She would raise this child, too.
She would love him.
He would not grow up invisible, never feeling unwanted. He would never wish for a place at someone else's table.
And she would never, ever, let him feel like someone's secret.
Chapter 27
Crispin
A week.
He'd give her a week. A week to calm down. A week to reply to at least one of his messages.
There was no word for two days.
On the third day, he caved.
He went to her flat and knocked once. And then again, and waited. No one answered. He called. Left a message. Then another.
There was only radio silence from her end. At least she hadn't blocked him yet. His messages were left on read.
He tried Ophelia next. He had to call twice before she picked up.
Her voice, when it came through the line, was strained, her clipped tone one he had never heard from her before.
"I'm unwell, Crispin. I'm not receiving visitors."
There was none of the old affection in it. No gentle teasing and none of the warmth she used to reserve just for him and Dorian.
Not wanting to push, he almost hung up. But desperation in his frayed voice seemed to reach her.
After a pause, she added, "She'll stop working here by the end of the week."
Then, just as he was about to thank her, she said one last thing.
"I suppose," she said, in that brittle, detached voice, "everyone gets their just desserts, eventually."
And then she hung up.
Chaos was his life.
Helga had been hounding him, flooding his phone with messages, one after the other.
We need to talk.
Your mother is asking questions.
I miss you.
We should just clarify things. Publicly. For both our sakes.
He stopped reading them after day four.
He had to tell his mother to back off, in those exact words.
She'd looked at him like he was a stranger who had taken control of her son's body.
