Chapter 3
"You've got the wrong person," I blurted out, almost on instinct, trying hard to pull my hand out of Darren's grip.
"Wrong person?" he sneered, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "I'd know you even if you were ashes. So, you took the money and walked away without a second thought. And now that you've burned through it all, you're here, waiting tables like a servant?"
His words hit me like a punch to the gut.
People around us started whispering and pointing.
"Isn't that Blair? The one who used to be with Mr. Marshall?" someone whispered.
"No way. Look at her now. She's really fallen," another person gasped.
Madeline's face shifted too. She hadn't expected this meek little waitress to be her old rival.
Her eyes flickered, and she instantly switched to a sneer of disdain. "Well, if it isn't Ms. Lane? What, already burned through that 1.5 million dollars? Of course, you did. Someone like you wouldn't know how to hold onto money. Pay up for this outfit, or you can rot in jail."
Darren didn't even look at her. His eyes stayed locked onto me, his grip so fierce that it felt like he could crush my wrist bones.
"Talk!" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Where the hell have you been hiding these five years?"
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to keep it together.
"Sir, have some respect. I'm just a server. I don't know any Blair," I replied, my tone icy and distant.
Then I yanked my hand free. He wasn't expecting it. I turned and ran.
"Stop her!" His furious roar echoed behind me.
A few bodyguards immediately closed in.
Panicked, I shoved my way through the crowd and dashed into the kitchen.
Just then, my phone buzzed. It was Ingrid, who was waiting in the staff lounge as I'd asked. I couldn't pick up. I just kept running, my heart pounding in my chest.
Just as I was about to reach the back door, a tiny figure suddenly darted out from a side hallway.
"Mommy!" A small, clear voice cut through the silence, loud and unmistakable in the empty hallway.
My blood ran cold.
Andrew!
Why was he here?
Ingrid came running after him, out of breath. "Blair, he woke up with a fever and kept crying for you. He ran out before I could stop him."
I barely heard her. My eyes were fixed on Andrew, stumbling toward me.
Then I saw it. Behind us. Darren's wheelchair was pushed by his bodyguards.
He was less than 30 feet away.
Andrew kept running. He didn't see the wrinkle in the carpet. His little legs caught, and he stumbled forward.
"Andy!" I cried out, rushing forward to catch him.
But someone else got there first.
Darren, still in his wheelchair, somehow managed to lean forward and grab Andrew with one arm, right before Andrew hit the ground.
Andrew landed right in Darren's arms.
Time seemed to freeze at that moment.
Darren glanced down at Andrew in his arms.
Andrew looked up at him, his tiny face flushed from the fever, his big watery eyes blinking up, lashes so long that they fanned out like little wings.
The eyes. The nose. Even the way his lips pressed together.
He was Darren in miniature. A tiny copy.
Darren was frozen in place.
The hand that was about to push Andrew away just hung there, trembling, as if frozen by a spell.
Madeline, the Marshall family seniors, and all the guests watching gasped in shock.
No one could miss it.
They were identical. Like a print and its copy.
"Hey, little guy." Darren's voice cracked, so gentle, almost broken. "What's your name?"
Even though Andrew wasn't feeling well, he was still polite.
He looked up at the handsome man holding him and said in his soft, milky voice, "My name is Andrew Lane. Sir, can you let me go? I need to find my mommy."
With that, Andrew reached out his tiny hand and pointed straight at me, standing just a few steps away, my face as pale as a ghost.