The coldness of the room felt like it seeped into my bones as I opened my eyes. The sharp scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and my body ached with exhaustion. Beside me sat Jordan, his expression filled with concern.
“You’re awake,” he said softly. “You had a rough night.”
I didn’t respond immediately. My mind raced back to what had happened—the sight of Deanne’s sinister smile, the needle in my arm, her chilling words. My heart pounded as I remembered the panic, the helplessness.
Well, it might just be a nightmare? I hope so.
But then the door opened, and a nurse entered, cradling a small bundle. My breath caught as she placed the baby beside me.
“Your son,” she said with a gentle smile.
I stared at the tiny face, tears welling in my eyes. He was so small, so fragile. Relief washed over me. He was alive. My baby was alive.
Jordan leaned closer, his voice gentle. “You’ve been staring at him for a while. What’s wrong?”
I quickly wiped my tears, forcing a shaky smile. “Nothing. I’m just... tired.”
Jordan didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push further. I held my baby close, silently vowing to protect him, no matter what.
Years passed, and my son, Ysmael, grew into a lively and curious toddler. He was the light of my life, the only thing that kept me grounded in a world that still felt unstable.
But Prinston? He remained distant.
He was polite when necessary, but his coldness toward me was undeniable. Worse, he wasn’t particularly warm toward Ysmael either. He rarely played with him or even smiled in his direction. Sometimes, I’d catch him watching Ysmael with a calculating expression, as though he was trying to decide if the boy was truly his.
Jordan was the one who stepped up, filling the gaps Prinston left behind. He became Ysmael’s constant companion, teaching him how to build toy castles, reading him bedtime stories, and making him laugh when I couldn’t. For that, I was endlessly grateful.
When Ysmael’s sixth birthday arrived, I wanted it to be special. Despite everything, I was determined to give him a day filled with happiness. We held a small party in the mansion’s garden, complete with balloons, cake, and a magician who made Ysmael laugh until his cheeks turned red.
For a brief moment, it felt like everything was perfect.
But the happiness was short-lived.
That night, as I was cleaning up after the party, I realized something was wrong. Ysmael wasn’t in his room. I searched the entire mansion, panic building with every step.
Then came the call.
My phone buzzed in my hand, the unknown number sending a chill down my spine. I hesitated before answering, my hands trembling.
“H-Hello?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
There was silence for a moment, then a voice—low, rough, and filled with menace. “Looking for your son?”
My heart stopped. “W-Who is this? Where’s Ysmael?”
A sinister chuckle echoed through the line. “He’s with us. And let me tell you, he’s not having a good time.”
In the background, I heard Ysmael’s voice—faint, trembling, and full of fear. “Mommy, it hurts! Please, help me!”
Tears streamed down my face as I gripped the phone tighter. “Don’t hurt him! Please, I’ll do anything! Just tell me what you want! H-How much?"
The man’s voice turned colder. “Such a hypocrite. We don’t want anything from you. This is about Prinston Saludés. He’s made enemies, and now your son will pay the price.”
“No!” I screamed. “Please, I’ll talk to him. Just don’t hurt my baby!”
But the man ignored me, his voice laced with cruelty. “We will fucking torture him to death. Can’t wait to behead him.”
The call ended abruptly, leaving me frozen in place, the phone slipping from my hand.
