Hiding His Sick Child From The CEO

The biting wind coming off the East River sliced right through Carla's thin, washed-out trench coat the second she stepped out of the Upper East Side subway station. She shivered, pulling the collar up around her neck. Her fingers were numb as she pulled her phone from her pocket. She stared at the screen, double-checking the address her sick coworker, Alice, had texted her that morning. It was right in front of her. The premier private rehabilitation center in Manhattan. Carla pushed through the heavy glass revolving doors. The sudden rush of warm, climate-controlled air did nothing to stop the trembling in her hands. She walked up to the massive marble front desk. "Hello, I am Carla Bradley," she said, her voice steady despite the chill in her bones. "I am here as the substitute for Alice's music therapy appointment." She slid her music therapist certification across the polished surface. The receptionist, a woman with perfectly manicured nails, barely glanced at the paper. Instead, her eyes dragged up and down Carla's faded jeans and scuffed sneakers. The judgment was a physical weight pressing down on Carla's shoulders. Without a word, the receptionist slid a temporary access card across the marble. Carla took it, her face burning. She swiped the card at the private elevator bank and stepped inside. The mirrored walls of the elevator reflected her exhausted face. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. Her hair was pulled back into a messy knot. She looked exactly like what she was: a desperate woman working three jobs to survive. The elevator glided to a halt on the top floor. The VIP wing. Carla stepped out. The thick, plush carpet instantly swallowed the sound of her footsteps. The silence here was heavy, expensive. She found the door marked V01. It was cracked open. Carla pushed it. The scent of sharp medical bleach mixed with the rich, heavy aroma of expensive sandalwood hit her face. She stepped into the suite. Her eyes immediately bypassed the luxury furniture and locked onto the massive Steinway grand piano sitting by the floor-to-ceiling windows. Carla walked over to it. She dropped her heavy canvas tote bag onto the floor and pulled out the piano bench. She sat down. She took a deep breath, letting the air fill her tight lungs. She raised her hands. Her fingertips barely brushed the cold, smooth surface of the black and white keys. A soft click echoed through the room. Carla flinched, quickly pulling her hands back into her lap. She stood up, her hands smoothing down the wrinkled hem of her shirt. The door to the inner bedroom opened. A little girl, no older than five, stepped out. She wore a soft, custom-made pale pink cashmere lounge set with a delicate embroidered rabbit on the pocket. Carla forced a warm, professional smile onto her face. She crouched down, trying to bring herself to the girl's eye level. The little girl didn't speak. She just stood there, her small arms wrapped tightly around a stuffed rabbit, her large eyes staring at Carla with intense defense. Before Carla could say a word, the sharp, rhythmic click of designer heels against the marble hallway floor pierced the quiet room. The heavy suite door was pushed wide open. Charis Clark walked in, wearing a flawless Chanel tweed suit. Charis stopped. Her eyes swept over Carla. Her perfectly arched eyebrows pulled together in a look of pure, condescending displeasure. Carla immediately stood up straight. She opened her mouth to introduce herself as the substitute therapist. A heavy, familiar sound stopped the words in her throat. The sound of expensive leather dress shoes stepping into the room right behind Charis. A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped into the light. A dark, impeccably tailored suit wrapped around his chest. Carla's eyes moved up the dark tie, up the strong jawline, and finally landed on his face. Her lungs stopped working. The air was physically ripped from her chest. It was Julien Wagner. The man she had abandoned for money five years ago. Julien's casual gaze swept across the room. The second his eyes landed on Carla, his entire body went rigid. The temperature in the room plummeted. Their eyes locked. The air between them evaporated. Carla's heart slammed against her ribs so hard she felt the pain in her back. Charis didn't notice a thing. She naturally reached out and wrapped her arm around Julien's bicep, leaning into him. "The traffic on Park Avenue was a nightmare," Charis complained, her voice sweet and whiny. The little girl, Eleni, ran over and pressed herself against Julien's leg. She didn't make a sound, but her small hands gripped his tailored trousers tightly. Carla stared at the perfect family standing in front of her. A physical blow struck her stomach, making her nauseous. Julien's eyes slowly dragged down from Carla's pale face, taking in her cheap, oversized coat and her worn-out shoes. A slow, cruel smirk twisted the corner of his mouth. It was a look of absolute mockery. Carla's hands were shaking violently. She gripped the plastic therapy clipboard she had taken from her bag. She squeezed it. Her knuckles turned stark white. A loud, sharp crack echoed through the silent room as the plastic clipboard snapped in half in her hands.