Chapter 4
I spent the first night of my reunion with Toby sitting beside a hospital bed.
Not because he was seriously injured.
Because the doctors wanted to examine him after learning how long he had been living without reliable food, shelter, or medical care.
He was dehydrated.
Underweight.
Exhausted.
And frightened of almost everyone who came near him.
But he wouldn't let go of my hand.
Every time I shifted in my chair, his eyes flew open.
"Are you leaving?"
I shook my head.
"No, sweetheart."
He studied my face.
"Promise?"
"I promise I'll be right here."
He nodded.
Then he closed his eyes again.
A child welfare worker named Angela had stayed with us for hours.
She explained that Toby's identity and legal custody needed to be established carefully.
I understood.
I wanted the truth.
I wanted him protected.
But every time someone mentioned the possibility of temporary placement elsewhere, my heart nearly stopped.
Angela listened patiently.
"We're prioritizing his safety," she assured me.
I nodded.
"He's been through enough."
"We agree."
After Toby finally fell asleep, I stepped into the hallway.
Martha was sitting in her wheelchair beside a vending machine.
She looked much older beneath the hospital lights.
I approached her.
"Why did you wait eight years?"
She closed her eyes.
"I deserve that question."
I sat beside her.
"Then answer it."
She took a long breath.
"Because I was afraid."
"Of Julian?"
"Yes."
My hands tightened.
"What could he possibly have threatened you with?"
Martha looked down.
"My daughter."
I stared.
"Your daughter?"
"Her name is Claire."
Martha's eyes filled.
"She was twenty when this began. Julian's associates made it clear they knew where she lived, where she worked, and how to reach her."
I felt sick.
"He threatened your family?"
"He never said the words directly."
She shook her head.
"He didn't have to."
I looked toward Toby's room.
"But you knew my son was alive."
Martha nodded.
"At first, I believed the hospital's paperwork."
"What paperwork?"
"A document claiming you'd voluntarily surrendered your baby."
I stared at her.
"I was unconscious."
"I discovered that later."
Her voice broke.
"When I challenged the administrator, I was told the matter was confidential."
"Then what happened?"
"I found out the child had been transferred to a private care arrangement."
I felt my stomach twist.
"Where?"
"Through an agency that no longer exists."
Martha wiped her eyes.
"I tried to report it. But the records disappeared, and I was dismissed."
I leaned forward.
"Why didn't you find me?"
"I tried."
My heart pounded.
"What?"
"I sent letters to your home and your foundation."
I stared at her.
"I never received them."
Martha nodded sadly.
"Julian controlled your correspondence."
I thought about all the envelopes his assistants sorted.
All the calls redirected.
All the messages I was told weren't important.
My hands began shaking.
"For eight years?"
"I eventually found Toby."
I leaned closer.
"How?"
"A former social worker contacted me after recognizing his name in an old file."
"Where was he?"
"Moving between informal placements."
I covered my mouth.
Martha's voice trembled.
"Some caretakers treated him kindly. Others didn't."
I wanted to scream.
My son had been hungry.
Cold.
Unwanted.
While I lived in a mansion with heated floors and rooms full of things I didn't need.
"Why didn't you bring him to me sooner?"
Martha started crying.
"Because I couldn't prove he was yours. I had the photograph and copies of incomplete records, but I needed a safe way to get him to you without Julian intercepting us."
I looked away.
Part of me wanted to forgive her.
Part of me wanted to blame everyone who had ever known.
But my son was sleeping in the next room.
And I needed to focus on what came next.
"Tell me about the other children."
Martha's expression changed.
"What did Evelyn say?"
"She mentioned records."
Martha looked frightened.
"I suspected there were others."
My chest tightened.
"How many?"
"I don't know."
"Why?"
"Because Toby's transfer wasn't handled like an ordinary adoption."
She lowered her voice.
"The paperwork passed through a private organization Julian funded."
I stared.
"What organization?"
"The Sterling Children's Initiative."
My blood froze.
That foundation was my husband's favorite charity.
I had attended its fundraising galas.
I had posed for photographs beside its director.
I had donated millions through accounts Julian managed.
I whispered, "No."
Martha watched me.
"The foundation claimed to support vulnerable children."
I shook my head.
"That's what I believed."
She looked toward Toby's room.
"So did many people."
A door opened at the end of the hallway.
A detective approached.
Her name was Rebecca Hale.
She had been assigned to coordinate the investigation involving Toby and the questionable hospital records.
"Mrs. Sterling?"
I stood.
"Yes?"
"We've obtained a warrant for the storage unit Ms. Hart identified."
My heart pounded.
"Did you find anything?"
"Several boxes of records are being collected and preserved."
I gripped the back of my chair.
"Are there children's names?"
She hesitated.
"The documents will require careful review."
I nodded.
"Of course."
Then she looked at Martha.
"We'd like another statement from you."
Martha nodded.
"Anything."
Detective Hale turned back to me.
"There's something else."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"Your husband's attorneys have filed a petition concerning your financial accounts."
I frowned.
"What kind of petition?"
"They're seeking emergency control over certain shared assets, alleging you're unable to manage your affairs."
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because I finally understood Julian's plan.
He would call me unstable.
He would freeze my money.
He would use his influence to isolate me.
And then he would try to take Toby away again.
I looked at the detective.
"Can he do that?"
"His lawyers can make requests. The court will decide based on evidence."
I nodded slowly.
Then I remembered something.
Eight years earlier, before I married Julian, my father had left me a trust.
Julian always told me the money had been folded into our shared investments.
I had never questioned him.
But the trust documents had named an independent trustee.
My father's oldest friend.
A retired attorney named Samuel Brooks.
I pulled out my phone.
For the first time in years, I called his number.
He answered on the third ring.
"Sophia?"
I almost cried.
"Uncle Samuel."
His voice changed.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong?"
I took a deep breath.
"I need your help."
"Of course."
I looked through the glass window at Toby sleeping.
"And I need to know something."
"What is it?"
I swallowed.
"Did my husband ever have legal authority to control the money my father left me?"
Samuel went silent.
Then he said something that made my entire body go cold.
"Sophia, Julian has been trying to gain control of that trust for years."
May you like
I stopped breathing.
"And three weeks ago, someone submitted documents claiming you were mentally incapable of managing it."
