking the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, dressed in a burgundy robe.
She glanced at me, "Are you seriously losing it in the middle of the night? It's just a fever. He'll live. Even if he dies from it, that's not on me."
A chill swept over me.
I glanced at Lucas, feverish and out of it on the bed, then turned to Isabelle.
My knees gave way, and I collapsed to the floor.
My left hand clung tightly to the hem of her robe.
"Please, let me stay and look after him," I begged.
I stared at her, refusing to look away. "If anything happens, it's on me."
Isabelle looked down at me. Her eyes flicked over my right arm in its cast, and she let out a mocking laugh. "Is this your idea of begging?"
Isabelle nudged my chin up with her toe. "Admit you were wrong. Say you're not fit to be a mom."
I stared at her.
My left fingernails dug painfully into my palm.
"I was wrong," I said.
I lowered my head, pressing my forehead to the floor. "I'm not fit to be a mom. Please, let me stay."
Isabelle clearly enjoyed having me grovel.
She kicked my hand aside.
"This is boring," she said.
Her heels clicked on the floor, the sound fading as she walked away.
I struggled to my feet, using the floor for support, and rushed into the bathroom.
I dipped a towel in warm water with my left hand.
I couldn't wring it out with only one hand.
So I pressed the towel against the sink, using my wrist to force the water out.
Over and over.
I gently wiped Lucas's forehead, neck, and underarms with the damp towel.
Every time I moved, pain shot through my right arm, cold sweat pouring down my face.
I gritted my teeth, holding back a groan.
By the time the first bluish-gray light crept in through the window, it was already early morning.
Lucas was finally breathing steadily.
His fever had faded away.
He exhaled deeply and opened his eyes.
Under the dim glow of the wall lamp, he fixed his gaze on me.
He noticed the sweat dripping down my face.
"Thank you..." Lucas whispered, his lips dry and his voice barely more than a breath.
I froze, every muscle tense.
My left hand, gripping the towel, hung in the air.
We locked eyes, neither of us looking away.
After a while, Lucas pulled the covers up around himself, avoiding my gaze. "Are you really a bad mom, like Isabelle says?"
My throat tightened.
My eyes burned with tears.
"No," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I'm your mom."
Lucas's eyes filled with tears. "Then why don't you want me anymore?"
His small chest rose and fell, struggling with each breath. "Isabelle said you don't want me anymore. She locked me in a dark room, grabbed my arm, and made me hold back my tears."
A sharp pain shot through my chest.
I dropped the towel and grabbed his icy little hand, holding it tight.
"I never abandoned you," I choked out.
My tears fell onto the back of his hand.
"If you're willing to accept me as your mom." I stared into his eyes. "I'd take you with me, even if it costs me my life."
Lucas looked at me, the guarded look in his eyes slowly melting away. His lips quivered.
He rolled over and threw himself into my arms, wrapping his little arms tightly around my neck. "Mom..."
His tearful "Mom" hit me right in the neck.
I wrapped my left arm around him.
I managed a shaky smile, my lips painfully dry and cracked. "Okay."
I gently rubbed his sweaty back, trying to comfort him. "I'll take you with me."