The phone on Althea's lab bench buzzed. It was an unknown number.
She hesitated. She hadn't given the number to anyone outside the Institute, but she knew that people with the Harringtons' resources had their ways of finding things out. She steeled herself and answered.
"Hello?"
"Mommy?"
The voice was small and whimpering. Holt.
Althea's hand tightened on the phone. "Holt?"
"Mommy, my tummy hurts," Holt cried. "It hurts so bad. I'm throwing up. Please come home."
Althea's heart lurched. Her instinct was to run. To grab her keys and fly to him.
"Where does it hurt, baby? Is it sharp? Do you have a fever?"
"Yes! I'm burning up!" Holt wailed. "Daddy isn't here. Only Georgina. And she won't help me!"
Althea was already taking off her lab coat. "I'm coming, Holt. Stay on the-"
Psst. Louder. Tell her you can't breathe.
The whisper was faint, caught by the microphone in the split second between Holt's sobs. It was Georgina's voice.
Althea froze. She stopped halfway to the door.
She put the phone back to her ear. She closed her eyes.
"Holt," she said, her voice turning to ice. "Is Georgina in the room with you?"
"No!" Holt said, too quickly. "I can't breathe, Mommy! Help!"
It was a script. A bad, cruel script.
Althea felt the final thread of maternal duty snap. They were using her son as a pawn. They were teaching him to lie to manipulate her.
"Holt," Althea said calmly. "If you can't breathe, hand the phone to Georgina and tell her to call 911. An ambulance will be there in five minutes."
"What?" Holt stopped crying instantly. "No, I want you."
"I am not a paramedic, Holt," Althea said, her voice devoid of emotion. "I can't help you. Goodbye."
"Wait! Mommy!"
Althea hung up. She stared at the phone for a second, then blocked the number.
She didn't cry. She felt a cold, hard rage settling in her bones. It was better than sadness. Rage was fuel.
She tossed the phone back into her bag, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Her hands, however, were steady as she turned back to the microscope. The world outside the lab faded away. Here, under the powerful lens, things were simple. Cause and effect. Action and reaction.
But the phone buzzed again, this time against the hard surface of the lab bench. She pulled back, blinking against the sudden shift in light. The screen lit up with a single word: Home.
She stared at it. She hadn't changed the contact name yet. A reflex. A habit. Her thumb hovered over the decline button, but a sliver of pragmatism stayed her hand. The divorce papers. Maybe, just maybe, this was about him finally agreeing to sign them.
She swiped right and brought the phone to her ear.
"Hello?"
"I'm starving."
The voice wasn't Easton's. It was high-pitched, demanding, and utterly devoid of politeness.
Althea felt a phantom tightening in her chest, the old maternal instinct flaring up before her logic could stomp it out. "Holt?"
"I'm hungry," Holt whined. The sound of cartoons blared in the background. "When are you coming back to make lasagna? The cheesy kind. I don't want the stuff Mrs. Higgins makes. It tastes like cardboard."
Althea closed her eyes. She took a slow breath, smelling the antiseptic tang of the lab. A wave of something bordering on pity, not for Holt, but for the ridiculousness of the situation, washed over her. It was absurd. "Holt, I don't live there anymore. I am not your chef. Ask your father. Or ask Georgina. She's there, isn't she?"
There was a scuffling sound on the other end, a muffled protest, and then Easton's voice boomed through the speaker.
"Althea! Have you lost your mind?"
He sounded breathless, angry. "You have a child crying for food, and you're playing games? Get your ass back here and make dinner. Holt is upset."
Althea opened her eyes. She looked around the gleaming white lab, at the millions of dollars of equipment surrounding her. The contrast between her reality and his delusion was so sharp it was almost funny.
"I'm working, Easton," she said.
"Working?" Easton let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "Doing what? Serving coffee? Look, I don't care what little hobby you've picked up to make yourself feel important. Come home. Feed the boy. We can discuss your... vacation... later."
It was the tone he used for the dog. Sit. Stay. Come.
"If you are incapable of feeding your own son," Althea said, her voice dropping an octave, cold and precise, "then perhaps I should mention your parental negligence in court. I'm sure a judge would be interested to hear that the great Easton Harrington can't figure out how to order a pizza."
Silence. Thick, suffocating silence.
Then, the explosion.
"Don't you dare threaten me," Easton hissed. "You think you have leverage? You have nothing. If you don't walk through this door in one hour, I am cutting off every credit card you have. You won't be able to buy a pack of gum."
Althea looked at her purse, where her newly issued black Amex—the one tied to the Morrison trust, not the Harrington account—sat securely in her wallet.
"Go ahead," she said. A small, dry smile touched her lips. "Cancel them. Cancel everything. And Easton? Don't call me again unless the house is burning down. Actually, don't call me even then."
She tapped the red icon. The call ended. Easton stared at his phone.
