Chapter 1

The pain in my son' s stomach started as a dull ache, but it quickly sharpened into something terrifying. Leo, my eight-year-old, was curled on his bed, his face pale and beaded with sweat. His temperature was soaring.

"It hurts, Mommy. It really hurts," he whimpered, his small body trembling.

Panic seized me. I grabbed my phone, my fingers fumbling as I dialed my husband, Ethan. The phone rang, and rang, and rang, before clicking over to his voicemail. His voice, smooth and professional, filled the air.

"You' ve reached Ethan Vance. I' m currently in a critical funding meeting for our new AI venture. Leave a message."

A critical meeting. More critical than his son crying in agony. I didn' t leave a message. I called again. And again. On the fourth try, he picked up, his voice a low, irritated hiss.

"What, Olivia? I' m in the middle of something huge."

"Ethan, it' s Leo. He' s in a lot of pain. His fever is 103. I think it' s his appendix. We need to go to the hospital."

A heavy sigh on the other end of the line. "He probably just ate something bad. Give him some Tylenol. I can' t leave right now, this is a billion-dollar deal."

"He needs a doctor, Ethan! Now!"

"I' ll be home when I' m home," he said, his tone final. "Handle it."

The line went dead.

Handle it. I looked at my son, his bright, artistic spirit dimmed by pain, and a cold fury washed over me. I scooped him into my arms, his body surprisingly light, and ran out of the house. I drove like a maniac, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

We got to the emergency room, and the world slowed to a crawl. The paperwork, the questions, the waiting. Every second was an eternity. They finally took him back, and I was left alone in a sterile, impersonal waiting room. Hours passed. I tried Ethan again, but his phone was off. Of course it was.

Finally, a doctor came out. His face was a blank mask. He didn't make eye contact.

"Mrs. Vance, I' m sorry. There were complications during the appendectomy. His appendix had ruptured. We did everything we could, but Leo didn't make it."

The words didn' t make sense. Complications. Didn' t make it. It was a routine surgery. It wasn' t supposed to end like this. The world tilted, the fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor blurring into a sickening smear.

"What? No. That' s not possible. I want to see him."

"It' s not a good idea right now," the doctor said, his voice devoid of any warmth.

"He' s my son. I want to see him."

He finally relented, leading me to a small, cold room. Leo was lying on a bed, a white sheet pulled up to his chin. He looked so small, so still. The vibrant life that had filled him just this morning was gone. A sob tore from my throat, a raw, animal sound of pure loss. My son, my beautiful, talented boy who loved to draw and paint, was gone because his father was too busy.

I didn't know how much time had passed when my phone finally rang. It was Ethan.

"I' m on my way home. The meeting went great, we secured the funding. Is Leo feeling any better?" he asked, his voice light, almost cheerful.

I couldn' t speak. I could only hold the phone, my entire body shaking with a grief so profound it felt like it would tear me apart.

"Olivia? Are you there? What' s going on?" His voice sharpened with impatience.

I finally found my voice, a broken whisper.

"Leo' s dead, Ethan."

Silence. Then, a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "That' s not funny, Olivia. Don' t joke about things like that."

Before I could respond, his parents, the Vances, rushed into the hospital. His mother, Eleanor, saw my face and her own crumpled. His father, Richard, a powerful man who commanded the tech world, looked stricken.

"Olivia, what happened? The hospital called us," Eleanor whispered, wrapping her arms around me.

I fell against her, the last of my strength giving out.

"Let me go," I sobbed into her shoulder. "Please, just let me go. I want a divorce."

They had been my family for ten years, more supportive than my own. They looked at me with confusion and deep sympathy.

Then Ethan arrived. He walked in, still in his expensive suit, a triumphant smile on his face that died the moment he saw us.

"What is this? What' s wrong?" he demanded.

Richard stepped forward. "Your son is dead, Ethan."

Ethan stared, his face blank. He looked from his father to me, and then back again. He didn' t seem to process it. His phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced down at it. I saw the notification on his screen. It was an Instagram post. A picture of him and a woman, Dr. Evelyn Reed, his brilliant, troubled college sweetheart, clinking champagne glasses. The caption read: "Celebrating the future of AI with the one and only Ethan Vance. To new beginnings!"

My sanity snapped. But before I could scream, Richard saw it too. His face, already pale with grief, turned a dark, furious red.

"You son of a bitch," he roared, his voice echoing through the quiet hospital corridor. He lunged at Ethan, his powerful frame shaking with rage. "Your son is dead, and you' re celebrating?"

Hospital staff rushed over to separate them. In the chaos, I saw two orderlies approaching with a gurney covered by a white sheet. They were taking Leo away.

"No!" I screamed, trying to push through the crowd. "Don' t take him! That' s my baby!"

But I couldn't reach him. My legs gave out from under me. The world spun, the sounds of shouting and crying faded into a distant hum, and everything went black.