Chapter 40: The Little Boy
1248 Words
Bonny’s POV
I stared at my mother.
Cold corridor air moved around us, but I felt none of it.
“A little boy?”
Naledi nodded slowly, tears bright in her eyes.
“Yes.”
Behind us, voices from the bedroom dimmed into background noise. The house, the documents, the photograph—everything receded.
Only this remained.
“Tell me.”
She took a breath like she was stepping back into fire.
“The day they moved you from the ward, I realized too late what was happening. I ran after the woman who had been visiting administrators.”
“Sheila Moreau,” I said.
Naledi’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
My hands curled.
“I reached the private entrance at the back of the hospital. There was a car waiting.”
She paused.
“And beside the car was a child.”
My pulse began to pound.
“How old?”
“Seven. Maybe eight.”
Too young to be guilty.
Too old to be witness.
I swallowed.
“What was he doing?”
She gave a broken laugh.
“Arguing.”
That startled me.
“With who?”
“With the woman.”
I could almost see it now.
Sheila Moreau in polished fury.
A little boy in expensive shoes refusing to be managed.
Naledi continued.
“He kept asking why the baby was crying.”
My throat tightened.
“He heard me screaming for you.”
She nodded.
“He looked at me. Then at the blanket they were carrying.”
I couldn’t breathe properly.
“What did he do?”
Naledi’s tears spilled.
“He bit one of the men.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“He bit him hard enough that the man dropped the carrier.”
Despite everything, a shocked laugh escaped me.
Somewhere behind us, Adrian’s voice said flatly:
“That sounds like me.”
We both turned.
He stood in the doorway.
Hands in pockets.
Expression unreadable.
He had heard enough.
Naturally.
Naledi looked at him with startling softness.
“You had terrible manners.”
“I was consistent.”
Even now.
Even now he could make me want to laugh and cry at once.
---
I faced him fully.
“You were there.”
“I don’t remember.”
His voice was tight now.
Controlled too hard.
“But if she says it happened, it happened.”
Naledi nodded.
“You tried to open the carrier yourself.”
Something moved across Adrian’s face.
Not memory exactly.
The ache of almost-memory.
“Sheila shouted at you,” Naledi said. “You shouted back.”
Vivienne had come into the hallway now.
Her face had gone pale.
“What did he say?”
Naledi closed her eyes briefly.
“He said, ‘She belongs to her mother.’”
Silence swallowed us whole.
Vivienne covered her mouth.
Mara whispered from behind her, “Well. Damn.”
I looked at Adrian.
At the man who could be cold enough to freeze rooms.
Sharp enough to cut steel.
And apparently had once stood between power and a stolen child.
My eyes burned.
“You fought for me.”
He shook his head once.
“I was a child having a tantrum.”
“No,” Naledi said firmly.
“You were the only person there with no reason to care.”
That landed deeper than anyone said aloud.
---
Adrian leaned back against the wall.
I could see strain in every line of him now.
“If this is true, why don’t I remember it?”
Vivienne answered quietly.
“Because my mother specialized in erasing discomfort.”
He looked at her sharply.
“What did she do?”
“Whenever you resisted her publicly, you were sent away. Tutors. boarding schools. country houses. distractions.”
His jaw flexed.
“You knew.”
“I knew pieces,” she said, voice breaking slightly. “Not enough. Never enough.”
That room had too many people carrying guilt that belonged elsewhere.
I stepped between them.
“Stop inheriting blame tonight.”
They both looked at me.
Useful.
“You,” I said to Adrian, “were a child.”
Then to Vivienne:
“And you were surviving your mother.”
Then to myself, though silently:
And I was stolen.
We were all damaged by one woman’s obsession in different ways.
Some wounds just wore better clothing.
---
Naledi touched my arm.
“There is more.”
Of course there was.
I almost laughed from exhaustion.
“What now?”
“The little boy came back later.”
Adrian straightened.
“When?”
“After they drove away with you.”
My pulse jumped.
“How?”
“I was sitting outside the ward. Crying. Security had removed me.”
She looked directly at Adrian.
“An hour later, a chauffeur returned with him.”
He frowned deeply.
“No memory.”
She nodded sadly.
“He carried a paper bag.”
Mara muttered, “Please let it be snacks.”
Reasonable request.
Naledi smiled through tears.
“It was juice boxes, biscuits, and a hand towel.”
I covered my face.
Why was this somehow worse?
“He sat beside me,” she said, voice trembling, “and asked if babies can hear mothers when they are far away.”
No one in that hallway remained intact.
Not one.
I lowered my hands slowly.
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
She looked at Adrian.
“And then you told me to keep talking so she wouldn’t get lonely.”
Adrian shut his eyes.
A crack in armor.
Small.
Real.
“I don’t remember,” he said again, but this time it sounded like grief.
---
I crossed the distance between us without planning to.
Stopped close enough to feel his breath.
“You didn’t become kind later,” I said softly.
“You were always there.”
His eyes opened.
Too much in them.
“Bonny—”
I kissed him.
No warning.
No audience consideration.
No strategic timing.
Just mouth to mouth truth in a dim corridor full of ghosts.
He froze for half a second.
Then one hand came to my waist and the other to the back of my neck.
Firm.
Possessive.
Relieved.
Mara clapped once.
“Excellent. Trauma romance.”
Vivienne said, “Not now.”
“Counterpoint,” Mara replied. “Exactly now.”
We broke apart breathless.
I touched his jaw.
“You annoying man.”
“I saved you with snacks.”
“You were seven.”
“Heroism has no age limit.”
I laughed through tears.
There he was.
---
Then Vanessa’s voice came sharply from inside the room.
“Everyone. Now.”
We rushed back in.
She stood by the laptop, face serious.
“I accessed older trust correspondence tied to Sheila Moreau.”
Adrian moved beside me.
“What did you find?”
Vanessa turned the screen.
An email chain.
One line highlighted.
If the original child cannot be recovered, proceed with alternative bride selection.
The room went ice-cold.
I stared at the words.
“Original child.”
Naledi gripped my hand.
Vivienne sat down hard.
Adrian’s voice became lethal.
“She was still looking for Bonny years later.”
Vanessa swallowed.
“There’s more.”
No one wanted more.
She clicked another file.
Attached schedule.
List of names.
Events.
Universities.
Charity galas.
Photos.
Young women profiled.
I recognized one immediately.
Amelia.
My blood froze.
Then another.
Me.
- Writer
